Aaron Sorkin: A Writer I Love to Hate

Logically, I should love Aaron Sorkin’s writing. He’s smart – whip-smart. He’s witty, and he’s willing to take on big issues. His heart seems to be in the right place. Then why does a lot of it make me cringe? Is he too smart for his own good, or ours?

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Both Sorkin’s strengths and weaknesses are on display with Being the Ricardos, a 2021 Prime Video film that he both wrote and directed. It’s a strange film, to say the least. It covers a fictionally incident-packed week in the life of Desi Arnaz (Javier Bardem, who is fantastic) and Lucille Ball (Nicole Kidman). Rumors are flying that Ball might be a Communist (a major, career-killing no-no in the early 1950s), threatening the recent runaway success of I Love Lucy.

Also, Ball is pregnant, and she and Arnaz want to write the pregnancy into the show, despite everyone around them saying the all-powerful sponsor (Philip Morris) and TV network will never allow such a thing to be mentioned, let alone shown to the public. (The script is full of straw men who we, with the advantage of hindsight, know were dead wrong about everything.)

Ball is also upset about a tabloid story detailing a wild night on the town by Arnaz, complete with booze and broads, that he claims is false. Ball, who has been through her doubts about Arnaz’s fidelity throughout their marriage, now is dealing with the new level of fame that TV has provided. Her semi-private issues have become national news.

Oh, yes, there are also long-simmering tensions between Ball and second banana Vivian Vance (Nina Arianda), over the unspoken demand that Ethel remain, if still attractive, dumpier and less of a “dish” (in the phrase of the day) than Lucy. There’s a story, probably apocryphal, of there being an actual “contract” demanding that Vance stay 10 pounds heavier than Ball – and at least Sorkin doesn’t stoop to that. He does, however, have one of the show’s writers bring Vance a calorie-laden breakfast, even as Vance is exulting over the weight she’s lost (and would like to keep off). That’s Sorkin being subtle.

Vance also has to deal with the gruff needling of William Frawley (J.K. Simmons), who seems to enjoy ruffling her feathers between drinks. Oh, and the writers (Alia Shawkat as Madelyn Pugh and Jake Lacy as Bob Carroll) are constantly sniping at each other, claiming credit for who wrote the funnier lines in the script. Producer Jess Oppenheimer (professional sad sack Tony Hale) feels underappreciated and shunted aside, particularly because Arnaz wants an Executive Producer credit on the show.

That’s one of the problems with Sorkin when he’s bad; you can almost see him checking the boxes of all the socially significant things he’s saying:

• Communist Witch Hunts are Bad!
• Women Being Judged on Their Appearance is Bad!
• The “Suits” underestimate Desi because he talks with a funny accent (racists!)
• They underestimate and belittle Lucille because she’s a woman (sexists!)

You get the picture.

Sorkin Knows Show Business

Bardem, who seems to be the only actor enjoying himself, does a great job capturing Arnaz’s charisma, ambition and savvy. In fact, the real-world Arnaz actually deserved a lot of credit for I Love Lucy’s success – he essentially invented the three-camera sitcom and the performing space that allowed the live audience to see what was going on as it was being filmed.

Nor was Ball just a pretty face: she demanded that Arnaz be her co-star, again over the lily-white objections of the money men, and flashbacks show how she persevered through a long climb up the ladder (she’d been in movies since the 1930s, moving from chorus girl to supporting player; she’s marvelous among the many bewitching females in Stage Door, who include Eve Arden, Katharine Hepburn and Ginger Rogers).

After years, she got a lead in a major movie – The Big Street, a sentimental and popular concoction from Damon Runyon co-starring Henry Fonda — but just when she thought she’d finally be a capital-S star, she is promptly dropped by the studio, RKO.

That’s one of the things Sorkin does best in this film: show what’s involved in building and sustaining a career. Notice I said “show.” Mostly Sorkin “tells,” making his points with dialogue, stating and restating his themes so even the dullest kid in class can understand.

Lucy Drops an F-Bomb?

Sorkin can write relatively naturalistic dialogue when he wants to, but he doesn’t want to very often. He’s best-known for his walk-and-talks: two characters striding down a hallway exchanging words that have been sharpened to a stiletto tip. It’s dialogue as dueling, delivered at speeds designed to make you impressed with the actor’s dexterity and the writer’s cleverness.

OK, that’s a style, and if Sorkin trots out his favorite trick pony a few too many times, who can blame him? You want to play to your strengths. The problem is that this approach means everyone speaks as if their subtexts are text and as if they have no social filters.

Example: a scene discussing how far along Ball’s pregnancy has progressed, so that the writers can write around her pregnancy (their choice) or write it into the story (Ball and Arnaz’s choice). In a room full of sponsors and network executives seeking information about how far along the pregnancy is, here’s the dialogue:

ARNAZ: She’s 12 weeks pregnant.

EXEC: That means…?

BALL: 12 weeks ago my husband fucked me.

Excuse me, but even behind closed doors, I don’t think a woman of that time – even one as powerful as Ball – would use the f-word in this way and in this situation. It’s just not credible. Of course, I wasn’t there, but neither was Sorkin. He’s using this dialogue for shock value, no matter that it’s ridiculous in this context, and it’s yet another way his writing takes us out of the moment rather than building the scene.

Sorkin also uses dialogue to stay on topic, even when the emotional logic doesn’t support it. At the film’s resolution, Arnaz has successfully defended Ball as a true-blue American and not a sneaky Commie, proving that he (and the audience) love Lucy.

