It was a disaster. Honestly, looking back at October 11, 1975, there is no logical reason why Saturday Night Live should have ever made it to the screen. You’ve got a 30-year-old Lorne Michaels pacing the halls of Studio 8H, a cast of "Not Ready for Prime Time Players" who were mostly high or ego-tripping, and a network executive, Dick Ebersol, who was basically holding a metaphorical gun to everyone's head. Jason Reitman’s Saturday Night captures this specific brand of lightning in a bottle. It isn't just a biopic; it’s a high-anxiety countdown that feels more like a war movie than a comedy history lesson.
The film covers the ninety minutes leading up to the first-ever broadcast. If you’re a fan of the show, you know the lore. But seeing it play out—even a dramatized version—reminds you how close the world came to never knowing who Bill Murray or Gilda Radner were. It was chaotic. Pure, unadulterated chaos.
Why the Chaos in Saturday Night Feels So Real
Reitman didn’t just guess what happened. He and co-writer Gil Kenan interviewed every living person who was in that building that night. We’re talking about the PAs, the writers, the legendary Rosie Shuster, and the technical crew who thought the show was a joke. The movie moves fast. Like, really fast. The camera weaves through the cramped hallways of 30 Rock, capturing the frantic energy of a production that was literally falling apart as the clock ticked toward 11:30 PM.
One of the most striking things about Saturday Night is how it handles the ensemble. Gabriel LaBelle plays Lorne Michaels not as the untouchable titan we know today, but as a guy who is genuinely terrified he’s about to ruin his career before it starts. He’s surrounded by personalities that are, frankly, exhausting. You’ve got John Belushi (played by Matt Wood) refusing to sign his contract because he thinks TV is beneath him. You have Chevy Chase (Cory Michael Smith) already acting like he’s the biggest star in the world, which, to be fair, he was about to be.
It’s easy to forget that NBC didn't want this. They wanted a "Best of Carson" rerun. The "suits" were waiting for Lorne to fail so they could go back to their safe, predictable programming. The film leans heavily into this tension. Every time a light fixture falls or a sketch runs five minutes too long, you feel the weight of the corporate axe swinging closer.
The Cast That Built an Empire
Let's talk about the casting for a second because it's eerie. Cooper Hoffman as Dick Ebersol captures that weird mix of corporate ambition and genuine belief in the counter-culture. But the standout might be Dylan O'Brien as Dan Aykroyd. He nails that fast-talking, slightly obsessive-compulsive energy that Aykroyd brought to the early days of the show.
- Gilda Radner (Ella Hunt): She’s the heart of the chaos. While everyone else is fighting, she’s the one reminding them why they’re actually there—to be funny.
- Garrett Morris (Lamorne Morris): The film doesn't shy away from the awkwardness of Morris being the only Black cast member in a room full of white improvisers. His "I'm a classically trained actor, why am I doing this?" vibe is palpable.
- Jane Curtin (Kim Matula): Often called the "Sexton" of the group, her groundedness provides a necessary foil to the insanity.
The movie also highlights the friction between the writers and the performers. Michael O’Donoghue, played with a sharp, nihilistic edge by Tommy Dewey, represents the dangerous comedy that the 1970s was craving. He wanted to shock. He wanted to offend. And in 1975, that was a revolutionary act on network television.
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The Technical Nightmare of 8H
Most movies about TV shows focus on the jokes. Saturday Night focuses on the cables. The sheer physical difficulty of putting on a live variety show in a studio that wasn't equipped for it is a major plot point. The crew was used to The Tonight Show. They wanted cues, scripts, and rehearsals. What they got was Jim Henson’s Muppets (who the writers hated, by the way) and a bunch of kids from Second City who didn't care about "marks."
There’s a scene involving the brick floor that feels like a metaphor for the whole production. They’re literally building the set while the audience is walking in. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s human.
