||Miércoles 15 de Octubre de 2008, Ip nº 250
|The trouble with Paul Feig
Por John Bowe
I’d known Paul Feig for about four, four and a half minutes when I asked him that most routine of Hollywood icebreakers: “What projects are you working on?” We were in his shiny silver Mini Cooper, leaving the Burbank house he shares with his wife, Laurie, to drive south to the Comic Con convention in San Diego, in which Feig was scheduled to participate. He lurched without bravado into a litany of film pitches, a young-adult book series, a handful of TV shows at various stages of development and his new gig as co-executive producer of NBC’s No. 1 comedy hit, “The Office.” Hunched over the Mini’s tiny steering wheel, at more than six feet in a Ralph Lauren Black Label suit, Feig paused, as if maybe nine projects weren’t enough. He mentioned one more little idea in the works. It sailed forth in a torrent, which, I later realized, represents the problem with Paul Feig.
“There’s an adult novel I have an idea for that I’m in love with,” he began. “It could possibly be a really weird, quirky indie movie, but I think it’s going to be funnier as a book. It’s just really dumb.
“It’s called ‘Three Wishes for a Fat Guy,’ ” he went on. “And it’s basically about this fat guy who’s a total geek, works in a comic-book store and is into gaming and all that stuff. He’s lonely, he can’t get any dates and stuff, and he has this little dog — just like my dog, Linus. Crazy dog. And then one day, in this completely contrived, hokey way, he finds a genie in a bottle. And he gets three wishes.” Feig looked at me askance. I was listening.
“His first wish,” Feig continued, “is that he can fly. He’s like: ‘If I could fly, I’d be famous, so I’d get all these girls and all this other stuff, and it’d be cool. And the other thing is, I’m lonely. So I would love my dog, who’s my best friend in the world, to be able to talk. And the third wish, I’m gonna save that for, you know — if there’s trouble with those first two.’
“So suddenly he can fly. But as with any wish, he’s not specific enough, and it turns out he can only fly if he’s nude or in really lightweight pajamas. So he goes on a talk show and like, flies around the audience, and everyone is like, ‘Ohhh, he’s so cool.’ But then when he sits down on the panel, he’s really boring and his jokes are terrible and everybody kind of doesn’t like him anymore. So then he starts realizing: Well, I’ve got this talking dog! I’ll bring the dog out.”
Feig wasn’t done: “And the dog comes out and starts telling everything about his owner, like: ‘He masturbates! He masturbates constantly!’ So the dog becomes famous and the fat guy can fly, but now the dog is just outing him on everything in his life and then it kind of goes from there, and how the fat guy decides he needs to get a manager to come on board to help him get his life together.”
Feig turned from the sluggish freeway traffic to me, to see if I got it. So far, so good. And then he paused to reflect, before concluding, with absolutely no irony whatsoever, “It’s basically the story of how I met my wife.”
Feig, an actor, producer, writer and director, is perhaps best known as the creator of NBC’s 1999 cult favorite “Freaks and Geeks.” The show, drawn in loving and obsessive detail from his Michigan childhood, depicts the comic but painfully realistic growth pains of a group of high-school students in the early ’80s. “Freaks” had some of the most painfully acute music choices of any show ever televised (Cheap Trick’s “Gonna Raise Hell,” Van Halen’s “Runnin’ With the Devil,” Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ ”). It also introduced a startling number of popular actors, including Seth Rogen (“Knocked Up,” “Pineapple Express”), James Franco (“James Dean,” “Pineapple Express”), Linda Cardellini (“ER”), Jason Segel (“Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” “How I Met Your Mother”). Yet the program itself was always regarded as an abused stepchild; only 12 of 18 finished episodes were shown on NBC before it was yanked by the network in 2000.
The critical success and general menschiness of “Freaks and Geeks” established for Feig (pronounced FEEG) a career in television that most Hollywood aspirants would envy. He went on to direct three films, and directed eight episodes of “Arrested Development,” three episodes of “Weeds,” eight episodes of the American version of “The Office” and an episode each of “30 Rock” and “Mad Men.” The list reads like a who’s who of cool TV shows.
