Welcome back to 5AM StoryTalk’s podcast, a place to talk about stories in all their forms, the craft that goes into them, and the role that art plays in our lives. Today, I'm joined by screenwriter and author Hart Hanson who is probably best known as the creator of “Bones” — which ran for an astounding twelve seasons.
The best way to enjoy this free conversation is to click on the podcast play button right now and just listen to an unabridged version of it in all its incredibly intimate detail. If you prefer to read these chats, don’t worry, I’ve got you covered; scroll down to the article below, which has been trimmed for length and edited for clarity.
Hart and I are going to cover a lot in this conversation such as:
How he broke into Hollywood by pissing off David E. Kelly on his very first job, which has led to a reputation of being the guy who will quit if he’s not happy with the state of a project
His uncertainty if he is an artist or a craftsman given the career he’s pursued, which leads to an interesting existential debate about art
His concern that aiming for commercial success often involves compromises that may dilute artistic purity, but also how youth and/or privilege often sets people on career paths where artistic integrity can be protected
The difficult, even combative development of “Bones”, but also how the series managed to creatively thrive for twelve seasons as a result (there’s a lot to learn from this part of the conversation)
The transformative effect a recent trip to Antarctica had on him
The understanding he’s trying to find when he tells any story
A bonus episode, exclusive to 5AM StoryTalk’s bad-ass paid subscribers, is available here. If you’re not yet a paid subscriber, you’ll get to hear Hart and I discuss a seminal piece of art from his life — the pilot episode of “Northern Exposure” (1990-1995).
This was my first time meeting Hart Hanson, but I suspected from our first couple emails we were going to hit it off, and we most definitely did. I wish the audio could capture how often the two of us were fighting back laughter at all the film TV industry war stories we were swapping.
Hart has been a professional screenwriter for 35 years now, with his name showing up on almost 20 TV series including “North of 60”, “The Outer Limits”, “Stargate SG-1”, “Judging Amy”, and “Joan of Arcadia”. Fifteen years into his career, 2005 to be precise, he created “Bones”, which would go on to become the longest running drama in Fox Television's history.
Twelve. Fucking. Seasons. What a mind-boggling accomplishment!
If you've never caught it, “Bones” is a two-hander that pairs an FBI agent and a forensics anthropologist who, together, solve cold cases. The series’ inception was not a smooth process, as you'll hear, but out of the conflict a hit series was born that relied as much on procedural elements as the characters and comedy that drew Hart to it in the first place.
“Bones” was followed by “The Finder” (2012) and “Backstrom” (2014), which Hart also created, though we don't get a chance to talk about those. We don't get to talk enough about his two novels either, which I blame on the fact that Hart was so goddamn interesting. There just wasn't time. But you can find those books yourself to read at his website — The Driver (2017) and The Seminarian (2024).
There's so much to learn from Hart about surviving in the film TV industry, but we're also going to debate what the difference between an artist and craftsman is and spend some time reflecting on the profundity of the creative process after Hart's recent week long trip to Antarctica. That's the first part of the conversation, by the way. That's the part that's free for everyone who wants to join in. But about 45 minutes in, the paywall is going to jump up and remind you that I'm an artist myself with bills to pay, like the podcasting apps necessary to bring you this episode. At that point, Hart and I are going to dive into a seminal piece of art from his life together — specifically the TV pilot episode of “Northern Exposure”, an ensemble comedy drama 1990 to 1995.
Now without any further delay, let me introduce you to Hart Hanson…
COLE HADDON: Thank you for joining me, Hart. It's fantastic to finally meet you. I've heard so many amazing things about you from other people I know, friends, and people who've been part of this series, like “House” creator David Shore, who we were just talking about. So I'm just going to jump in with a big question. What was the last piece of art that you encountered that shattered you?
HART HANSON: I'm on the board of an organization called Humanitas, which is all about writers and recognizing writers. Another board member, his name was – he has died – his name was John Sacret Young. I knew him and I respected him hugely as the creator and showrunner of a show called “China Beach”, which was amazing and won a million Emmys and things. But because I knew him, I read a couple of his books. I was astounded by how good they were. They were both a bit of memoirs. One was called Remains Unviewable. It was about his cousin who fought in Vietnam and was killed there, and that's how his remains were classified by the army when they sent them back. So, it's a book about grief and his childhood friend. It's very elegiac, and John is tough on himself, and it blew me away. I couldn't believe how good this book was, it just blew me away.