Right after this, and before the show taping actually begins, the couple are exulting. She’s been shedding tears of gratitude. They stand close together in her dressing room. Here’s the dialogue:

ARNAZ: They love you.

BALL: I love you.

ARNAZ: No one’s gonna mess with you ever, Lucy.

BALL: I thought they were gonna boo!

ARNAZ: Nah. You wanna do a show?

BALL: (without skipping a beat) Have you been cheating on me?

I think Arnaz speaks for us all, because his next line is: “What?”

This is not credible dialogue. This is the writer intrusively reminding us, in no uncertain terms, that even in their moment of victory, the couple are still troubled, even though they’re no longer in trouble. This is the essay writer returning to the thesis statement in the concluding paragraphs.

Of course, Arnaz has been cheating on her and will continue to do so. He’s a macho guy from Cuba, and he probably doesn’t see any contradiction in loving and admiring his wife and her talents while also grabbing a piece of ass when it’s so readily available.

I saw a video interview with their daughter Lucie Arnaz, and she is very clear-eyed about the whole thing. I’m paraphrasing here: “People say he had affairs. They were hookers! He didn’t even know their names!”

Also, why Nicole Kidman as Ball? She is an amazing actress but she’s also, how do I put this, not funny. Even when she’s re-creating classic I Love Lucy scenes, like Lucy stomping grapes and getting into a knock-down fight with an Italian peasant woman, these are just reminders: oh yeah, that was funny – when Lucy did it. Sorkin’s direction didn’t do Kidman any favors; in either her Ball or Lucy characters, she’s always Nicole Kidman, beautiful and emotionally distant.

The real Ball was not Lucy, who never seems to learn that her hare-brained schemes will never teach Ricky a lesson or get her into the show at the Tropicana. Lucy is a comic creation but she’s also admirable in a way; like Ball, she perseveres. You get that: Ball and Arnaz had both waited a long time for their success, and they were going to ride it as far and as long as they possibly could. Sorkin captures that nicely, in between making the points that will win him the essay contest.

How Not to Adapt a Classic Musical

Sometimes he’s just plain wrongheaded. Sorkin owes me the price of a ticket to the revival of Camelot that played at Lincoln Center a few seasons ago. He adapted the book in a way that systematically sucked the wonder and mythic resonance out of an admittedly flawed musical. I say “flawed” because I strongly suspect that Camelot’s outsized reputation is based more on the effortless regality of its original stars, Richard Burton and Julie Andrews, and its being anointed as the model for the Kennedy White House by Jackie following JFK’s assassination.

Sorkin ruined this Camelot by taking away all the magic elements. Merlin was no longer a wizard but a sage old advisor. Morgan Le Fay, the wicked enchantress, was de-magicked into a scientist (huh?). Lancelot doesn’t raise a knight from the dead with the intensity of his piety; he just kind of recovers (I guess he was just “mostly dead.”)

Sorkin was abetted in this crime by costuming that made the Knights of the Table Round look like jackbooted fascists. Mordred, the literal and figurative bastard son of Arthur who cracks the love triangle and brings on the final tragedy, looked like a teen goth wannabe. Also, director Bartlett Sher staged so many of the book’s soliloquies as walk-and-talks – Sorkin’s specialty – that the actors started to look like people desperately trying to get their 10,000 daily steps in lest their Fitbits scold them.

And while Camelot has traditionally been set in some far-distant mythic past, Sorkin clumsily tried to hook it to an actual historic era (again, magic is verboten). Everything must be explained, but the clumsy attempts to fix the action at a specific time were confusing and confounding. I’ve rarely seen such a mismatch between a musical’s book and its rich, emotion-laden score by Alan Jay Lerner and Fritz Loewe.

I think Sorkin was trying to make Camelot more “realistic,” and therefore more relatable to a modern audience. He is a rational guy. He, like the Tom Cruise character in A Few Good Men,wants the Truth.

Well, I always thought the Truth of Camelot was that even in a world suffused with magic, Arthur’s dream of a more just society fails due to everyone’s all-too-human frailty. The musical then becomes its own delivery system, memorializing the “one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.”

Credit Where it’s Due

Well, everyone has their off days, and of course Sorkin has many strong points as a writer. At its best, his rapid-fire dialogue both carries plots forward and reveals character. Like George Bernard Shaw, Sorkin is smart enough to take both sides of any argument. Of course, watching his shows, you may wonder why everyone was so smart and, often, such a smart-ass.

Nobody does a set piece like Sorkin. I didn’t watch The West Wing but I’m aware of the basic storylines, and I love the clip of President Bartlet (Martin Sheen) eviscerating a prissy bitch who has been quoting Leviticus to excuse her anti-gay bigotry. As some critics said at the time, The West Wing was a fantasy for liberals, with Bartlett as a non-adulterous version of Bill Clinton.

Despite all his considerable skills, Sorkin can also seem incredibly naive. In The Newsroom, another of his workplace dramedies (Sports Night, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip), a group of dedicated, insanely smart people work to put on a TV news program. They argue passionately for what they believe in, which is that the American people will do the right thing if only they have all the facts. Cute idea, but as we’ve discovered, totally false.

Aaron Sorkin looks at the world and thinks, “If everyone thought like me, and knew all I knew, I know they’d be on the side of good and truth and light and justice.” I often think that way myself, but I know it’s wishful thinking. I’m not sure he does.