But whether it’s Feig’s personality or the tortured nature of any creative business, his experience of success is as comically and painfully unsatisfying as it might be for the type of characters he tends to draw. He writes about geeks being rejected, a subject that causes his ideas to be rejected by “cool” studio executives. The rejection causes Feig to feel like a geek, which causes him to approach life like a geek, which causes him to pitch stories about geeks, which causes his projects to be rejected again, thereby setting the whole cycle in motion again — unto perpetuity. It’s the myth of Sisyphus in the key of geekdom.
“I’m kind of a failure,” Feig admits. “I mean, I’ll be honest. I’m successful in that I’m getting to work on great stuff, but I think I’m a failure in all the personal stuff that is most important to me. ‘The Office’ is very important as well. I’m very proud of that and the other stuff I’ve done. But the stuff that I’m generating on my own, the shows and movie ideas I’m creating myself — they’ve all been a disaster.”
“Freaks and geeks” came to life at the same time as Fox’s “Malcolm in the Middle,” another show about the pains of being a teenager. But where “Malcolm” was an unconventional but emotionally over-the-top half-hour sitcom with straightforward gags and hammy camera work, the hourlong “Freaks” hovered tensely and subtly between pimples and humor, shyness and abject losertude, drama and comedy. Some people called it a “dramedy”; Feig prefers the term “comma” — comedy that includes realistic slices of drama.
“Paul wanted a realistic tone,” says Feig’s longtime friend and fan Judd Apatow, who produced “Freaks and Geeks.” “He was very passionate about the show being about kids who failed at the things they were attempting to do during high school. It was an argument against wish-fulfillment television. We agreed that we weren’t gonna water it down. And what was most exciting was that Paul was willing to go down with the ship.”
And down he went.
In 2001, nearly a year after “Freaks and Geeks” was unceremoniously given the boot, Feig was honored with an Emmy nomination for his writing on the show’s final episode. The award went to Alex Reid, a writer for “Malcom in the Middle.” While Feig is quick to credit “Malcolm in the Middle” with superb writing and direction, it disheartens him to this day that its over-the-top style won out over his show’s more down-to-earth aesthetic. “It was a bit like finding out that nobody wanted your take on the world.” And indeed, to Feig’s dismay, many people don’t.
Ira Glass, creator of “This American Life,” the popular public-radio show, recalls producing a film that Feig directed called “Unaccompanied Minors.” The idea came out of a “This American Life” segment featuring a woman talking about how, as a child of divorce, she would spend half of Christmas with one parent, then get on a plane to visit the other parent. One Christmas, she and her sister were snowed in at O’Hare and spent the night with planeloads of other kids in the same predicament.
“What happened in the course of making the film,” Glass told me recently, “is that at some point, an executive at Warner Brothers asked, ‘Well, do they have to be kids of divorce?’ And we said, ‘Well, if they’re not divorced, what are they doing at the airport on Christmas alone without adults?’ And he was just like, ‘Well, the divorce thing is such a downer!’ There were all these rough, dark edges that gave more heft and emotion to the story, and at a couple of key moments, we heard back from the executives, ‘Let’s smooth all that out.’ After a while, you had to wonder, Well, why get Paul Feig to direct? That’s what he does. He does the comic stuff but with the dark stuff too.”
Feig describes his brand of comedy, whether in “Freaks and Geeks” or “Three Wishes for a Fat Guy,” as “a comedy for outsiders, for people who don’t tend to get the respect of the normal world.” In the Freaks versus Geeks contest of life (Bill O’Reilly versus Bill Moyers, for example, or Bush versus Gore), he has always identified with the geeks. Geekhood, he clarifies, isn’t just a matter of shyness — Feig’s voice-mail message says, “Please leave your name and number and I’ll, um, y’know, call you back” — it’s a matter of conviction. According to Feig, geeks are people who are unabashedly enthusiastic about uncool things. Things that don’t get you status points. Things that get you beaten up at school. Things that — well, let’s just say that in his wedding picture, which hangs proudly in his home, Feig and his wife both wear kilts.
Feig carries himself a bit like the late Vincent Price, a tall man who doesn’t like towering over anyone. While directing, he wears a suit and tie, partly to remind himself that he’s going to work, partly out of a sense of respect for the crew and actors and partly to offset what he calls “L.A.’s tyranny of the casual.” His white-gray hair is almost primly trimmed but still irrepressibly shaggy. His face is kind, even when he laughs at himself, which he does often and with a bit of a thump.
