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The Globe and Mail (Canada)
March 29, 2014 Saturday
At 65, Martin's still on the run
by JOHANNA SCHNELLER
When Andrea Martin turned 65 two years ago, she made a decision. She'd
had it with saying no to offers, with taking time out between jobs to
"normalize" her life, and with the stop-and-start career momentum that
that had created. She decided screw it. (She put it more colourfully
than that.) From then on, she was going to go for it. She was going to
say yes.
"When I heard the words 'old age pension' and 'retirement,' and
learned I can get into the movies for $4 cheaper, everything kind of
hit me," Martin said by phone from New York on a recent Friday night.
"I have less life to live than I have lived. I hate to use an Oprah
word, but it really was an a-ha moment. I thought: 'Life can change on
a dime, so I'm going to change it.' I realized I've got to walk the
talk."
Based on the day she was having, it was more like running: She had
been up at 6 a.m. to work on the final chapters of a book to be
published in September that she hopes to call Andrea Martin's Lady
Parts (her editor at Harper Collins is almost persuaded). It began as
a collection of humorous essays, but has evolved into more of a
memoir, and the manuscript was due March 17.
"It wasn't truthful to strictly make it comedic and superficial,"
Martin says. "How could I not include things that I've experienced in
the last 20 years? My mother's and father's deaths, my kids getting
older, my friends dying of AIDS or cancer, my relationships with
younger men."
Relationships with younger men? "There was one," Martin admits.
"You've got to buy the book to hear about that! I'm not dating anyone
now, but I don't think it's ever too late. I mean, love happens in
prison, so you never know."
Throughout our conversation, Martin's words tumble out so quickly I
feel like I'm running alongside her, trying to keep up. Her voice is
familiar, warm, inflected with her Armenian roots and Maine
upbringing. (People think she's Canadian, because she spent formative
years in Toronto, but she's American.) Her manner is intimate, just us
gals; she calls me by name a lot, occasionally adding "babe," or
"honey." Even when earnest, she has a can't-help-herself comedian's
delivery, peppering her chatter with ba-da-bump punchlines and the
occasional BURST of volume.
To continue her day: From 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., she was in final
rehearsals for Act One, a play based on Moss Hart's iconic book about
theatre life; previews began March 20 at New York's Lincoln Center.
(For those in the dark, Hart and partner George S. Kaufman were the
premiere playwrights of the 1930s, winning a Pulitzer for You Can't
Take It with You.) In Martin's last turn on Broadway, in an acclaimed
revival of Pippin for which she won a Tony and that she left in
September, 2013, she had dangled on a trapeze nearly five metres in
the air, doing an acrobatic routine created by Cirque du Soleil. This
time, she's playing four characters, which she says is equal parts
thrilling and gruelling.
Now, from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m, she's doing interviews for her new sitcom,
Working the Engels, which debuted on NBC and Global on March 12. She
plays mother to three eccentric grown children who unite to save the
family law practice. (In real life, Martin has two grown sons from her
former, 24-year marriage to Canadian screenwriter Bob Dolman.) The
three episodes I've seen take full advantage of her manic physicality:
She falls off a roof, makes hay with crutches, stomps her way through
a hip-hop contest. The series was shot in Toronto, where Martin keeps
a home, and old pals dropped in to guest star: Eugene Levy, Martin
Short, Scott Thompson.
To cap her day, Martin planned to squeeze in another hour of writing
before bed. "I have a lot of energy," she understates. "Some of it is
genes. I'm healthy, I work out. Most of it has to do with attitude. I
have a real enthusiasm for life. I love what I do. I'm curious. Things
excite me, they make me laugh."
It's not like Andrea Louise Martin had ever quit working. She acted in
films (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) and telefilms, guest-starred on
television's Nurse Jackie and 30 Rock, appeared steadily on New York
stages. But she sometimes let fear get in her way. "Fear of
succeeding, fear of failing, fear of what people thought," she says.
When 65 rolled around, however, she suddenly stopped caring what
people think.
"And the reason is, I have no control over what they think!" she
exclaims. "You win the Tony, some people think you shouldn't have, but
it doesn't matter! Because you know what? People are into their own
lives. They really care less about you than you think they're caring."
Other things Martin has learned: Botox and Restalyne make her feel
good, but no one notices. (I disagree there; it's noticeable.) Five
pounds on her body don't make a difference. Spanx don't work. "We can
talk about happiness, success and love, but I think the most important
thing to own is one's authenticity," she says. "That's taken me a long
time, a really long time, to honour. I was too concerned with pleasing
people. Now I can say: 'I'd love to be at your function, but I'm too
tired.' Or, 'I really appreciate the note you're giving me, but I
don't agree with it.' I feel like I'm an adult, and I'm going to talk
to somebody like an adult. That's a very big thing for me."
She has also found the secret to her comedy. "This may surprise you,"
she says. "It's truth. I approach every comedic role the same way I
would a classic role. It's all about intention. What does the
character want? What does she need? Otherwise, the stakes wouldn't be
as high. That's why you don't laugh at bad sitcoms. Because nobody's
playing the real intention, they're just doing one-liners."
Another comedic trend she opposes is crassness for crassness' sake.
"Comedy can do whatever it wants, and there's an audience for it, and
God bless," Martin says. "But I want to stay clear of that. Maybe
that's my roots in Second City. Cheap humour is the easiest laugh.
It's much more difficult to write characters who are funny, than words
that are dirty. I mean, how many times can you say 'vagina?'
"Now, hon, I have to sign off," she finishes, her timing sharp as
ever. She tears into her next interview. I go and lie down for her.
