Lorne Michaels and the Machine Behind Saturday Night Live
How one man has shaped, steered, and sustained television’s most chaotic comedy institution for half a century.

Every week at Saturday Night Live begins the same way: a blur of nerves, caffeine, ideas, and late nights that somehow, miraculously, coalesce into a live show by Saturday night. It’s a formula that hasn’t changed in fifty years—hard work, last-minute rewrites, star hosts who often have no idea what they’re doing—and the man at the center of the storm is always Lorne Michaels.

Since 1975, Michaels has remained the constant force behind SNL’s ever-evolving cast and rotating guests. His job is equal parts producer, therapist, referee, and visionary. Whether wrangling egos backstage, soothing a nervous guest like Jennifer Lopez or Elon Musk, or figuring out whether a fart joke will play in Kansas, Michaels has mastered the art of controlled chaos.

He compares the show to a Snickers bar: audiences expect a precise mix of peanuts, caramel, and chocolate. “There’s a comfort level,” he says. But comfort doesn’t mean complacency. Even after five decades, Michaels continues to obsess over getting it right. “On my tombstone,” he jokes, “it’ll just say: ‘Uneven.’”

The Weekly Ritual

The creative cycle kicks off every Monday at 6 p.m. on the 17th floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Michaels’s Art Deco office. It’s part writers’ room, part ceremony. Tina Fey has likened it to church. Cast members, writers, and that week’s host cram in—sitting on couches, folding chairs, the floor, even near Lorne’s private bathroom—to pitch sketch ideas. The purpose? Not really to get sketches on air. It’s to welcome the host, build camaraderie, and set the week’s tone.

By Tuesday night, the serious writing begins. After a dinner with the host, writers pull all-nighters crafting sketches. In the ’70s, this process involved booze and drugs. Today, it’s fueled by fatigue and caffeine. “Fatigue is your friend,” Michaels says. “It wears down the inner critic.”

Wednesday brings the table read, where all potential sketches are performed for the first time. Michaels reads stage directions but offers little reaction. He might stay stone-faced for hours or suddenly erupt into a big, genuine laugh. Either way, this is when the strongest pieces start to emerge.

Then comes “picking the show”—a private meeting where Michaels and his inner circle choose which sketches make it to air. Humor isn’t the only factor. Will the host be happy? Are the sketches balanced across the cast? Is the show too reliant on poop jokes or bad accents? “You’re trying to find enough colors to make a rainbow,” Michaels says.

Building the Beast

By Thursday, the set builders are hard at work, transforming Studio 8H into apartments, nightclubs, or outer space—whatever the show demands. Meanwhile, writers double as producers, overseeing costumes, music, and direction for their sketches. This unique system trains writers to be future showrunners. “For five minutes, NBC is yours,” says John Mulaney, a former SNL writer.

But by Friday, Michaels often says what he’s said for years: “We have nothing.” He’ll stare at a bulletin board lined with index cards—each one a sketch or segment—and worry aloud that the show won’t come together. If desperation peaks, he’ll ask if anyone’s hoarding good material for a future host. “Sometimes you have to burn the furniture,” he warns.

Saturday afternoon is the first full run-through, often too long and riddled with errors. Sketches get cut. Hosts sometimes panic. Donald Trump once refused to wear a tree costume because he thought it made him look fat. But Michaels embraces the chaos. “Snap decisions get you into trouble,” he says. “I prefer rolling decisions.”

The dress rehearsal at 8 p.m. is the first test before a live audience. Michaels sits under the bleachers with a notebook and assistant. He tweaks, slashes, rewrites, and reshuffles. Between the dress and the live show, he enters his most focused state. “It’s like knifepoint,” he says. The comedy isn’t perfect. It never is. But it’s live. And it’s ready.

The Enigma in the Captain’s Chair

Michaels rules SNL like a distant monarch, wielding absolute authority with disarming detachment. His office features a sign that reads: “The Captain’s Word Is Law”—a joke that’s not really a joke. He lets others squabble, then returns from dinner at Orso to deliver final judgments.

“He’s either running a managerial philosophy or a lifestyle brand,” says Robert Carlock, who later co-created 30 Rock. Michaels rarely gives away his hand, yet somehow knows everything. Writers and cast members have compared him to Yoda, Oz, Charles Foster Kane, and even Tom Ripley. “There are people who’ve spent their whole careers trying to figure him out,” says Bill Hader.

Michaels came to producing through trial and error. Born Lorne Lipowitz in Toronto, he began as a performer, then a writer. He and comedy partner Hart Pomerantz had a brief run in Canadian radio before being fired. A failed meeting with Woody Allen turned into a lasting respect—Michaels sent him a “bright joke,” a sign of the sharp, cerebral humor he always aimed for.

The SNL formula, he’s always insisted, may look automatic—but it took years to build. Cue cards are still handwritten. Teleprompters are banned. The chaos is ritualized. “The problem with making it look easy,” Michaels says, “is that people think it is.”

The Legacy

What started as an edgy, underground comedy show is now an institution, a rite of passage, a launchpad. It’s a strange legacy for a man so famously private. But the show, in its highs and lows, reflects him—his tastes, his rhythms, his perfectionism.

Every host, every writer, every cast member has their own Lorne story. Jon Hamm recalls watching Michaels in awe as he chose live sketch over pre-taped bits to enhance audience energy. It wasn’t about what was easier—it was about what felt more alive.

Ultimately, Michaels is a producer in the purest sense. Not a joke writer. Not a performer. A curator of moments. A judge of timing. A creator of spectacle.

His power doesn’t come from controlling every word, but from knowing what will make the whole thing sing—or crash. And knowing that even if it crashes, there’s always next week.