So this is for Dutch television?

Interviewing the best interviewer in the world.

In 2015 we finally got the go-ahead for our film about Etgar Keret. I was shocked to learn that I wouldn’t be included in the process. As our producer explained to me, the screenwriter was traditionally separated from the actual making of the film. Especially with documentaries. I strongly disagreed and soon a new title was invented for me: assistant director/interviewer.

It felt like a suiting role. I had been conducting interviews with writers and other artists since I was 18 years old. In fact, that’s how I’d met Etgar in the first place.

Our first shooting period brought us to New York, where Etgar was going on a small book tour. It was the perfect opportunity to introduce him to the general public as a successful author, and to interview some of his famous friends. One of those friends was Ira Glass, creator of the legendary radio show and podcast This American Life.

At the time, podcasts were still quite rare, and Ira was sort of the face (the voice) of a new storytelling movement. He was one of my heroes. I loved the way he turned his slightly neurotic way of talking into a cultural phenomenon. He’s a brilliant storyteller and interviewer. I still show my writing students this famous video of his quote about the beginner’s gap between their artistic taste and their own capabilities.

The interview took place on the very first day of shooting. I remember sitting on the grass at Union Square Park, typing questions on my phone and even taking a little jetlag nap, all in preparation for the big moment that night.

We had found a typical New York pizza place where we could record the scene. Our cameraman was messing around with lights and extension cords that hung from the ceiling to create a beautiful shot. The owner had insisted on staying open, and since our crew only consisted of a cameraman and a sound operator, we agreed.

Etgar arrived first, beaming as always. Then Ira came in. He shook our hands, but he seemed reserved, sceptical even. When we told him that the location was partly inspired by the pizza place from the opening credits of the show Louie, he remarked: “Oh, but that place is around the corner. We could’ve just gone there.”

My heart sunk. Of course the great Ira Glass would never have said yes to us if it wasn’t for Etgar. He was just doing his friend a favor after a long day of work. As they sat down on both sides of the silvery plastic table to eat a slice of pizza, Ira asked with a notable hint of sarcasm: “So this is for Dutch television?” Our director, always more emotionally stable than me, just nodded with a smile. It really was.

I was seated at the side of the table, with the camera over my shoulder, invisible to the viewer. It was at that moment, in that sweaty pizza place where hungry customers were still walking in and out, with the cameraman an inch behind me, that I realized that I had never really done an on-camera interview before. I would not be able to fill any gaps with my own words afterwards, alone behind my computer. This was here and now. This was our only chance. Fuck.

Intuitively, we had thought of a scene where Etgar and Ira would just be chatting like friends, which they did in a marvelous way, being the two funny, smart and charming people that they are. But after about ten minutes I started to notice that Ira was doing what he does best: being the host. He was interviewing Etgar, as he’d done on his show and on stage many times before. So I decided to intervene.

I leaned in, coughed softly and said: “Ehm, guys?” It felt like I was breaking up a tennis match between two giants. The problem was that Etgar always talks so much that he’s impossible to interrupt, so I had to time my interference just as Ira was about to respond. I’ll never forget the look on Ira’s face as he slowly turned to face me. His eyes squinting behind his iconic glasses, he gave me a look that said, without a doubt: “How dare you, you little Dutch worm.” To make things worse, Etgar quipped: “I guarantee you that the question Ira was about to ask, is better than yours.”

I cleared my throat and politely explained that we wanted to hear more from Ira, since we’d hear plenty from Etgar during the rest of the film. We wanted them to talk about our main theme — truth vs lies — so I suggested the topic of fact checking, which This American Life had recently implemented after one of their news stories had turned out to be partly fabricated.

They obliged, but I could sense that Ira was still annoyed. Maybe it was the loss of control, but there was more to it. I asked some questions; they talked some more. At a certain point Ira asked bluntly: “So what is it that you guys are looking for here?”

I suddenly remembered Etgar’s close friend Gur Bentwich, the only other person to make a documentary about him, telling us about Ira’s partaking in his film. It was the last day of shooting, and Gur was feeling insecure about his material. Ira just asked a few questions, nodded understandingly and then did the scene. During the edit, Gur was baffled to find that Ira had given him the exact missing piece of his story. As a masterful storyteller and editor, Ira had just known what the film had needed.

So in that pizza place, by now drenched with my own sweat as well as the cameraman’s, I decided to stop fucking around, to stop trying to ‘delve deeper’ or ‘peel the layers’ as I would do with a written interview, and just say it. “Guys,” I said more strongly now, “can you please talk about the tension between Ira’s non-fiction work on the one hand, and Etgar’s pure fiction on the other?” Ira looked at me in silence, but there was no annoyance now.

All of a sudden things were flowing. Ira started to enjoy himself. He was making jokes, being playful, messing with Etgar a bit. This inspired Etgar in return. It turned into a passionate debate between friends, with both sides presenting great arguments. You could tell that they really loved each other. It was truly a moment of magic, which would later turn out be one of the high points of our film.

I was ecstatic afterwards, as you can tell by my left nipple.

After that, Ira was totally game. When we asked him to do a voice-over for one of the animation sequences in the film, he happily obliged, recording my summary of one of Etgar’s stories in the very same studio where he hosted This American Life. He sent us two options; both were perfect of course. He understood what we were aiming for.

Later, after we’d already won our International Emmy Award, Ira tweeted the most incredible recommendation for an upcoming screening of our film in New York.

It was by far the most fulfilling tweet I’d ever read. I should frame that tweet. Has anybody ever framed a tweet?

A lot has changed in the ten years since then. I’ve started wearing larger, more nipple obscuring t-shirts, for instance. I recently saw a picture of Etgar and Ira, on stage in New York again, looking happy as always. Both have become grey storytelling foxes. Ira is sporting an awesome beard now.

Sometimes I still get hunted by that squinting look Ira gave me. But I don’t view it as a look of condescention now. I see it as an encouragement. Stop babbling around man, that look says — get to the fucking point.

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This post was in English. I mostly write in Dutch, but since most of my film work and my recent stand-up has been in English, I try to mix it up. This was an example of a behind-the-scenes story I’ll do for paid subscribers, of course containing valuable lessons for aspiring writers and filmmakers. Or just stupid mistakes which noone will ever learn anything from. Either one of those. Thanks for reading, you can share this post or subscribe for the next one. Have a good day or evening or whatever you’re having!