Films are perpetuating harmful and out-of-date sexual, racial and gender stereotypes, according to the biggest-ever study of its kind into cinema audiences’ opinions.

Of 4,315 adults across the UK who were surveyed, a clear majority believe cinema too often falls back on discredited stereotypes, including sexless older women, drug dealing, oversexualised black people and gay people whose lives are dominated by their sexuality.

Almost two-thirds of those questioned believe older women are “significantly underrepresented” in films. They are rarely portrayed as sexual beings and are, generally, only given marginal roles, according to the findings, published exclusively in the Guardian today.

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First thing’s first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who 
celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day’s events. There are also those who go to the 7 A.M. mass at St. 
Patrick’s Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron 
saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours - no drinking, no fighting, no puking. 
  
I don’t know any of these people. 
Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, 
hammerheaded souls who patrol the St. Patrick’s Day arena as if it were 
life’s last call.  If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY. 
  
I’ve spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick’s Day 
celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled 
intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegans Wake is a rare sight 
indeed. Unless he’s passed out around 3:15 A.M. in the back booth at 
McQuigan’s Pub. 
  
No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It’s for the thirsty masses. Those 
young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to “get off their feet and jump around.” That’s what St. Patrick’s Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing. 
  
Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I’ll 
probably be doing this year. 
  
9:00 A.M. 
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American 
breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee, 
three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at pat Riley’s hair. 
  
9:30 A.M. 
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy’s buzzer 23 times. On the 
twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green. 
  
10:00 A.M. 
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade. 
Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy’s cooler. Fitzy 
tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island 
Marching Men’s Choir. 
  
10:14 A.M. 
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. “fuckin’ typical,” 
Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy. 
  
11:05 A.M. 
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigmarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escorts him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully’s second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD. 
  
12:02 P.M. 
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the 
air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to 
melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O’Keefe) is Fitzy’s dad’s old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to “Move it along, pal, this ain’t Columbus Day.” Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split. 
  
12:06 P.M. 
Drop into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack 
open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully’s argument-“In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly’s it’s gonna be standin’-room only”-wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water. 
  
12:17 P.M. 
In the cab downtown, our driver, on Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion 
that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in 
the parade. Fitzy-his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot-begs to differ: “They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don’t go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?” Adjid says, “Because this is America.” 
“No it ain’t,” counters Fitzy. “This is New York City. It’s a whole different 
ball game.” The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid 
veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a 
$3 tip and the cooler. 
  
12:22 P.M. 
Stop in at Paddy Reilly’s for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and 
whiskey. Rogues March-a local band made up of guys who used to know 
members of the Pogues-bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead 
singer-Joe Hurley-stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes. 
  
4:27 P.M. 
Stop in a Molly Malone’s Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of 
green pizza made by Sweeney the bartender’s wife. She’s Italian. We drink 
green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully 
pukes. 
  
About a Quarter Past Eight 
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues-a local band made up of guys who 
used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues-play “Danny 
Boy,” and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green 
cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out. 
  
Sometime After Ten 
Head over to a Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane 
MacGowan-three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish 
whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The Problem is-he ain’t here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, “Now this is the life!” 
  
That Same Night 
Stop in at Sin-é. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We’re in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the 
cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During “Thousands Are Sailing,” the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks there’s a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact. 
  
Later 
The fact that we’re in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it’s 
printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the 
bouncer’s T-shirt. As my old man used to say: “Wherever the hell you go, 
there you fuckin’ are.” 
  
Later Still 
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It’s a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it” a terrible way to go our drinking. Mostly because your friends can’t tell when you’re about to puke. The point is, we didn’t see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor-who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland-and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel-they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the 
cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to 
Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a 
couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and 
drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob. He says the cell gives him “déja-vu” because he had the same 
one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year. 
  
The Next Morning 
I wake up to the sound of Mickey mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville 
Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining 
brain cells-eight and holding. Bob’s droning on about pipe wrenches and 
putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge 
(McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy’s mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the 
Englishman, the queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke’s chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing-copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: “It’s more modern. And it don’t look shiny.” Sully and I make our minds. Bob turning a light shade of burnt sienna-pukes.