The other one he did [was] called Pieces of Glass, and it was his writings around his substantial and impressive art collection. And once again, I thought, “How dare this man waste his life making television when he should have been writing these massively wonderful books!” During the time that I knew him, he developed a brain tumor and he was, it was a terminal brain tumor, and I was able to tell him, thank goodness. So, part of the emotion of it was I was able to tell him – without an ounce of Hollywood bullshit or smoke blowing up the ass – just how what a wonderful writer he was and thank him for these books.
What that has to do with art, I think, is that is what art is to me. It's something that touches you very, very deeply.
I do have a caveat on that, though, that I have argued with my friends about since I started thinking of myself as a writer. And that is, there's a division for me between arts and craft. And the division for me has something to do with [the question], “Who are you making this thing for?” And if you have an audience in mind, maybe you're not as pure an artist as someone who is making it for [themselves]. I mean, I know I've been having this argument for 30 years. What about Shakespeare? What about Dickens? I don't know. They made art for an audience, but it transcended. Maybe. I don't know. It's beyond my abilities as a person.
I'm the first one to slip around and say, “I don't think I'm an artist.”
I think I'm a fair craftsman and I'm building things with an audience in mind, and the audience is in mind every step of the way except for that one book that I alluded to earlier when I was talking to you [before our Q&A started]. I wrote one book for myself to write the best book that I could write, but I'm distraught that I haven't found a publisher for it. The things that I write for an audience do find a publisher and find, you know, an audience.
CH: Well, you managed to touch on my second question there. I was going to ask you, “What are people really saying when they call something entertainment rather than art?” But I think you've also tried to draw that distinction between, you know, crafts work and art. I have this debate with people all the time, too.
I don't see the difference because I create for myself, but I also keep in mind that somebody else is going to interact with it at some point. Hitchcock also did the same, something I constantly bring up to other filmmakers. And so, if the audience is there and we're having a conversation with them, why does that diminish the work in some way? Why is there a purity test?
HH: I think I'm thinking more of, “Oh, you're making this to be commercial,” because there's a difference between finding an audience and getting paid for what you do. And the minute you are aiming to get paid for what you do, you're already making decisions on less than purely artistic impetus, and that to me is just [a question of] how many of those shaves an artist makes. The filmmakers that we admire most are the ones who are most famous for saying, “I don't take notes. Don't give me notes,” or are so good that they are undeniable. They are confident in what they do and maybe don't second guess themselves as much as I do.
[For example], I did this show called “Bones”, and every year we had to decide whether to get the “will they/won't they” couple together. A big part of that decision was, “Will the audience like it?” And that's different from, “Well, I think as a writer, these two would get together at this point.” So, I think I feel like it's slightly less pure. I'm not sure if I'm arguing this well. By the way, I should be able to argue this brilliantly because I've had this argument with my friends since, you know, the ’80s, and all of whom holler at me that they are so artists and I should shut up. Because they're TV directors, or actors, or writers looking for an audience. They get irritated with – well, not very irritated because it's fun – but they get irritated that I'm suggesting that maybe they aren't pure artists.
CH: I always worry that it's something that culture has done to us or convinced us about what we do rather than acknowledging or accepting the fact that, to go to fine art, 500 years of patrons who made artists put their wives in a painting or their lovers. So many great artists have compromised, but we're unaware of that, and so today we just see something amazing and moving and sometimes entertaining that was created from compromises and selling out.
HH: But when you're asked, “How is this going to appeal to four quadrants?” it's not the same as the purity of the Mona Lisa's smile. I don't know, but it's hard to feel artistic sometimes under those conditions. Or maybe it's a sliding scale and artists work on a sliding scale of complete and utter whores to a complete and pure artists.
CH: I also spend a lot of time thinking about the privilege that often goes into creating pure art. Most of us have to pay bills. So, the people who succeeded probably came at it from a degree of privilege when they were younger. Even youth is a kind of privilege because the lack of other responsibilities. When you manage to succeed when young, and what you achieve is that sort of unquestionable success – you know, like Martin Scorsese. He was successful very young, and was able to keep making movies when they were cheap and hold on to that integrity, but if he had started when he was 45, if that's when he broke and he had a family…who would Martin Scorsese be today? Would we care about anything he did?
HH: Yeah, and would he be directing the Marvel universe movies?
CH: Yes.
HH: Those ’70s guys hit a sweet spot there for a while, being able to make a few-million-dollar films that made lots of money. People went to the movies, adults went to the movies. It was a different world and technology was different.
I have heard some say that the fact that a kid with a phone can now make a film if they want compensates for the lack of a market for $8 million films that we used to have – you know, the films we all loved growing up. Nobody was dressed as a bat or anything in them. And I don't know if that's true.
