A Small Piece of the Big Lebowski
How a creative partner and I might have influenced a Coen Brothers classic
Two Mikes from Chicago
For years I worked as a temporary employee, doing high profile jobs ranging from receptionist to secretary to go-fer, as in “go fer this…” and “go fer that…” Summer of ’93 was spent in a Chicago insurance company as a glorified file clerk within the apropos Loss Control department, where on a random day I perchance met a fellow temp staffer with my same name.
He approached my desk, within one of those island stations with four cubicle areas, each with their own computer and printer. “Can I borrow your stapler?” The officer manager walked by with another hire, pointing. “That’s our newest temp, Mike Spitz.” We both waved. “Get outta here!” I exclaimed. “Let me see your ID.” Sure enough, Michael Eric Spitz.
My full name is Michael George Spitz, damn close considering the paucity of Spitzes. He was tall, roughly my same height of 6'2", but thinner, full head of hair, wore round glasses. Turned out we were temps for more or less complementary reasons: Michael Eric an actor, Michael George a writer, neither of us having the slightest clue, or wanting to grow up.
We became fast friends, arguably because nobody else would. The same-name gag was fun at first and rapidly got annoying, just like our relationship. Hanging out at his place one afternoon, Mike didn’t offer me any drinks or food, and I reciprocated his generosity by proposing we do a movie pilot together. “I’ll write, you direct. Do you know anybody famous?”
Sure enough, he did. Taking acting classes at a foo-foo school in Vermont the prior summer, Mike was instructed by, and got to know, William H. Macy. Having someone to pitch, we needed something to pitch, and I thought of the obvious: “Two guys with the same name get their identities mixed up, hell and hilarity ensues…” Mike liked it, asked for more.
My next creative leap wasn’t that far, either. Alongside our dueling morphologies was our opposite personalities — my bold ADHD brashness, in contrast to Mike’s pensive syrupy emo-ness. “One guy is a boxer, returning to the city from jail,” I spitzballed. “The other guy is a dorky college kid, returning to the same city after graduation…” Mike liked that, too.
Next we needed a name for the mixed up pair. “Mickey” could work for both characters, but Mickey… what? Bullshitting in a coffee shop, I riffed “Mickey Mouse,” and Mike joked that he knew some distant relatives actually named “Moskawitz” — Bingo! Mickey Moskawitz was born, with an art heist MacGuffin added to drive the action, enough to build the plot.
I got to work on the screenplay, Mike worked his contact. In parallel, we went as far as planning to shoot the pilot in his native Cincinnati. After a couple months the script came together, and Macy finally returned Mike’s messages. “Bill’s having a hard time getting his own ideas produced to help us. But when I mentioned we’d be in Ohio, he gave me a nearby contact.”
Harley in a Living Room
Not surprisingly not going out on a limb for one of his former acting students, Macy did the next best thing, and handed us off to an industry-insider who could likely do even less for us. Not sure of his creds until Mike and I actually met the guy, Bill’s referral turned out to be the Coen Brothers’ storyboard artist, a fascinating personality named J. Todd Anderson.
We coordinated a drive to Cincinnati in late ’93 that included visiting Mike’s family in the suburbs with auditioning actors for our movie pilot, bonus points if we could see Anderson, who lived only an hour away in Dayton. “My grandmother thinks you’re hot,” said Mike, driving through misty rain. “I’ll chalk that up as a win,” I nodded, wondering if “JT” would be home.
To our utter astonishment, he was. We parked on a narrow street, and walked up to a working class two-flat, just knocked on the door. Mike audibly gulped, both of us stunned to see a leather-clad biker guy standing there, asking who the hell we were. “Hi,” said Mike. “We’re two guys from Chicago that Bill Macy — “ “Yeah-yeah-yeah,” nodded JT. “Come in.”
His living room looked like a bomb had exploded in it moments before, clothes, papers, trash strewn all over. In the center, flush with a tatty sofa stacked with debris and a leaning bookshelf packed with binders, was a motorcycle. “Siddown,” said JT. “I’d offer you some beers, but I ain’t got none left.” Not knowing where we could sit, we remained standing.