Low-key start for scribes WGA, AMPTP talks began Thursday By Dave McNary The combatants in the 100-day strike that shut down Hollywood three years ago met for their first rematch on Thursday. But you’d hardly know it. Negotiations began Thursday morning between the Writers Guild and the Alliance of Motion Picture & Television Producers with no fanfare and an apparent news blackout at AMPTP headquarters in Sherman Oaks.

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Nathan Fillion and Firefly’s writers are ready continue the show

When Nathan Fillion announced yesterday he’d love to step into the tight pants of Capt. “Mal” Reynolds again, we of course liked the idea, but also thought … well, what’s the chance of that? But today, now that a couple of Firefly writers chimed in to say they’d also climb on board a new Firefly in a heartbeat, we’re instead asking—could there really be a chance of that?

This all started when James Hibberd of Inside TV asked Fillion whether, if Fox admitted it screwed up by canceling the series and invited him and Joss Whedon to give it another try, he would. Fillion responded by saying yes, but that he was wary:

Yes. Yes. I would examine very closely Fox’s reasoning—I’m a little gun-shy. If I got $300 million from the California Lottery, the first thing I would do is buy the rights to Firefly, make it on my own, and distribute it on the Internet.

Today, a couple of heavy Firefly hitters popped up to say, sign us up, too!

First, Jose Molina, who is the executive producer of Haven and wrote the Firefly episodes “Trash” and “Ariel,” tweeted a few hours ago that “For what it’s worth, I’ve told him I’d drop what I was doing and follow” —

[click the above orange link to read the whole story]

5 Things TV Writers Apparently Believe About Smart People

By C. Coville Jan 09, 2011 

Ever since House showed up on our televisions in 2004, the networks decided you couldn’t have a drama without an eccentric genius in the mix. So, now you have geniuses solving mysteries using math (Numb3rs), novel writing (Castle, Bones), fake psychic powers (the Mentalist, Psych) and an ability to detect lies that borders on mind reading (Lie to Me). Among others.

The key here is the characters aren’t just really smart, they’re incredible and borderline supernatural scientific ubermenschen who are better at their jobs than anyone has ever been at anything. You think Einstein was good at physics? If he’d been on TV in 2011, he would have actually invented faster-than-light travel by the age of 25. And he would have used it to fight crime.

But what, exactly, has this popular breed of shows been teaching us?

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These are fun, click the orange link above to see more.

A Letter from David Mamet to the Writers of The Unit

Posted on Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010 by David Chen

I was having a pretty uneventful day at the office until I saw this post about a memo written by writer/director David Mamet crop up on my Twitter feed. It’s a note that Mamet addressed to the writing staff of the now-canceled CBS show The Unit, in which he lays out some guiding principles for compelling television. According to Movieline, the memo first surfaced recently at Ink Canada.

When I saw that the memo contained nuggets of wisdom such as “ANY TIME TWO CHARACTERS ARE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT,” and “IF THE SCENE BORES YOU WHEN YOU READ IT, REST ASSURED IT *WILL* BORE THE ACTORS, AND WILL, THEN, BORE THE AUDIENCE, AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE BACK IN THE BREADLINE,” I knew the whole thing would be a must-read. Mamet also takes time to lay into TV executives, which he refers to as “penguins.” Overall, it offers some amusing and piercing insights into what makes good writing and storytelling. I’m left wondering though: Does Mamet’s work always live up to his high standards? Hit the jump for the full memo, and savor the intensity (capital letters are from the original).


TO THE WRITERS OF THE UNIT

GREETINGS.

AS WE LEARN HOW TO WRITE THIS SHOW, A RECURRING PROBLEM BECOMES CLEAR.

THE PROBLEM IS THIS: TO DIFFERENTIATE BETWEEN *DRAMA* AND NON-DRAMA. LET ME BREAK-IT-DOWN-NOW.