I'm still a guy who wants my books published by a publishing company. It's in my DNA. I want my TV shows underwritten by a studio and shown on a platform that I understand – there are fewer and fewer of those – but it's in my DNA for that.
I talked to a few of them, 16, 18-year-old young filmmakers who are out making films – not staying at home writing scripts like I did and then sending them to be approved by someone – but just making the whole film themselves. And I suspect that's the future, that instead of a script being a calling card, there's a short film or something. If I had to go do that right now, I'd have to go, as usual, to find help – whereas they don't.
CH: Have you seen Conclave yet?
HH: No, not yet. I've read the script.
CH: There's a line you might remember from the script about how every cardinal has already picked their pope name. That there is no such thing as a cardinal who doesn't want to be pope one day, and you can lie to yourself all you want, but look inside. I don't trust any artist who says that they just want to publish something themselves and don't care if people read it. It's your DNA, but I think it's all of ours. I just think people try to convince you they don't want people reading their books or it's not as important as writing the book, but you don't set out to spend two years of your life writing the great novel so your family and twelve people on Amazon can read your book. You want a readership, you want to move people, you want that reaction in some way.
HH: I think what I want is the approbation of a professional, of the editor who's proven him or herself and a publisher who has proven him or herself. I don't have the confidence to put out a book and say, “Oh, this is great. I know because I love it.”
CH: So, what was your transition from Canada to Hollywood like?
HH: That’s a funny story. I came down to the States and I got a job on a show with David E. Kelly. I didn't like the show, I didn't like it. I wasn't enjoying myself at all. I was 40 years old. I hadn't dragged my kids down here for me to work 80 weeks on something I didn't like. Nothing against David Kelly. I owe him everything. He's the greatest guy in the world, but I wanted to quit. I wanted to be let out of my contract. Luckily, I called my agent and my lawyer on the way in to say I'm going to quit. “I’m not doing a good job for him, I'm not enjoying myself on this show, and it's not my thing.” The reaction in Canada [to a call like that], they would have said, “Oh, that's, that's too bad. Okay, then say hello for me, eh?” And that would have been that.
[In Hollywood], there was an explosion of activity and phone calls and first thing they said was, “Okay, you stop at the nearest Starbucks and you stay there until we call you back.” And so they all called each other, then they called David's people and, and my agent called me back and says, “Well, okay, look, you're going to have to go in and tell David to his face why you want to quit his show and why they should let you go from there from your contract,” and I said, “That's what I was on my way in to do!” And I went in to do it, and David was very gracious. I honestly told him it's not working for me, I don't think it's working for you. He said, “Look, I can rewrite you in three hours instead of three days, that's very valuable to me.” And I said, “No offense, it's not all that valuable to me.”
By the way, everything I said and did was wrong. I just didn't understand the culture here yet. You do not quit a show that's on the air. You do not quit a David Kelly show. A week later, he won Best Comedy and Best Drama for two other shows that he was running. I now understand that I just hadn't read the culture, but I came from Canada … and if I had known then what I know now, I would have told myself, “No, no, finish out your contract. Be a good boy, work hard, get everyone to love you. Don't go walking away. “The American culture is just different. I still struggle with it, and I've been here since 1998.
CH: What was the journey to “Bones”? Were you developing a lot? Who were you in terms of your own voice at that point?
HH: I got an overall deal with 20th Century Fox Television, which was 20th Century Television Studios, which is now part of Disney. It's gone. They offered me an overall deal, which was the most wonderful thing in the world if you're a writer. A studio pays you a good, secure amount of money over – I think my first deal was – two years with an option for the third year. The catch was – because it was no catch to me – was that they put you on whatever show. You have to be on a show, work on one of their shows to work against your overall deal, and if you can't come to an agreement with the studio over which show you'll be on, then they can place you anywhere they want.
I said, “Of course, I'll work on a show. I don't want to sit home with the money. I want to work on a show.” And I was fortunate in the shows I picked, but part of the overall deal was I provide a pilot each year, which could be bullshit. You can easily provide a pilot that no one has any intention of [making] right from the beginning.
Now this is 2000 to 2003. I worked on shows, “Judging Amy”, “Joan of Arcadia”, “Cupid”, and then I worked on another David Kelly show. But I owed them a pilot that year, and they said, “Will you meet with Barry Josephson? He’s an executive producer who has the rights to these books. It's a procedural.” I wanted to meet Barry Josephson, because I Googled him and he was a character, but I said, “I'm not going to do a procedural.” It was “Bones”. I had a great meeting with Barry. They all lied to me and said, “We'll do the show you want to do, which is very heavily comedic and character based.” They all lied to make me do it. I did it. And then that's the story of Gail Berman picked it up at Fox and “Bones” [got greenlit]. There are a whole bunch of stories of the struggle to keep it a character comedic show and not “CSI”, but it worked out and, you know, “Bones” became the longest running scripted hour that Fox ever had. No one will beat that because of the way the world is now. And that was that.
