The Big Bad Book of Bill Murray

  Copyright © 2015 by Robert Schnakenberg

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2014956799

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-59474-822-6

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59474-801-1

  Quirk Books staff (and their favorite Bill Murray performances)

  Designed by Andie Reid (Lost in Translation)

  Edited by Jason Rekulak (Groundhog Day) and Jane Morley (Zombieland)

  Production management by John J. McGurk

  (Quick Change)

  Cover photo © Matthias Clamer/CORBIS OUTLINE

  Interior and back cover photos courtesy of the Everett Collection

  Quirk Books

  215 Church Street

  Philadelphia, PA 19106

  quirkbooks.com

  v3.1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank the following people for agreeing to be interviewed for this project:

  Peter B. Lewis, Tom Schiller, Sean Kleefeld, Luke François Murray, Robert Michelson, Andrew Madigan, Jay Cronley, Dean Poulos, Jeff Santo, Joe Nicchi, E. J. Rumpke, Raheel Gauba, Vadim Birstein, David Walton Smith, Gary Lachman, and Larry Basil.

  The inimitable James Robert Parish provided crackerjack research assistance.

  Finally, many thanks as always to Jason Rekulak, Andie Reid, Jane Morley, Nicole De Jackmo, Eric Smith, and everyone else at Quirk Books. That is one nutty publisher.

  NOTA BENE

  Despite the author’s best efforts, this unauthorized biography was produced without the direct involvement of Bill Murray. Nevertheless, we have taken every precaution to ensure the information contained herein is accurate and correct. A list of sources begins here.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  A

  B

  C

  D

  E

  F

  G

  H

  I

  J

  K

  L

  M

  N

  O

  P

  Q

  R

  S

  T

  V

  W

  Y

  Z

  The Quotable Bill Murray

  What About Bill?

  Bill Murray Filmography

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  “‘You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;

  You may hunt it with forks and hope;

  You may threaten its life with a railway-share;

  You may charm it with smiles and soap—’”

  (“That’s exactly the method,” the Bellman bold

  In a hasty parenthesis cried,

  “That’s exactly the way I have always been told

  That the capture of Snarks should be tried!”)

  —LEWIS CARROLL, The Hunting of the Snark

  BILL MURRAY seems to be everywhere these days—or at least he seems capable of turning up anywhere at any time. According to a widely disseminated urban legend, he’s liable to pop up behind you as you’re reading this. He’ll put his hands over your eyes, or give you a noogie, then whisper that “no one will ever believe you” if you try to tell them what you’ve seen. He’s like a mischievous Keyser Söze.

  There are websites devoted to chronicling Murray’s sudden public apparitions—from sandlot kickball games to drunken bachelor parties—and entire Twitter accounts made up of impromptu photographs taken with him in airport lounges, hotel lobbies, and minor league baseball stadiums. It’s hard to remember a time when he was just a famous actor and not the world’s most celebrated gatecrasher.

  Yet for all his ubiquity, we know very little about the real Bill Murray. Like Lewis Carroll’s elusive Snark, his true nature remains shrouded in mystery. Although he’s been an internationally recognized star for more than thirty years, no one has tried to publish a book-length biography about him. Murray’s own 1999 memoir, Cinderella Story, was written with tongue planted firmly in cheek. It is a rough roadmap to his early life, but it’s hardly comprehensive. And God help the humble researcher trying to arrange an interview with him. Murray stays zealously cloaked behind his fabled 800 number, which restricts telephonic access to a few close friends and Hollywood insiders. Believe me, I know. I tried to contact nearly every one of them. No one is giving up those digits.