EVERYONE IN CREATION IS SCREAMING AT US TO MAKE THE SHOW CLEAR. WE ARE TASKED WITH, IT SEEMS, CRAMMING A SHITLOAD OF *INFORMATION* INTO A LITTLE BIT OF TIME.

OUR FRIENDS. THE PENGUINS, THINK THAT WE, THEREFORE, ARE EMPLOYED TO COMMUNICATE *INFORMATION* — AND, SO, AT TIMES, IT SEEMS TO US.

BUT NOTE:THE AUDIENCE WILL NOT TUNE IN TO WATCH INFORMATION. YOU WOULDN’T, I WOULDN’T. NO ONE WOULD OR WILL. THE AUDIENCE WILL ONLY TUNE IN AND STAY TUNED TO WATCH DRAMA.

QUESTION:WHAT IS DRAMA? DRAMA, AGAIN, IS THE QUEST OF THE HERO TO OVERCOME THOSE THINGS WHICH PREVENT HIM FROM ACHIEVING A SPECIFIC, *ACUTE* GOAL.

SO: WE, THE WRITERS, MUST ASK OURSELVES *OF EVERY SCENE* THESE THREE QUESTIONS.

1) WHO WANTS WHAT?
2) WHAT HAPPENS IF HER DON’T GET IT?
3) WHY NOW?

THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS ARE LITMUS PAPER. APPLY THEM, AND THEIR ANSWER WILL TELL YOU IF THE SCENE IS DRAMATIC OR NOT.

IF THE SCENE IS NOT DRAMATICALLY WRITTEN, IT WILL NOT BE DRAMATICALLY ACTED.

THERE IS NO MAGIC FAIRY DUST WHICH WILL MAKE A BORING, USELESS, REDUNDANT, OR MERELY INFORMATIVE SCENE AFTER IT LEAVES YOUR TYPEWRITER. *YOU* THE WRITERS, ARE IN CHARGE OF MAKING SURE *EVERY* SCENE IS DRAMATIC.

THIS MEANS ALL THE “LITTLE” EXPOSITIONAL SCENES OF TWO PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD. THIS BUSHWAH (AND WE ALL TEND TO WRITE IT ON THE FIRST DRAFT) IS LESS THAN USELESS, SHOULD IT FINALLY, GOD FORBID, GET FILMED.

IF THE SCENE BORES YOU WHEN YOU READ IT, REST ASSURED IT *WILL* BORE THE ACTORS, AND WILL, THEN, BORE THE AUDIENCE, AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE BACK IN THE BREADLINE.

SOMEONE HAS TO MAKE THE SCENE DRAMATIC. IT IS NOT THE ACTORS JOB (THE ACTORS JOB IS TO BE TRUTHFUL). IT IS NOT THE DIRECTORS JOB. HIS OR HER JOB IS TO FILM IT STRAIGHTFORWARDLY AND REMIND THE ACTORS TO TALK FAST. IT IS *YOUR* JOB.

EVERY SCENE MUST BE DRAMATIC. THAT MEANS: THE MAIN CHARACTER MUST HAVE A SIMPLE, STRAIGHTFORWARD, PRESSING NEED WHICH IMPELS HIM OR HER TO SHOW UP IN THE SCENE.

THIS NEED IS WHY THEY *CAME*. IT IS WHAT THE SCENE IS ABOUT. THEIR ATTEMPT TO GET THIS NEED MET *WILL* LEAD, AT THE END OF THE SCENE,TO *FAILURE* – THIS IS HOW THE SCENE IS *OVER*. IT, THIS FAILURE, WILL, THEN, OF NECESSITY, PROPEL US INTO THE *NEXT* SCENE.

ALL THESE ATTEMPTS, TAKEN TOGETHER, WILL, OVER THE COURSE OF THE EPISODE, CONSTITUTE THE *PLOT*.

ANY SCENE, THUS, WHICH DOES NOT BOTH ADVANCE THE PLOT, AND STANDALONE (THAT IS, DRAMATICALLY, BY ITSELF, ON ITS OWN MERITS) IS EITHER SUPERFLUOUS, OR INCORRECTLY WRITTEN.

