Remembering Andre Braugher and Norman Lear: “Together They Could’ve Created a Hell of a Sitcom”

It’s rare that you get to work with legends. Rarer still that they live up to the title. So how lucky am I to have worked with two such people? I’ve been thinking a lot about Norman Lear and Andre Braugher since their sudden passing, and the qualities they shared that made them both legends to me.

It wasn’t just their talent, which to be clear, they had mountains of. It’s that while they certainly appreciated the many deserved accolades that came their way, what they truly loved about show business was the work itself. The writing, the acting, their craft. Fame was just the thing that came with it. And if you were lucky enough to work with Norman or Andre, they also validated your love for the craft. It’s a virtuous circle that I can best express as “making your show business dreams come true.”

What I loved about Andre, is how Andre loved the words.

He prepared for a day of shooting like it was a play. His goal was to honor your script, not change it. In fact if you, as the showrunner, tried to alter a line while shooting, he would sometimes resist, which is the opposite situation you’re used to, in an industry where famous actors can be known to treat the script like a series of suggestions. During production on Men of a Certain Age, he would respond to a line change request from Ray Romano or I with a joke that was not actually a joke: “I revere the author.” And we would have to be like, thank you, but we’re the authors, and please let us fix that line for you, because it stinks.

Norman also loved the words — of course. He was responsible for so many of them! Entire generations grew up on TV writing that was by, or supervised by, Norman Lear. And from his many decades in the business, he developed a deep, intimate knowledge of the stage play aspect of the sitcom. Boy, did he love it when a script was really clicking. I think his favorite thing was the table read — it gave him such joy to see the words come to life. The best part for me was that he was not shy about giving praise. After a good One Day at a Time read, my co-creator Gloria Calderón Kellett and I felt like kings, because Norman Lear had liked what we did. He didn’t have to be running the show, he just loved the work.

Andre and Norman also shared a mastery of process — the kind of detail work that you might not notice at first, but that later you’d realize was important. One of my fondest Andre memories was during the shooting of the last episode of Men of a Certain Age. (We didn’t know it was going to be the last, but c’est la vie.) He had a long scene with Richard Gant, who played his father, and in between takes, Andre would get up and walk around the perimeter of the set, singing to himself. He has a beautiful voice, so it was nice for everybody.

But it was such an interesting routine to observe, this small part of his process. In basketball they talk about “moving without the ball” — how your effectiveness on the court isn’t just when you’re passing or shooting, it’s quickly getting yourself in a position to make a play. That’s what Andre was doing. Instead of small talk, or looking at his phone, he was getting in the right mental zone to do the next take. Just a craftsman, doing the little things in between the big things. Moving without the ball.

Norman Lear never stopped loving the process. He’d warmed up the crowds for his shows during his heyday, and at 95 years old, he did the same for us on One Day at a Time. It was important to him, because he believed so strongly in the power of the audience, and the importance of earning those indelible, classic moments that elevate a sitcom to greatness. He would always rhapsodize about “watching a couple of hundred people come together as one, when something makes them laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more spiritual experience.” He knew what made the work good, and like Andre, he was always thinking about it.

And boy could both of them deliver a monologue.

If you were lucky enough to write for Andre Braugher, you got to unlock the best cheat code in scriptwriting: Give him a speech. In fact, you had to learn to use it sparingly, because he could perform your words so powerfully, it would be like a drug. One time we wrote a rousing address for his character, car dealership owner Owen Thoreau, to inspire his sales reps. The twist was that at the end of it, they would all stare, stone-faced, because they had been fighting amongst themselves. But then, Andre starts the speech, carefully building momentum until he reaches an absolutely glorious crescendo, and we’re all gathered around the monitor wondering if we should all burst into applause and maybe get into car sales? Maintaining those stony faces was the best acting those sales reps ever did.

Norman delivered big speeches too — some of the most classic monologues in the history of television. One renowned episode of Maude is simply 25 straight minutes of her talking to her therapist, who is offscreen. Norman and his co-writer Jay Folb transformed a cherished memory from Norman’s childhood — a rare moment when his emotionally unavailable father displayed love for him — into Maude’s memory that becomes her breakthrough moment in therapy. Delivered beautifully by Bea Arthur, she’s in tears, and the audience is in tears. A brilliant and deeply affecting expression of love, written by the best in the business.

I already miss both Norman and Andre so much. I was stunned by their passing: Norman because it seemed like he would always be here with us, and Andre because it seemed like we had much more time left with him. Either way, the world was a better place with their art, and them, in it. They both knew the power of words — one through writing and the other through acting. Together they could have created a hell of a sitcom. Or anything else they wanted to do.

Mike Royce is a veteran comedy writer whose credits include Everybody Loves Raymond, creating Men of a Certain Age and co-showrunning Netflix’s One Day at a Time update.