— You received a serious university education, finished school early, and did not plan to become an actor?
— Yes, I loved studying and was good at it, but I grasped things too quickly and began to get bored. Southern Illinois University, where I earned my degree, was in a quiet, remote place. Apart from the university campus, back then there was just one McDonald's and a single bar. The university had its own student radio station, and I started working there out of boredom. At first, I simply read university news and played records. Then I began telling funny stories. There weren't enough stories by other people, so I had to invent my own on the spot. That's how, over a couple of years, I learned to write and tell sketches.
— But when you're telling jokes on the radio, it's difficult to know whether the listener at the other end of the airwaves likes them, isn't it?
— That's the whole point! You have to sense with your sixth sense whether your invisible listener laughed! If they laughed, the joke worked. If not, you try again and again. As a result, I learned to sense the audience, to keep them in suspense when necessary and to let them relax when the time was right.
— And, as I understand it, you had your own hour on the radio, without producers, directors, or other bosses?
— An hour? I had the whole night from Thursday into Friday! And yes, nobody interfered with me. Mind you, nobody helped me either.
— What year did you finish studying and start working?
— I'm still a very, very long way from finishing my education (laughs). But I left the university, I think, in 1984... yes... with a bachelor's degree. They've now awarded me an honorary doctorate, which is great, because I didn't even have to do anything for it.
— Perhaps they meant that it was an honor for them to have such a great writer as one of their graduates?
— That's what's so strange: I don't consider myself a writer. I prefer to improvise my sketches and my roles. After university, I studied acting improvisation at the Players Workshop in Chicago. That was the most important and useful school I ever attended, not just professionally but in ordinary life as well.
— So that's why the aspiring lawyer Jimmy McGill improvises so easily in front of judges and clients?
— Of course! And just look how it helps him win cases and pull the wool over everyone's eyes!
— But you went on to work for many years as a television writer, creating sketches for various comedy shows. You actually wrote with pencil on paper. Isn't that real writing?
— But I wasn't writing for myself. My sketches on Saturday Night Live were performed by other actors. On The Ben Stiller Show, Ben Stiller performed them; on Late Night with Conan O'Brien, my jokes came from the mouths of O'Brien and his guests. This went on for eight years, during which I was allowed to appear onstage and perform one of my own sketches only a few times.
— As a creative person, working on television shows with a dozen producers and under constant supervision must have made you a little nervous?
— A little? It was absolutely unbearable. Whenever I could, I performed my own stand-up at comedy clubs. I'm certainly very grateful to Saturday Night Live, which gave me my ticket to Hollywood, but in reality, all those years I was striving for independence. I thought: once I've earned enough money, I'll make my own show.
— And you did. That was Mr. Show with Bob and David?
— Yes. And it turned out that working as a team is more effective after all. You need producers, editors, and assistants. But my partner David Cross and I decided to do everything ourselves. As a result, our show lasted only three years, while the huge Saturday Night Live machine has been running successfully for almost half a century. Feel the difference, as they say! So I learned my lesson. A show is a team effort. Unfortunately, I paid dearly for that lesson: I had put all my money into the show, and I lost it.
— Despite your success and six Emmy nominations, two of which you won, by 1998 you had no money and no work, and you had to start selling vintage furniture. How could that happen?
— I got married, we had two small children, and I had to support my family. There was very little film work: a few small parts and some voice work for animals in animated films. I had to find additional ways to earn money. When people sell their homes, they often don't want to take their old, tiresome furniture to the new place, even if it's good quality. So I helped them get rid of it. I'd advertise an estate sale, arrive at the house with a cash register, and people would come and buy the items they liked. Whatever was left, I'd take away and sell to workshops or at specialized auctions. I had to load massive antique tables, armchairs, huge old rugs, and bronze lamps myself.
— And people didn't recognize you when you came to their houses?
— They did. And it was hilarious to watch. You'd look at someone and see something flicker in their eyes: 'I've seen this guy somewhere.' Then you'd see: 'Aha, I remember where.' Then you'd realize: 'Oh, maybe he even remembers my last name.' And then—and this was the funniest part—you could read their final thought: 'No way! It can't be! That Bob, moving furniture? No, no! I must be imagining things!' Sometimes someone would say I looked like 'the guy from Mr. Show.' I'd respond with one of my own jokes, but in a dull, monotonous voice. The person would wave it away: 'No, that guy was clearly better. I must have mistaken you for someone else.' And we'd start loading the furniture.
— What was your company called?
— Why 'was'? It still exists. It's called Mister K. Other people work there now, mostly colleagues from show business who have also found themselves in financial trouble. That's Hollywood for you: it's hard to break in, but even harder to stay. Besides, for a creative person, it can be very useful to take your mind off your troubles, do physical work, give your brain a rest, understand the world around you, and appreciate its value.
— Does the name Mister K. mean something?
— It was my first stage name when I started performing stand-up in clubs.
— Vince Gilligan said in one of his interviews that you disliked the role of Saul Goodman so much that you didn't even want to audition. Is that true?
— The thing is, on the page Saul seemed rather soulless and dry. There are lawyers like that, you know. Written from life, as they say. I couldn't imagine myself playing such a dry character. It wasn't my kind of role at all. I might have looked right for the part, but my personality wasn't right for it. I went to the audition, but I didn't try particularly hard to impress anyone. I delivered Saul's lines as though I were performing in a comedy club: pulling faces, moving my eyebrows, gesturing, and improvising, of course. To my surprise, Vince liked the idea of making Saul a comic character. That's more interesting than simply a boring crook who lives in constant fear of being caught and losing everything in his next scam. Once we started working, the writers made Saul more human, more intelligent, and more subtle, step by step. And I became more and more involved. When, five years later, work on the series ended, I suddenly felt that my life was over. There was no point in being Odenkirk without Saul Goodman. It was genuine despair.
— But you had become so popular after the series! You could have been offered any role and performed stand-up not in clubs, but in stadiums!
— I could have. But I didn't want to. It's like being in love, you know. You need that one particular person. No one else. Just that one person on the whole planet. Without them, life is over.
— I imagine all the show's fans felt something similar about the characters they loved. They say Gilligan was even threatened that if he didn't bring Walter White back to life, he'd be kidnapped, locked in a basement, and forced to write.
— Yes, it really was a difficult situation for all of us. But Walter White was gone forever, and nothing could be done about that. Then one day it dawned on me: Saul could be an independent character in a drama of his own.
— How did you persuade Gilligan to hand over his character? After all, all the copyrights to Saul belonged to Gilligan and his company. I heard you tried to buy them?
— That's not true. Buy Saul? Even Rothschild wouldn't have enough money for that! Gilligan remains the executive producer and co-creator of Better Call Saul, and the rights belong to him and Peter Gould. But getting his agreement really wasn't easy. At first, he was hostile to even the slightest hint of continuing the series. He refused to talk. He slammed down the phone. But I began gradually sketching out a plot and writing dialogue. And eventually, I wore Vince down.
— The first four seasons, telling the story of the relationship between the McGill brothers, ended with the death of the older brother. It seemed as though you had originally planned to stop there. But now the fifth season has passed, and the sixth. Don't you intend to end the project?
— Never! Saul Goodman will die only over my dead body!
— An excellent creative plan!