When Feig, the Mini Cooper and I finally arrived at Comic Con — held each year for purveyors and enthusiasts of comic books and “popular arts” — we were met at the door by his publicist from Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. She led Feig to a booth for a signing of his first young-adult novel (in what will be a series of five), “Ignatius MacFarland: Frequenaut!” (He has also written two memoirs: “Kick Me: Adventures in Adolescence” and “Superstud: Or How I Became a 24-Year-Old Virgin.”) A small but nice-size crowd awaited. Not just kids, but adults. Julie, Ramona, Dillon — they all had “Freaks” on their mind as they held out their books for Feig’s signature.
One man said sympathetically: “I’m a huge fan of ‘Freaks and Geeks.’ It ended way too early.” Another handed over his book to be signed. “Hey, Paul. We met a couple of times after the show got canceled. Great show. You know, I tried so hard to get people to watch it.”
Feig thanked them earnestly. Later, we discussed the sad fact that while books allow for free expression, they reach a dissatisfyingly small audience. Movies and TV reach millions, but then there’s the notoriously stupid, painful and difficult development process to wind through. Forever. And ever. Best not to get started on the subject.
The signing over, we strolled through the crowd. These were Feig’s people. Comic Con runs for four days, attracting 125,000 ticketholders who come to tour blocks of booths and displays of comics (from manga to sci-fi and graphic novels to pornography); young-adult literature; software, costumes, action figures, dolls and Hollywood movie promos (with guest appearances by stars like Hugh Jackman, Richard Dreyfuss and Lou Ferrigno). Many of the conventiongoers were wearing costumes — maid outfits, camo miniskirts and fishnets, eye masks, top hats, Ghostbuster, Jedi knight and Japanese manga outfits — and kilts. An awful lot of the guys seemed to bounce instead of walk. Ba-boing, ba-boing.
Feig glowed. “Look at them,” Feig said, clearly identifying with the crowd. “These people are out of their minds with joy. They’re happy.” He mentioned the fact that before the advent of the Internet, geeks like himself — and the crowd members — had to cower in their corners, alone. Now they could gather forces online and discover many thousands of like-minded souls across the land. It was, to Feig, a step forward in the march of progress.
At noon we headed for a panel discussion by the writers and actors (they’re often the same) of Feig’s new day job, “The Office.” Greg Daniels, the primary executive producer of the show, tapped Feig to introduce the panel. Feig ad-libbed for 30 seconds, introduced the panelists, then signed off with the geekiest gesture in American culture: the double thumbs up.
In Feig’s final event of the day, a 2 p.m. panel, “Comics: Across Every Medium,” Feig shared the stage with assorted greats from the world of comics. During the question-and-answer part, a young woman asked Feig, “Can you tell us about your new show on NBC?” Feig seized up. She was referring to “Kath & Kim,” Feig’s latest setback. He’d signed on to direct an American version of the Australian hit show, known for its laconic humor and hyped-up verité style. He helped put the show together, including casting, designing the sets and directing the pilot — only to be taken off the project at the last moment. (Feig left the show in June, and it will have its premiere early next month.) According to an executive producer at NBC, Feig’s version was “too straightforward.” Feig said he’d heard through the grapevine that the replacement director had repainted the sets — “in funnier colors.”
He stood in front of the 2,000-person audience, wondering what to say but not wanting to talk trash about his employer. “I was like ‘Oh, no,’ ” he recalled later. “Uhhhh, yeah. Let’s not talk about that.”
One night in july, Feig and his wife, Laurie, took me to a Mexican restaurant in Hollywood called the Gardens of Taxco. We met the valet.
“Hello, Mr. Paul!”
We entered the restaurant and met the maître’d.
“Hello, Mr. Paul!”
As we were led through the tables, we saw a server and a waiter.
“Hello, Mr. Paul!”
We sat down, and Laurie and Paul began talking in turns, overlapping and segueing like a double helix (they’ve been together 17 years). They told me that Feig was born and raised in Mount Clemens, Mich., a working-class suburb of Detroit; his mother, a telephone operator, met his father, an army-surplus-store owner, at a church social; both were in their 40s. Feig describes being an only child as a delight, not a bane. His parents had time to indulge his every interest.