  In a way, it feels like I’ve been stalking “The Murricane”—as he’s known among his intimates—my whole life. I’m old enough to have watched the arc of his career. When I was a child, it was considered bad form to show up to school on Monday mornings without having memorized that weekend’s Saturday Night Live sketches. While most kids gravitated toward tentpole recurring characters like the Coneheads or Roseanne Roseannadanna, I found myself mesmerized by the subtler work being done by a certain mustachioed newcomer from Chicago who replaced Chevy Chase. Over the course of Murray’s three and a half seasons on SNL, a handful of his one-shot characters imprinted themselves indelibly in my comedy consciousness: a crazed Richard Dawson bellowing “Show me Romaine Lettuce!” during a parody of Family Feud; the oleaginous host of the Mexican game show ¿Quién Es Más Macho?; and his exquisite Earl of Sandwich in the “Lord and Lady Douchebag” sketch—arguably the high-water mark of the show’s forty-plus-year run, if not of the history of American humor.

  As I grew older, my tastes (hopefully) matured. Lo and behold, so did Murray’s. He graduated from the exuberant juvenilia of Meatballs to the existential mind-tripping of Groundhog Day. He drew on an untapped well of pathos in Rushmore and became the embodiment of middle-aged loneliness in Lost in Translation. In interviews, he was less snarky and more gnomic; the stories about his private behavior involved fewer drunken escapades and more Zen pranks. Before my eyes, Bill Murray became the rare celebrity who got more interesting—and more mysterious—the longer he was in the public eye. He was a fascinating jigsaw puzzle, begging to be solved.

  The Big Bad Book of Bill Murray is the closest we may ever come to a written record of the Murricane’s life, career, and philosophy. Using insights derived from published accounts and Murray’s own on-the-record utterances dating back to the mid-1970s, I have tried to create a complete contextualized picture of the man, his work, and his unique approach to life. Included are Murray’s observations on everything from the afterlife to underwear, Mark Twain to Mr. Magoo. I interviewed more than a dozen of Murray’s colleagues and associates for this project, from high school friends to Hollywood screenwriters. I even spoke to his body double, who told me stories of on-set antics I’d be scared to repeat even if I could corroborate them. All of them supplied insights that greatly enriched my understanding of the man, his movies, and the personal and professional choices he has made.

  For the record, no one I spoke with had an unkind word to say about Bill. As a matter of fact, time and again, the portrait his friends painted looked an awful lot like the image of Bill Murray we know from photo-bombs: the rumpled, wisecracking rapscallion with an impish gleam in his eye. The guy whose bear hugs and bawdy jokes enliven any party he deigns to crash.

  When I asked him to explain Murray’s outrageous public behavior, Saturday Night Live’s Tom Schiller likened him to a Buddhist trickster figure, a reincarnated peripatetic monk who uses humor to awaken and enlighten. “These kinds of masters come around only once every thousand years,” Schiller told me. If so, it has been my privilege to tr
ail behind the master, relaying his teachings to a world yearning to understand.

  A NOTE ON THE TEXT:

  All words in bold are cross-references to other entries within this book.

  Each of the feature films in The Big Bad Book of Bill Murray is rated for overall quality on a four-star scale. I’ve also included a “Murray rating,” which grades each movie according to Murray’s performance and its importance within his cinematic oeuvre. The key for those ratings is as follows:

  **** = ESSENTIAL. IF YOU CONSIDER YOURSELF A BILL MURRAY FAN, YOU MUST SEE THIS MOVIE.

  *** = NOTEWORTHY. A GOOD PERFORMANCE OR IMPORTANT MILESTONE IN THE GREAT MAN’S CAREER.

  ** = NONESSENTIAL. OF INTEREST TO COMPLETISTS ONLY.

  * = SKIP IT. A CAMEO, CURIOSITY, OR OTHERWISE FORGETTABLE MURRAY PERFORMANCE.

  All opinions, of course, are the author’s own. Your mileage may vary.

  ABOUT LAST NIGHT

  Murray was under consideration for the role of Danny Martin, the restaurant-supply salesman played by Rob Lowe, in this 1986 big-screen adaptation of David Mamet’s play Sexual Perversity in Chicago. At various points in the development process, John Belushi and Nick Nolte were to costar as Danny’s friend Bernie Litgo. That part went to James Belushi, who had played the character on stage. Negotiations with Murray apparently broke down after a disastrous meeting between Murray and Nolte in New York.