What Saturday Night Gets Right About Lorne Michaels
Lorne Michaels is often portrayed as this sphinx-like figure, a kingmaker who decides who becomes a superstar with a single nod. But in 1975? He was a kid. A Canadian kid with a vision that nobody else understood. He wasn't just fighting the network; he was fighting his own cast.
The film captures his relationship with Rosie Shuster (Rachel Sennott) beautifully. She was his wife at the time, but also a brilliant writer and the glue that held the social fabric of the show together. Without her, the "Not Ready for Prime Time Players" probably would have killed each other before the first commercial break. Saturday Night gives her the credit she deserves, showing her as the person who could speak "Belushi" and "Lorne" simultaneously.
The Legacy of That One Night
We know how the story ends. The show starts. Billy Preston sings. George Carlin does his monologue (while incredibly high, as the film suggests). It becomes a cultural phenomenon. But the movie isn't about the success. It's about the fear of failure.
It reminds us that great things usually start in a state of total panic. There was no blueprint for SNL. There was no guarantee that people would stay up late to watch a bunch of weirdos do sketch comedy. The film highlights the gamble. It was a $1 million gamble that changed the face of American comedy forever.
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If you look at the landscape of entertainment now, everything is so polished. Everything is focus-grouped to death. Saturday Night is a love letter to the unpolished. It’s about the beauty of a "train wreck" that somehow stays on the tracks.
How to Experience the Saturday Night History Yourself
If the movie sparks a deep dive into the 1970s comedy scene, don’t just stop at the credits. There are ways to actually see the DNA of what Reitman put on screen.
Watch the actual first episode. It’s available on Peacock. It’s weird. It’s slower than you think it will be. But you can see the moments Reitman recreated—the "Wolverines" sketch, the tension in the room, the raw energy of performers who had nothing to lose.
Read "Live From New York" by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller. This is the definitive oral history of the show. It’s where most of the anecdotes in the movie come from. It’s a massive book, but it reads like a gossip column. You’ll get the unfiltered truth about the drugs, the hookups, and the sheer brilliance of those early years.
Visit 30 Rockefeller Plaza. If you’re ever in New York, take the NBC studio tour. Standing in 8H is a trip. You realize how small the space actually is. When you see the film and realize they had a full band, sets, and a live audience in that tiny room, your respect for the technical crew will skyrocket.
Check out the early work of the cast. Watch The National Lampoon Radio Hour or The Second City archives. Seeing where these people came from makes the "miracle" of the first episode even more impressive. They weren't TV stars; they were counter-culture rebels who hijacked a network for 90 minutes.
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The reality is that Saturday Night isn't just a movie for comedy nerds. It's a movie for anyone who has ever tried to build something when everyone told them it was a bad idea. It’s about the power of saying "yes" to the chaos.
Go watch the film, then go back and watch the original 1975 broadcast. You’ll see the seams. You’ll see the sweat. And you’ll realize that the best television happens when no one quite knows what they’re doing, but they’re doing it anyway. That’s the real magic of what happened on that October night. It wasn't perfect. It was live.
To truly understand the impact of the film, look for the subtle nods to the future of the show—like the fleeting mentions of a young writer named Al Franken or the background chaos of the legendary "Land Shark" being prepped. These details aren't just Easter eggs; they are the foundation of a 50-year legacy that started with a single, terrified "Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!"
Take a moment to appreciate the technical craft of the film too. The 16mm grain gives it a documentary feel that grounds the heightened drama. It feels like you found a lost reel of film in the NBC archives. That's intentional. It’s meant to strip away the "legend" status of these people and show them as the scrappy, desperate, and brilliant kids they actually were.
The next time you turn on a late-night show, remember the bricks, the Muppets, and the guy who refused to sign his contract. Everything we see on TV today owes a debt to those ninety minutes of pure, unadulterated panic.
Get your tickets for the film, find a copy of the Shales book, and start your own deep dive into the history of the show. You won’t regret it. The story of Saturday Night is the story of how modern comedy was born—crying, screaming, and completely unprepared for what was coming next.