No need to wait in line in Midtown Manhattan for a front-row seat at SNL — Jason Reitman’s Saturday Night drops you right into the coked-up whirlwind of the show’s October 11, 1975, debut. The film is more than just a nostalgic trip back to the chaotic birth of a comedy institution; it’s a study of the age-old clash between unruly creatives and their corporate overlords, all unfolding within the storied halls of Studio 8H at 30 Rockefeller Plaza while cultural shifts pulse through the bustling New York City streets below.
The movie effortlessly transports you to the 1970s, when television’s golden age was fading and a new generation — that was brought up on television but never truly saw itself on-screen — was rising to take its place. The opening scene flickers through a cathode-ray tube, as if you’re watching vintage SNL clips on your mom’s old TV. The attention to detail — from the haircuts to the line delivery — is impeccable. It feels less like a re-creation and more like you’re experiencing the raw talent that defined the show’s early days unfold in real time.
Saturday Night chronicles the tumultuous hours leading up to the show’s first airing. At its core is Lorne Michaels — creator, executive producer, and the driving force behind it all — portrayed with understated precision by Gabriel LaBelle. With NBC executives breathing down his neck, particularly David Tebet (Willem Dafoe), who’s ready to pull the plug at the eleventh hour, Michaels must wrangle a cast still grasping for the show’s identity.
Channeling Robert Altman’s flair for sprawling ensembles, Reitman introduces us to a motley crew of comedic powerhouses like John Belushi (Matt Wood), Garrett Morris (Lamorne Morris), Dan Aykroyd (Dylan O’Brien), Jim Henson (Nicholas Braun), and Chevy Chase (Cory Michael Smith). Michaels has the unenviable task of corralling a tempest of eccentric talent, each still trying to find their place in the fledgling show, while trying to satisfy both his creative ambitions and the corporate overlords who keep the lights on — all while juggling chaos, backstage drama, and last-minute crises as they’re about to go live.
The film revels in its portrayal of what would become the show’s iconic moments. We witness the birth of “Weekend Update,” Andy Kaufman’s unforgettable Mighty Mouse skit, and the Wolverine sketch that cemented Belushi’s anarchic genius. One of the movie’s standout moments comes when we’re introduced to Chase, who stumbles while running up to Michaels and quips, “Sorry, tripped over my penis” — that signature blend of cockiness and slapstick.
The casting is excellent across the board. Dafoe captures Tebet’s panache, the skepticism of the network suit a fitting counterpoint to the creative vision of Michaels, who, alongside SNL’s original writer Rosie Shuster (played by the talented Rachel Sennott), worked tirelessly to keep the show alive. More time with Dafoe’s character would have lent the film greater balance — akin to an Arthur Jensen moment from Network — especially since his concerns about the show’s viability weren’t entirely unfounded.
Then there’s the scene with J. K. Simmons as Milton Berle, the legendary comedian and Hollywood relic clinging to his crass bravado. In a backstage clash with Chase — both trying to flex their muscles in front of a young female cast member — the generational divide comes into sharp focus: While Chase’s humor is irreverent, Berle’s response is a literal power play, pulling out his, uh, manhood to assert dominance.
The exchange shatters every 20-something’s illusion that their generation invented transgressive humor. The old guard may not have flaunted it on TV, but their audacity ran just as deep — and was perhaps even more outrageous. The scene is a reminder to leave the stage with grace when your time is up — and for the next generation, to step onto it with a bit more humility.
While Saturday Night captures the spirit of its subject, its break-neck pacing — meant to echo the turbulence of the SNL set — quickly becomes overwhelming and detracts from the laughs. Paul Schrader described the film as “exhausting.” (Much like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the film leaves you wondering if the goal was to pull the audience into the same narcotic-fueled delirium as its characters.) And its documentary aesthetic — excessive pans and shaky camera work — seems unnecessary to capture the pandemonium of building something from nothing while the world is watching.
Saturday Night offers a captivating glimpse into the scrappy origins of a cultural phenomenon, embracing the tension, dysfunction, and brilliance that defined its formative years. It’s an ambitious ride. You may find yourself swept up in the mayhem — just be prepared to leave feeling a little dizzy.