  ACADEMY AWARDS

  At the seventy-sixth Academy Awards ceremony in 2004, Murray was the odds-on favorite to win the Oscar for best actor for his work in Lost in Translation. But he lost to Sean Penn of Mystic River. When Penn’s name was announced, cameras caught a visibly disappointed Murray frowning in disgust at his table. “Pissed off? You bet I was,” he later admitted. “I don’t approve of award ceremonies, so I was wondering what had persuaded me to attend that one. I was pissed at myself.”

  “I FEEL THAT IF YOU REALLY WANT AN OSCAR, YOU’RE IN TROUBLE. IT’S LIKE WANTING TO BE MARRIED—YOU’LL TAKE ANYBODY.”

  —MURRAY, on the pursuit of Academy glory

  The best actor loss was just the latest item in a dossier of Oscar snubs Murray had been compiling since the mid-1990s. “Comedy never gets the Oscar,” he groused. “Groundhog Day was one of the greatest scripts ever written. It didn’t even get nominated for an Academy Award. And a movie called Dave won, which was a rehash of a movie about a Spanish dictator who died and had an actor replace him. How can that be the best original screenplay? Laughter and the lighter moments of life always seem easy to deliver. I don’t expect those giving out the awards to understand.” (In fact, Dave—directed by Murray’s old Ghostbusters collaborator Ivan Reitman—did not win the Oscar for best original screenplay in 1993. The Piano did. But it’s true that Groundhog Day was passed over.)

  Justified or not, Murray’s loss deprived television viewers of the chance to hear one of the most original and insouciant acceptance speeches in Oscars history. As Murray told PBS talk show host Charlie Rose in a 2014 interview: “I was going to say, ‘When I heard I’d been nominated with,’ you know I’d name these other people [Sean Penn, Ben Kingsley, Johnny Depp, and Jude Law], ‘I really thought I had a pretty good chance.’ I just thought no one had ever given that speech… . I didn’t have agents, I didn’t have managers, I didn’t have any of that stuff. So I wouldn’t have to give that ordinary speech of thanking everyone. I’d just go out there and entertain. I always figure, if you’re on a TV show where there’s a billion people, show up and do something, okay? Give those folks in Bombay something to talk about.”

  It took nearly half a year for Murray to recover from the shock of hearing Sean Penn’s name being called instead of his own. About six months later, he said, “I realized I’d come down with something. That prize-winning stuff. I’d sort of had a low-grade infection of liking winning the prize and wanting to win the prize. I thought, oh, good. You’ve seen when people do win the prize, and then for the next couple of years they really struggle. Because they’re sort of stuck. ‘Hey, I’m an Academy Award winner. And now what do I want to do?’ They get all messed up. And that could have happened to me.” In recent years, Murray has taken solace knowing that many people think he actually did win the Oscar for Lost in Translation. “I never try to say, ‘No, that isn’t true.’ I just say, ‘You’re so kind.’”

  AGENTS

  Murray is famously disdainful of professional representation. In 2000, he fired his agents—reportedly for calling him on the phone too often—and replaced them with an automated 800 number. “I said I didn’t ever want to speak to them again, and I never did,” he says. “I like to cut my own lawn now. I don’t need a landscaper.”

  Filmmakers who wish to pitch projects to Murray must leave a message on his voice mailbox, which he rarely checks. When he is interested in a script, Murray demands that it be faxed to him care of his local office supply store. This unique arrangement has resulted in Murray missing out on a number of high-profile job offers, including the roles of Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Frank Ginsberg in Little Miss Sunshine, and the title role in Bad Santa. “We wanted Bill to consider a role in Iron Man, but nobody could find him,” observed Robert Downey Jr.

  When asked to explain his decision to represent himself, Murray will often cite a quote attributed to actress Ellen Burstyn: “I had a dream that I was being drowned in a flood and I realized it was a flood of people.” According to Murray: “When you have an agent, the phone rings all the time because there’s someone there whose job it is to get so-and-so on the phone, and so they dial the number, and they’ll let it ring seventy-five times. You can be in your house and be like, ‘I’m not answering that phone …’ and all you can really think is, ‘I really don’t want to meet the person that lets a phone ring like that.’”