“His mother decided when he was born that he was gonna be in show business,” Laurie said. “That was her dream. And so from the minute he would show any interest in playing guitar, he’d have guitar lessons. If it was tap dancing, he’d take tap dance. Anything he was interested in.”
At 14, Feig began taping commercials for his father’s store. The store was on Gratiot Avenue, which is pronounced “Grashet” — unless, like Feig, you have a lisp. The Feigs paused for me to imagine the sound of a lisping 14-year-old, pronouncing “Grashet and “surplus” again and again. For a movie camera. For the public. “It was very difficult,” he admitted. To make matters worse, Feig was obsessed at the time with Steve Martin and had dressed himself in a white three-piece suit. “It was pretty funny,” Laurie said, “but it was people laughing at him, not with him.”
In high school, Feig began doing a magic act for the school’s talent show. Feig’s father maintained that every good magician needed a shtick; earlier in life, he’d collected jokes he heard at nightclubs. He shared his files with Paul to use between magic tricks. Feig’s mother — clad in red 364 days a year and green on St. Patrick’s day — drove him to comedy clubs to learn jokes, then nursing homes and hospitals to practice his act. In some ways, it was the official childhood of a geek: nowhere along the way did either parent explain that in America, it’s very uncool to do what your heart dictates. Better to be cool — and smooth down those rough edges.
“I had a Donald Duck pin I would wear all the time in high school,” Feig remembered. “I loved Donald Duck. I thought the pin was kind of cool. But walking through the mall, the teens, the meaner ones, would sit along this kind of one low wall along this main walkway and heckle you and call you names. Throughout my teens, I just wanted to go somewhere I could wear a Donald Duck pin and no one would care.”
After a year in Detroit’s Wayne State University, studying mass communications and theater, Feig bolted for L.A. to work as a tour guide at Universal Studios. He eventually transferred to U.S.C., which led to a job reading scripts and a 15-year career in stand-up comedy. Along the way, Feig befriended half of comic Hollywood and landed a string of small roles on TV series, including: “Dirty Dancing,” the TV show; “Good Sports,” with Ryan O’Neal and Farrah Fawcett; “It’s Garry Shandling’s Show”; “The Jackie Thomas Show”; “The Louie Show”; and finally, a repeating gig on “Sabrina the Teenage Witch,” playing Sabrina’s science teacher.
Feig, apparently unique among stand-up comics, never succumbed to drugs or alcohol. He saved his money, worked assiduously and during the off-season, used his savings to shoot a 16-millimeter movie starring Penn Jillette. The film, about four characters who meet in a field, was shot over six days, cost Feig $30,000, never found an audience and managed to obliterate the first nest egg he acquired in his life. When it was finished and time to get back to “Sabrina” to refresh his coffers, he was informed that he would not be invited back.
Feig took to the road, driving from campus to campus, trying with mixed success to encourage students to watch his movie. It was around this time that Laurie, who was originally his manager, then girlfriend, then wife (it’s unclear to them what rationale drove the transition), persuaded him to abandon the vagaries of acting and focus on the vagaries of writing. The result was “Freaks and Geeks.” He showed it to Apatow, a friend from stand-up days, and within 12 hours, the show was sold to Dreamworks. Feig shrugged. “That’s the story of how my worst year became my best year.”
A mariachi singer (“Hi, Jaime!” “Hi, Mr. Paul!”) drifted up to our table. Jaime asked Feig for a request. Of course: “Brazil.” Feig requests it every time. The band began to play, and as Laurie looked on lovingly, Feig and Jaime harmonized — Jaime in Spanish, Feig in a sort of mumbly Esperanto:
Brazil, where hearts were entertaining June,
We stood beneath an amber moon
And softly murmured, “Someday soon.”
We kissed and clung together. ...
Jaime asked if Feig had another request. Yes! He did! What was that song called? The upbeat one? “Happy, Happy”? Jaime smiled. No, that wasn’t the name, not in Spanish. But for Mr. Paul? Of course. The band began to play, and we lurched back into a conversation about the odd nature of Feig’s success. Or failure. Or which one is it?
“You know, I get sent a lot of projects to direct,” Feig said. “And I start reading a script that’s kinda like, you know: ‘John’s a lawyer who has it all. He’s handsome he’s this and that’ — and you know he’s gonna have some downfall or something like that. And it’s like, You know what? I don’t care about that stuff. What am I gonna learn from him? Don’t be too cool? I don’t think that’s a lesson that’s gonna apply to my life. I care more about Kip, the janitor who works at that guy’s building, or his neighbor or the guy who drives him around.”