CH: It's insane, twelves seasons! Even in the golden age of network TV, things going ten seasons or more was rare. You got a handful of those a year out of 100 to 200 that got made.
We're going to come back in a moment and talk about “Northern Exposure”. But for now, one more big idea question. I'm an atheist, and I've read you describe yourself as a lapsed Catholic. Recently, you visited Antarctica for several days. It looked like a profound trip. Every time I saw photos, I was overcome with awe and jealousy. And so, presuming we all look for something numinous in human connections and gods and the world around us, I'm curious…have you ever found anything like that in your art or in your relationship to your work?
HH: First of all, when I say I'm a lapsed Catholic, I am severely lapsed. The only thing that prevents me from saying I'm an atheist is the assumption that an atheist is absolutely certain that there's no God. I'm about as close to that as you can be. I just leave a little bit for things I don't understand. My suspicion is that we are not equipped to perceive anything about our universe. That we're like amoebas or clams at the bottom of the ocean trying to conceive of the universe. We're closer to the clams than we are to angels, you know, and so I just don't think it's knowable. Who knows?
Second, not to be too dramatic about it, but this trip to Antarctica was astounding. Yes to everything you said. We were in constant amazement of what you were seeing. I'm from Vancouver Island. I've seen mountains. I've even seen icebergs. The scope of Antarctica and how far you are from anything. Our world was restricted to an 80 passenger expedition vehicle. Pretty nice, by the way, pretty fancy expedition. But we were out there on our own. There were two doctors on the boat because if something went wrong, there was no helicopter coming to get you. The experience was…yes, it was very emotional. It lived up to the brochure expectations, all that stuff.
As it pertains to art, I have a million notes about Antarctica and I'm not sure I'll ever write about it. I'm not sure I'm good enough writing pertains to understanding something about the universe. I've been thinking about lately because I'm currently turning my book, The Seminarian, into a TV series for Sony Studios, and I've had to pitch it. My guy, who is a seminarian who lost his faith, became a private investigator. And my pitch line is directly from my own experience in life, which is: “Here's somebody who failed absolutely to understand the big questions in life. Why are we here? What are we for? What's the purpose of existence? What is our purpose completely failed?” So, he takes solace in answering life's little questions instead like, “Where'd that money go? Who's he sleeping with? Why did she leave her husband?” private eye stuff.
I feel like I'm at the top of my game explaining life to myself in the smallest increments by writing, if that makes any sense. [Another example], I've written a book about the flat earth, a crime in the flat Earth community in Venice. I think the flat Earth people are – please, I have no compassion or empathy. What the…? Don't do that, stop it. But when you turn and write from their point of view…I want to be clear, it didn't have any effect on my view of the Earth being flat – because it's not – but it was very interesting to me to have to explain to myself, so the characters would be authentic, what would make someone turn to that.
And that is, that's where I find writing to be really interesting and rewarding – when you are explaining the ways of the world to yourself. I'm not answering what life is about, I suspect, outside of the most namby pamby “we're here to love each other and take care of each other and have children and do the best we can with the gifts we're given.” That's not very profound. But it's awfully fun to be creating people, to be the god of your own little universe, and have to understand where all the sparrows are falling and all that stuff. Maybe that’s a substitute for religion for me – to go visit those many, many millions of places that I get to visit while typing.
CH: All right, Hart, thank you so much for the conversation so far. We'll come back in a moment to talk “Northern Exposure”, which I'm, I'm really excited about.
HH: Thank you, Cole. You're fun to talk to.
CH: Same.
Note: Learn more about Hart and his novels here.
As for you reading at home, there’s more if you’re up for becoming a paid subscriber. In a bonus episode you can check out here, Hart and I will interrogate a seminal piece of art from his life — the TV pilot episode of “Northern Exposure”, an ensemble comedy drama 1990 to 1995. What made this summer replacement series so special? Why was it so revolutionary for its time? And why does it still feel so radical today? Oh, and how would Hollywood ruin it if it remade the show in 2025? We're going to get into all of it if you can stick around.
If this article added anything to your life but you’re not up for a paid subscription, consider buying me a “coffee” so I can keep as much of this newsletter free as possible for the dreamers who couldn’t afford it otherwise.
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