  AGING

  Murray began making the transition to dramatic roles in his late forties, in part because of fears that his comedic prowess would diminish with age. “As you get older, you have less chance to be funny,” he once declared. “That’s where most comedians lose it. Very few make it all the way to the end, like Jack Benny or George Burns.” During a 2014 press junket to promote St. Vincent, Murray mused on what the end stage of his career might look like. It involved graduating to insect roles. “If I keep living, I will probably play a grasshopper someday,” he said. “Hopefully there’s some kid someday who played with grasshoppers as a kid and will write a script about it and cast me.”

  AIR AMERICA

  Murray was filmmaker Richard Rush’s first choice to play the role of Billy Covington in this 1990 comedy about a hotshot helicopter pilot who takes a job flying covert missions for the CIA during the Vietnam War. Sean Connery was originally tapped to play Covington’s wizened mentor, Gene Ryack. After Rush was ousted as director, the film was retooled as a vehicle for Robert Downey Jr. and Mel Gibson.

  AIRPLANE!

  Murray turned down an offer to play the lead role of Ted Striker in this 1980 comedy from the creative team of Jim Abrahams, Jerry Zucker, and David Zucker. The part, which David Letterman also declined, eventually went to Robert Hays. Murray later cited Airplane! as an example of a movie that he passed on even though he knew it would be successful.

  “THIS IS GONNA WORK, BUT IT’S NOT FOR ME.”

  —MURRAY, on reading the screenplay for Airplane!

  ALL YOU NEED IS CASH

  Murray has a scenery-chewing cameo in this 1978 TV mockumentary chronicling the career of the Rutles, a fictitious British pop band modeled on the Beatles. His character, bellowing radio deejay “Bill Murray the K,” is loosely based on self-proclaimed “Fifth Beatle” Murray Kaufman, aka “Murray the K.” Also known as The Rutles, All You Need Is Cash was expanded from a sketch that originally aired on the BBC program Rutland Weekend Television in 1975. Excerpts from that skit were shown on the October 2, 1976, episode of Saturday Night Live, hosted by Monty Python veteran and Rutles cocreator Eric Idle. A number of SNL cast members from the perio
d, including Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi, also have cameos in the film.

  ALPHA HOUSE

  Since 2013, Murray has had a recurring cameo on this Amazon Original comedy series from Doonesbury creator Garry Trudeau. He plays Vernon Smits, a U.S. senator imprisoned for unspecified improprieties at an amusement park. Trudeau was able to snag Murray for the role through the good offices of his wife, former Today show anchor Jane Pauley, whom Murray had befriended around the NBC craft services table during his days on Saturday Night Live.

  ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS

  Murray turned down the role of David Seville in this dreadful 2006 film based on the screeching cartoon musical group of the 1950s. Jason Lee eventually took on the burden of playing the chipmunks’ beleaguered human companion.

  ANDERSON, WES

  Texas-born film director in whose unofficial repertory company Murray enlisted in the late 1990s. To date, Murray has appeared in all but one of Anderson’s eight increasingly idiosyncratic features, and he would have been offered a role in the eighth—1996’s Bottle Rocket—had he bothered to answer the director’s phone calls. Judging from his public comments, it’s safe to say Anderson tops the list of filmmakers with whom Murray most enjoys working. “I really love the way Wes writes with his collaborators,” Murray has said. “I like the way he shoots, and I like him. I’ve become so fond of him. I love the way that he has made his art his life. And you know, it’s a lesson to all of us, to take what you love and make it the way you live your life, and that way you bring love into the world.” Anderson was among the first to exploit Murray’s potential for pathos on film, beginning with 1998’s Rushmore. After several years spent flailing in lowbrow comedies like Larger Than Life and The Man Who Knew Too Little, Murray welcomed the chance to stretch his acting muscles. Of Anderson’s approach to using him, he once observed: “Wes really knows what he wants. It’s not like, ‘Get the ham out there and let him oink.’”