Whether it’s movies or TV, Feig’s wheel of fortune turns from advance to trauma, pain, suffer, repeat. From 2001 to 2004, Feig worked on an adaptation of Ann Holm’s acclaimed novel “I Am David,” starring James Caviezel (“before he was Christ,” Feig notes). The movie, shot in Bulgaria for $7 million, is about a kid who grows up in a communist labor camp after World War II and escapes to see if his mother is still alive. While Feig was elated to direct the film, it bombed. How could it not have? As he later joked, “It’s about a kid in a communist labor camp! Hey! Who’s not gonna wanna see that? Oh, my God. It made nothing.”
Feig’s insistence on keeping some element of reality intact has led to one stumble after another. “Nice Guys” was about three guys and a fat girl, whom Feig describes as “decent, kind of nerdy people in their 20s who are trying to date.” HBO bought the pitch but wanted something with “edge.”
Feig wrote a scene where the guys go to a strip club — and feel uncomfortable. Friends advised him to make one of the characters seem cool. To Feig, it didn’t make sense. Either all the friends were geeks or none of them were geeks. “That’s the structure of friends,” he explained. “You don’t invite in a friend who is the antithesis of the rest of you. You’re not gonna have a scene where two guys are uncomfortable, and their friend is like, ‘No, you gotta have a happy ending!’ They always say, ‘Hey, you gotta have one of those guys.’ Well, I don’t wanna have one of those guys. The whole point is about how uncomfortable they are!” In the end, the show never ran.
Then there was “Other Space,” which Feig describes as a sci-fi version of “The Office.” “The show was set on a spaceship that gets pulled into an alternate universe,” he said. NBC bought it, but then disagreements arose about how to shoot it. According to Feig, the executives wanted it shot as a typical sitcom, with a very obvious, punched up style. Feig didn’t.
“There’s a million tales of woe like this in town,” he continued, “but it’s always this thing, like, ‘Oh, we so want you to do our next show.’ And then they’re like: ‘Oh, no. That’s not what we wanted.’ My whole career is kind of like: ‘I told you that’s what I was gonna do.’ ‘Oh, yeah, but we didn’t think it would be like that.’ ”
Earlier, Judd Apatow remarked to me that all great television is the result of someone simply being able to get his point of view across. “If you see ‘The Sopranos’ or ‘Mad Men’ or ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm,’ ” he said, “you know those creators are winning every single argument.” Feig, he said, was talent waiting for such an opportunity. “Paul has a very unique point of view, and it’s best presented without having to go through a committee. You want pure Paul.”
Feig knows very well that he’s not going to win every argument. And in fact, he has never clung to the idea of the lone genius who takes advice from no one. He likes advice. But: “My style of comedy is very real and bittersweet, and sort of always on the verge of kind of being tragic,” he explained. “If suddenly someone’s like, ‘Hi, there, Bobby!’ and starts mugging for the cameras, then I have to kill myself, because it throws everything off.”
Feig’s first day with the fifth season of “The Office” began on a late July day with a 7 a.m. read-through. The cast, along with the writers and a few network executives, met in a studio on a nondescript lot deep in the valley. Normally, episodes are a half-hour, but since this was the season opener, it would be an hour, which meant a nine-day shoot, and lots to organize.
Feig’s job as co-executive producer means that while Greg Daniels oversees story lines (the Jim-Pam relationship, developments in Jan’s personal life, skirmishes between Michael and corporate at Dunder Mifflin, for example), Feig works mainly as in-house director; he has several episodes of his own and supervises the efforts of visiting directors. Feig’s involvement in the show dates back to his direction of several critical episodes in the second season, when “The Office” broke away from its British predecessor and found its own style. Where Ricky Gervais’s mercurial, mildly sociopathic doofus somehow resonated, Steve Carell’s early interpretation of the character never quite clicked with American sensibilities.