March 29, 2014 Saturday
At 65, Martin's still on the run
by JOHANNA SCHNELLER
When Andrea Martin turned 65 two years ago, she made a decision. She'd
had it with saying no to offers, with taking time out between jobs to
"normalize" her life, and with the stop-and-start career momentum that
that had created. She decided screw it. (She put it more colourfully
than that.) From then on, she was going to go for it. She was going to
say yes.
"When I heard the words 'old age pension' and 'retirement,' and
learned I can get into the movies for $4 cheaper, everything kind of
hit me," Martin said by phone from New York on a recent Friday night.
"I have less life to live than I have lived. I hate to use an Oprah
word, but it really was an a-ha moment. I thought: 'Life can change on
a dime, so I'm going to change it.' I realized I've got to walk the
talk."
Based on the day she was having, it was more like running: She had
been up at 6 a.m. to work on the final chapters of a book to be
published in September that she hopes to call Andrea Martin's Lady
Parts (her editor at Harper Collins is almost persuaded). It began as
a collection of humorous essays, but has evolved into more of a
memoir, and the manuscript was due March 17.
"It wasn't truthful to strictly make it comedic and superficial,"
Martin says. "How could I not include things that I've experienced in
the last 20 years? My mother's and father's deaths, my kids getting
older, my friends dying of AIDS or cancer, my relationships with
younger men."
Relationships with younger men? "There was one," Martin admits.
"You've got to buy the book to hear about that! I'm not dating anyone
now, but I don't think it's ever too late. I mean, love happens in
prison, so you never know."
Throughout our conversation, Martin's words tumble out so quickly I
feel like I'm running alongside her, trying to keep up. Her voice is
familiar, warm, inflected with her Armenian roots and Maine
upbringing. (People think she's Canadian, because she spent formative
years in Toronto, but she's American.) Her manner is intimate, just us
gals; she calls me by name a lot, occasionally adding "babe," or
"honey." Even when earnest, she has a can't-help-herself comedian's
delivery, peppering her chatter with ba-da-bump punchlines and the
occasional BURST of volume.
To continue her day: From 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., she was in final
rehearsals for Act One, a play based on Moss Hart's iconic book about
theatre life; previews began March 20 at New York's Lincoln Center.
(For those in the dark, Hart and partner George S. Kaufman were the
premiere playwrights of the 1930s, winning a Pulitzer for You Can't
Take It with You.) In Martin's last turn on Broadway, in an acclaimed
revival of Pippin for which she won a Tony and that she left in
September, 2013, she had dangled on a trapeze nearly five metres in
the air, doing an acrobatic routine created by Cirque du Soleil. This
time, she's playing four characters, which she says is equal parts
thrilling and gruelling.
Now, from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m, she's doing interviews for her new sitcom,
Working the Engels, which debuted on NBC and Global on March 12. She
plays mother to three eccentric grown children who unite to save the
family law practice. (In real life, Martin has two grown sons from her
former, 24-year marriage to Canadian screenwriter Bob Dolman.) The
three episodes I've seen take full advantage of her manic physicality:
She falls off a roof, makes hay with crutches, stomps her way through
a hip-hop contest. The series was shot in Toronto, where Martin keeps
a home, and old pals dropped in to guest star: Eugene Levy, Martin
Short, Scott Thompson.
To cap her day, Martin planned to squeeze in another hour of writing
before bed. "I have a lot of energy," she understates. "Some of it is
genes. I'm healthy, I work out. Most of it has to do with attitude. I
have a real enthusiasm for life. I love what I do. I'm curious. Things
excite me, they make me laugh."
It's not like Andrea Louise Martin had ever quit working. She acted in
films (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) and telefilms, guest-starred on
television's Nurse Jackie and 30 Rock, appeared steadily on New York
stages. But she sometimes let fear get in her way. "Fear of
succeeding, fear of failing, fear of what people thought," she says.
When 65 rolled around, however, she suddenly stopped caring what
people think.
"And the reason is, I have no control over what they think!" she
exclaims. "You win the Tony, some people think you shouldn't have, but
it doesn't matter! Because you know what? People are into their own
lives. They really care less about you than you think they're caring."
Other things Martin has learned: Botox and Restalyne make her feel
good, but no one notices. (I disagree there; it's noticeable.) Five
pounds on her body don't make a difference. Spanx don't work. "We can
talk about happiness, success and love, but I think the most important
thing to own is one's authenticity," she says. "That's taken me a long
time, a really long time, to honour. I was too concerned with pleasing
people. Now I can say: 'I'd love to be at your function, but I'm too
tired.' Or, 'I really appreciate the note you're giving me, but I
don't agree with it.' I feel like I'm an adult, and I'm going to talk
to somebody like an adult. That's a very big thing for me."
She has also found the secret to her comedy. "This may surprise you,"
she says. "It's truth. I approach every comedic role the same way I
would a classic role. It's all about intention. What does the
character want? What does she need? Otherwise, the stakes wouldn't be
as high. That's why you don't laugh at bad sitcoms. Because nobody's
playing the real intention, they're just doing one-liners."
Another comedic trend she opposes is crassness for crassness' sake.
"Comedy can do whatever it wants, and there's an audience for it, and
God bless," Martin says. "But I want to stay clear of that. Maybe
that's my roots in Second City. Cheap humour is the easiest laugh.
It's much more difficult to write characters who are funny, than words
that are dirty. I mean, how many times can you say 'vagina?'
"Now, hon, I have to sign off," she finishes, her timing sharp as
ever. She tears into her next interview. I go and lie down for her.