Not knowing how to break the ice, I quickly shattered it. “What’s it like working with the legendary Coen Bros?” Mike kicked me in the shins, while JT grinned, and pulled out a shoe box. “Lemme show you how tight I am with Joel and Ethan…” Sure enough, he whipped out a handful of polaroids capturing the three of them reviewing storyboards, presumably his.
“Wanna see some of ‘em?” asked JT, reading our minds. We didn’t have far to look, as he reached over to the leaning bookshelf, and pointed to several binders. They each had handwritten labels, Raising Arizona, Twister, Miller’s Crossing, Barton Fink, The Addams Family… “I didn’t do Blood Simple, but all the others, and some for other folks. Want to see a Coen one not out yet?”
“We promise not to tell,” I said, meaning it after having read Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels. JT pulled a binder off the shelf, started flipping through it. “This one’s called The Hudsucker, and it’s comin’ out in a couple a months, starring Tim Robbins and Jennifer Leigh.” I was amazed to see hand drawn snapshots of a film still in production, unseen by millions.
“Mind if we look at some of the other ones, too?” I asked. “Go ahead,” said JT, “just make sure you put ’em back where you found ‘em.” Wow, page after page, the seeds of already classic scenes germinating within movies etched into our collective consciousness, tucked into two dollar three-ring binders cantilevering across rickety IKEA shelves, swaying with every eager touch.
From Dayton to Hollywood
Done kissing his ass, we were ready to get our asses kicked. “What’s your movie about?” asked JT, his ego stroked, mildly curious. Mike described our film as a conflict between young and old, high society and low, the banal realities of everyday life and the transcendence of art. “Basically,” I added, knowing JT was lost, “it’s about two guys with the same name.”
“Yeah,” he said, almost interested. “Billy told me about that. It true you guys have the same damn name?” For effect, we reached into our wallets and pulled out our IDs. JT held them up, squinting. “No shit. ‘Spitz’? That’s like that swimmer guy, right?” I told him Mark the Olympian was Hungarian, and we might have been Hungarian, too. JT couldn’t have cared less.
Seconds later, it became self-evident that our pitch, if you could even call it that, was going nowhere fast. “WTF you guys want me to do for you?” JT finally asked, mild curiosity turning to bored impatience. “Not like we want you to share our idea with the Coens,” I lied, “but can you make any recommendations for pitching our idea so it gains some traction?”
“I dunno,” he sighed, “did you finish the screenplay?” “We did!” I announced like a mouse holding up a chunk of cheese in front of a mountain lion. “It’s on the long side, though, nearly two hundred fifty pages.” JT frowned like I knocked over his hog. “Nobody will read that shit,” he scoffed. “Make a pilot. Enter contests. Go to festivals. I don’t fucken know, I just work here.”
We shook his hand, a spiritual moment for me, thinking how it brought to life the inchoate visualizations of classic film scenes etched into my brain, and those of countless humans. Mike and I were at the bottom of the movie industry well, our view of the sky limited — meeting and hanging out with JT brought us a bit closer, expanding our view, teasing us with possibility.
Mike was bummed during our ride back to his parent’s house, and I was elated. Our objective to expand our network and break into the industry was an abject failure, yet we’d met a quirky creative insider, saw the original storyboards of classic films, and got a preview of a Coen Brothers’ movie still in production. “So cool!” I beamed. “So what?” Mike sighed.
Despite the enthralling setback, we held auditions in a hotel meeting room, and after eating his gawking grandma’s chicken soup drove back to Chicago. From there our fledgling project imploded thanks to the actor we chose and the film crew we hired telling us to go fuck ourselves, Mike and I driving each other crazy to the point we were relieved to pull the plug.
Month later, I gaped in awe seeing The Hudsucker Proxy in a theatre, JT’s pages come to life. And four years later my jaw literally dropped seeing The Big Lebowsky, a film structured on the premise of two guys with the same name getting mixed up, a millionaire and a slacker. I imagined JT on the phone with Joel and Ethan, “I just met these two guys from Chicago…”
In case you’re curious, here’s the telltale script, with more background…