It wasn’t until Carell starred in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” and it became a hit that he turned into a potentially lovable character. It soon became evident to creators of “The Office” that Carell’s newfound lovability could help the show succeed. Shortly thereafter, Feig directed an episode in which Carell’s character, Michael, was feeling glum. The show’s original direction would have called for muting the glumness by covering it with jokes. Feig and Daniels, changing tack, encouraged Carell to go with his instincts. In the end, Carell’s character, Michael, became unthinkably weepy. Audiences responded, and the show “broke out” and garnered a large, intelligent, upscale audience. It’s now one of NBC’s most valuable show in terms of ad revenue.
For Feig, “The Office” is simply another extension of the kinds of characters and humor he’s been interested in since “Freaks and Geeks.” The characters, camouflaged by flimsy veneers of adulthood, “struggle with the same questions as adolescents,” Feig told me. “Who am I? Where do I fit in? The only difference is they’re also trying to figure out how they fit into their job. And that’s my main thing. People figuring out, ‘Where’s my life going?’ It’s all these insecure people going through real emotions.” For Feig, the challenge isn’t creating wacky characters, it’s molding humor so that audiences can relate. “You want them to go like, ‘Oh, my God, I know a guy like that!’ ”
On the day I visited the set, Feig directed a scene in which almost all the staff members of Dunder Mifflin crowd into a meeting room in order to stuff as much food into their faces as possible. The set was disgusting — a huge, foldout table crammed with glistening mac and cheese, greasy ribs, fried chicken, chili dogs and humming, gloopy cheese and chocolate fountains, slurp, slurp, slurping over the actors’ lines.
Afterward, Feig broke off some of the actors to do the show’s signature talking-head shots, in which characters hold one-on-one asides with the camera. He and Carell crammed themselves into a small room. Feig put on headphones, and the cameras rolled.
In a conversational voice, Feig asked Carell, “So, what’s the deal with all the food out there?”
The bare-bones script called for Carell to reply: “H.R. is sponsoring a branchwide weight-loss contest to lower health premiums. If we win, our new H.R. rep, the lovely Holly, looks good to corporate and everyone in the branch gets three extra vacation days, so — double-edged sword.”
With Feig’s encouragement, Carell began improvising: “Well, the idea came from corporate, and they realized that to save on health premiums, they wanted everyone to lose weight. They sponsored a competition, kind of branch to branch.” He grinned conspiratorially with idiotic enthusiasm, as if a “branch to branch” competition within a paper company was an especially spicy prospect. “Three extra vacation days” turned into “five days of vacation time,” which he then calculated to be . . . “five-sevenths of a week!” Somewhere, over a few takes, Carell trivialized his speech to the final comic degree by adding, “And . . . so . . . that’s the dealio!”
He and Feig laughed heartily. Feig asked him to work with “the dealio,” and the result was a triumph of gratuitous verbalization, the baroque and spiritless joie de vivre that characterizes so much of what passes as personality and office cheer. From the top, Carell indicated the buffet full of food in the conference room and began: “I know — it looks bizarre. But here’s the dealio: in an effort to lower our health-care premiums, corporate has come up with a weight-loss contest, branch versus branch. Whatever branch loses the most weight will win five extra vacation days. Which is . . . five-sevenths of a week. And our new H.R. rep, Holly Flax, will look good to corporate . . . she already does, but I think it’ll be a feather in her cap. Which to me is a classic double-edged sword . . . type situation.”
Stupid. Perfect. “Cut on that,” Feig said.
Afterward, Carell remarked on why it’s so easy to ad-lib with Feig. “He’s not standoffish or judgmental in any way. He’s incredibly genuine, and I think he likes to give some credit to the audience, that they will pick up the humor without being force-fed.”
I asked Feig again about his remark that he’s a failure. Judd Apatow, Ira Glass and Steve Carell think he’s cool. He has written and directed for the half-dozen most-beloved in-crowd comedies. He has a happy marriage and a circle of friends and colleagues who clearly adore him. What’s the problem?
He stopped short. “Look,” he says. “I’m extremely, extremely lucky to be who I am and do what I do and work with the people I work with. Even though I can always find something to complain about, I find it very hard to complain.” He paused and sighed.
“I forgot to tell you: I just got nominated for an Emmy,” he said. The nomination was for an “Office” episode from last year. The awards wouldn’t be announced until late September, but Feig already knew he was doomed. “There’s no way in hell I’m gonna get that prize.”
|| 26/09/2008. The New York Times.
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