YES BUT YES BUT YES BUT, YOU SAY: WHAT ABOUT THE NECESSITY OF WRITING IN ALL THAT “INFORMATION?”

AND I RESPOND “*FIGURE IT OUT*” ANY DICKHEAD WITH A BLUESUIT CAN BE (AND IS) TAUGHT TO SAY “MAKE IT CLEARER”, AND “I WANT TO KNOW MORE *ABOUT* HIM”.

WHEN YOU’VE MADE IT SO CLEAR THAT EVEN THIS BLUESUITED PENGUIN IS HAPPY, BOTH YOU AND HE OR SHE *WILL* BE OUT OF A JOB.

THE JOB OF THE DRAMATIST IS TO MAKE THE AUDIENCE WONDER WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. *NOT* TO EXPLAIN TO THEM WHAT JUST HAPPENED, OR TO*SUGGEST* TO THEM WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

ANY DICKHEAD, AS ABOVE, CAN WRITE, “BUT, JIM, IF WE DON’T ASSASSINATE THE PRIME MINISTER IN THE NEXT SCENE, ALL EUROPE WILL BE ENGULFED IN FLAME”

WE ARE NOT GETTING PAID TO *REALIZE* THAT THE AUDIENCE NEEDS THIS INFORMATION TO UNDERSTAND THE NEXT SCENE, BUT TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO WRITE THE SCENE BEFORE US SUCH THAT THE AUDIENCE WILL BE INTERESTED IN WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

YES BUT, YES BUT YES *BUT* YOU REITERATE.

AND I RESPOND *FIGURE IT OUT*.

*HOW* DOES ONE STRIKE THE BALANCE BETWEEN WITHHOLDING AND VOUCHSAFING INFORMATION? *THAT* IS THE ESSENTIAL TASK OF THE DRAMATIST. AND THE ABILITY TO *DO* THAT IS WHAT SEPARATES YOU FROM THE LESSER SPECIES IN THEIR BLUE SUITS.

FIGURE IT OUT.

START, EVERY TIME, WITH THIS INVIOLABLE RULE: THE *SCENE MUST BE DRAMATIC*. it must start because the hero HAS A PROBLEM, AND IT MUST CULMINATE WITH THE HERO FINDING HIM OR HERSELF EITHER THWARTED OR EDUCATED THAT ANOTHER WAY EXISTS.

LOOK AT YOUR LOG LINES. ANY LOGLINE READING “BOB AND SUE DISCUSS…” IS NOT DESCRIBING A DRAMATIC SCENE.

PLEASE NOTE THAT OUR OUTLINES ARE, GENERALLY, SPECTACULAR. THE DRAMA FLOWS OUT BETWEEN THE OUTLINE AND THE FIRST DRAFT.

THINK LIKE A FILMMAKER RATHER THAN A FUNCTIONARY, BECAUSE, IN TRUTH, *YOU* ARE MAKING THE FILM. WHAT YOU WRITE, THEY WILL SHOOT.

HERE ARE THE DANGER SIGNALS. ANY TIME TWO CHARACTERS ARE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

ANY TIME ANY CHARACTER IS SAYING TO ANOTHER “AS YOU KNOW”, THAT IS, TELLING ANOTHER CHARACTER WHAT YOU, THE WRITER, NEED THE AUDIENCE TO KNOW, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

DO *NOT* WRITE A CROCK OF SHIT. WRITE A RIPPING THREE, FOUR, SEVEN MINUTE SCENE WHICH MOVES THE STORY ALONG, AND YOU CAN, VERY SOON, BUY A HOUSE IN BEL AIR *AND* HIRE SOMEONE TO LIVE THERE FOR YOU.

