Martini Shot

Rob Long talks about Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” — written as a graceful goodbye to Porter Wagoner when she left his show to go solo — as a way into the real question: how did Dolly stay beloved across a divided culture? He tracks the WNYC/Radiolab podcast Dolly Parton’s America, in which earnest public-radio producers keep trying to claim her as a feminist, a lesbian icon, an anti-Trump ally — and Dolly keeps politely declining every label. Her secret, Long argues, isn’t ideology but her small-C Christianity: she reconciled with and financially rescued the man who once sued her, she wrote emotionally true and honest songs, she loved the stranger.

Rob Long reflects on Hollywood's gentle ways of ending careers and the language that softens firings. He recounts stories of an agent-client firing standoff, a showrunner removed from his own family series, and a writer who left his assistant blindsided. He also examines studio non-renewals framed as newfound freedom and urges creators to expand platforms.

A story about a woman on testosterone cream sparks a conversation about confidence, unexpected facial hair, and subway swagger. A baffling sitcom pitch and executives' blank stares get replayed. Discussion turns to why writers dilute strange ideas and a decision to stop sanitizing originality. Collaboration on a risky grief-group script and news about the podcast's future are revealed.

Jerry Lewis once blessed a nightclub audience by wishing them a life full of show business friends. Rob Long isn’t so sure that’s a blessing — show business friendship is a strange, contingent thing, built on projects that assemble and dissolve, sofas shared for a month, congratulatory phone calls that get read as job applications. This week: an awkward call to a not-quite-friend about her pilot, a rich old acquaintance unsettled by seminary news and a British actor stuck in contract purgatory at a long-ago dinner party who turned out fine. A theory of friendship, tested against thirty years of overlapping crews.

Rob Long is in Tbilisi, a city he last saw 26 years ago when it was broke and hopeful and is now prosperous and — inconveniently — cozy with Vladimir Putin. Turns out streaming had the same trajectory: total freedom, total data and somehow the timidest programming decisions in television history. Rob has notes for Netflix executives: bring back the 22-episode season — nobody wants a six-year relationship with your drama. Then his godson Jackson shows him the real numbers — how many viewers abandon his Instagram Reels by the one-second mark — and Rob realizes he’s become exactly the kind of storyteller he just finished lecturing.

The summer box office is having its best season since before the pandemic — and the first real hits weren’t the franchise machines, they were two cheap horror movies made by guys who started on YouTube. Naturally, the industry is busy reading the wrong signs: mine Reddit, buy a graphic novel, staff up a division. Rob Long has seen this con before — he knows a successful project that was a script disguised as a self-published graphic novel with a fan base of five. The right sign is simpler, and it comes by way of a high school basketball coach and a friend who survived a stroke: We didn’t lose the ability to make a fun summer movie. We lost the feeling. And the feeling is the part worth getting back.

Rob Long was 24 years old when he met James Burrows, one of the creators and executive producers of Cheers, where he had just been hired as a staff writer on a 10 week contract. It didn't take 10 weeks for him to realize just how brilliant Burrows was. The Will & Grace and Friends director knew how to tell if material worked even if it didn’t do much at the runthrough. He knew when a line was funnier when they threw it away, and he knew when a scene needed to be tossed and re-written. Rob still remembers the day he met Burrows — and the six words that stuck with him all these years later.

Rob Long’s friend has a near-perfect system for staying in touch: a text every five weeks to the day, the wording on rotation, the calls auto-booked — friendship by tickler file, a little bit human and a lot robot. Naturally, Rob sets out to sabotage it. But AI in Hollywood is a much different, nuanced debate. From screenwriting manuals to the algorithmic clockwork of Law & Order, Rob believes that the one thing the machines can’t do is make a really interesting, unexpected mess. So we should.

A tour through two thrillers set in the same city decades apart, comparing rooftop chases and shared plot beats. A look at how films reflect their eras, from faith in psychiatry to a punitive mood. An argument that calling movies 'dated' misses their value as cultural time capsules. A plea to keep stories trusting and never boring as creators age.

Rob Long is watching a Satyajit Ray film on Criterion while eating ice cream and staring at his phone — which means he is, essentially, just eating ice cream. Rob is a pro at keeping his head down. Writers do it at auditions, following along with their own words instead of watching what actors are doing to them. Which turns out to be expensive, because the two actors who read “You’ve heard of me” as completely opposite character choices taught the writers something their script didn’t know yet. Heads down feels productive. Heads up is where the show actually lives.