REMEMBER YOU ARE WRITING FOR A VISUAL MEDIUM. *MOST* TELEVISION WRITING, OURS INCLUDED, SOUNDS LIKE *RADIO*. THE *CAMERA* CAN DO THE EXPLAINING FOR YOU. *LET* IT. WHAT ARE THE CHARACTERS *DOING* -*LITERALLY*. WHAT ARE THEY HANDLING, WHAT ARE THEY READING. WHAT ARE THEY WATCHING ON TELEVISION, WHAT ARE THEY *SEEING*.

IF YOU PRETEND THE CHARACTERS CANT SPEAK, AND WRITE A SILENT MOVIE, YOU WILL BE WRITING GREAT DRAMA.

IF YOU DEPRIVE YOURSELF OF THE CRUTCH OF NARRATION, EXPOSITION,INDEED, OF *SPEECH*. YOU WILL BE FORGED TO WORK IN A NEW MEDIUM – TELLING THE STORY IN PICTURES (ALSO KNOWN AS SCREENWRITING)

THIS IS A NEW SKILL. NO ONE DOES IT NATURALLY. YOU CAN TRAIN YOURSELVES TO DO IT, BUT YOU NEED TO *START*.

I CLOSE WITH THE ONE THOUGHT: LOOK AT THE *SCENE* AND ASK YOURSELF “IS IT DRAMATIC? IS IT *ESSENTIAL*? DOES IT ADVANCE THE PLOT?

ANSWER TRUTHFULLY.

IF THE ANSWER IS “NO” WRITE IT AGAIN OR THROW IT OUT. IF YOU’VE GOT ANY QUESTIONS, CALL ME UP.

LOVE, DAVE MAMET
SANTA MONICA 19 OCTO 05

(IT IS *NOT* YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO KNOW THE ANSWERS, BUT IT IS YOUR, AND MY, RESPONSIBILITY TO KNOW AND TO *ASK THE RIGHT Questions* OVER AND OVER. UNTIL IT BECOMES SECOND NATURE. I BELIEVE THEY ARE LISTED ABOVE.)

Carrie Fisher would be the first person to tell you that she’s not normal. She grew up as “Hollywood royalty,” the daughter of Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher. She rocketed to international fame at a young age when she was cast a Princess Leia in “Star Wars.” She grew addicted to drugs. She woke up one morning to find a dead man in her bed. The list goes on. But in “Wishful Drinking,” the memoir turned stage show turned HBO documentary premiering tonight, Fisher tells the sordid and hilarious tales of her life with such with and perspective, she’ll make you realize how overrated – and rare – normal really is. This summer, I talked with Fisher at the Television Critics Association summer press tour, where she charmed critics with her candor while promoting the HBO documentary. Here are some of the highlights from that visit: Q: When did you first realize that sharing your stories would both cathartic for you and entertaining for others? A: Well, maybe some of it was with Twelve Step. Gradually what I realized was when I got sober, overdosed, went to a mental hospital, all these things, it went in the paper. And my thing was, wait a second…. If it’s going to be out there, please let my version be in it. So it was sort of a bit like that. Also, you know, there is the saying, “You’re only as sick as your secrets.” So, you know, if you can claim it, it has very little power over you. I used to say, “I want to live on one side of the magnifying glass or the other. On the side that makes big things small, or small things big.” And I live on the side that makes big things small. You meet a better class of people there, and they’re also usually a little older. So I make big things small.”

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Very cool, an interview with Jeff Lowell on DoneDealPro.com:

Jeff Lowell grew up in Arizona and moved out to Los Angeles after college. His primary focus in the beginning was TV, so he knew he needed to get out there.

Jeff worked as a writer’s assistant for a couple of years, moved through a few agents, and finally got his break – a freelance episode of The George Carlin Show. The script was well received, and he was offered a staff job on the show.

Once he broke in, he jumped from show to show every year. After George Carlin, he worked on Drew Carey, Cybill, Spin City, Sports Night, Just Shoot Me and half a dozen other shows.

In features, Jeff started doing a lot of punch up, given his comedy background, but he has also sold spec scripts and done adaptations, rewrites and remakes. His credits include John Tucker Must Die, Hotel For Dogs and Over Her Dead Body, which he directed.

[click the above link to read the interview]