Dana Carvey says Mike Myers, his partner in Wayne's World, stole Dr. Evil from him. According to Carvey, the character grew out of his impression of their boss at SNL, Lorne Michaels.

Myers turned it into the villain of Austin Powers, and the three films made $676 million. New ers $25 million for the third film alone. Carvey got nothing.

In the video below, Carvey remembers cheering for his friend at the premiere, and then Dr. Evil came on screen. "That's the song I wrote, that's the music I heard in my head."

Carvey only did his Michaels impression backstage. Doing it in public, he says, meant "biting Lorne Michaels, the hand that fed me."

He says he even invented Dr. Evil's famous pinky at the corner of the mouth. "The pinky thing was a made-up thing. Lorne doesn't do that."

Myers tells it differently. To him, Dr. Evil is mostly Blofeld, the Bond villain, and only "a little bit Lorne Michaels." And the pinky, he says, was Lorne's own: "Lorne has a pinky thing, but he doesn't do it anymore."

Carvey never talked it through with Myers and went to a therapist instead. Twenty-two years after the premiere, Howard Stern asked if he had ever called Myers about it. "I haven't done that."

They grew close after playing Wayne and Garth again in a 2021 Super Bowl ad. A year later, Carvey said they had become "very, very close friends."

Did Myers steal from his friend, or just put on screen what Carvey never dared to do in public?

Dana Carvey says Mike Myers, his partner in Wayne's World, stole Dr. Evil from him. According to Carvey, the character grew out of his impression of their boss at SNL, Lorne Michaels.

Myers turned it into the villain of Austin Powers, and the three films made $676 million. New ers $25 million for the third film alone. Carvey got nothing.

In the video below, Carvey remembers cheering for his friend at the premiere, and then Dr. Evil came on screen. "That's the song I wrote, that's the music I heard in my head."

Carvey only did his Michaels impression backstage. Doing it in public, he says, meant "biting Lorne Michaels, the hand that fed me."

He says he even invented Dr. Evil's famous pinky at the corner of the mouth. "The pinky thing was a made-up thing. Lorne doesn't do that."

Myers tells it differently. To him, Dr. Evil is mostly Blofeld, the Bond villain, and only "a little bit Lorne Michaels." And the pinky, he says, was Lorne's own: "Lorne has a pinky thing, but he doesn't do it anymore."

Carvey never talked it through with Myers and went to a therapist instead. Twenty-two years after the premiere, Howard Stern asked if he had ever called Myers about it. "I haven't done that."

They grew close after playing Wayne and Garth again in a 2021 Super Bowl ad. A year later, Carvey said they had become "very, very close friends."

Did Myers steal from his friend, or just put on screen what Carvey never dared to do in public?

Fox wouldn't move forward with Ryan Reynolds' Deadpool until the test footage leaked in 2014. The film went on to gross over $782 million worldwide on a $58 million production budget.

In the clip below, Jimmy Fallon asks Reynolds about the leak. "I'm 70% sure it wasn't me."
11 years trying to get the film made. After Green Lantern flopped in 2011, he nearly gave up on Deadpool. Fox approved a test clip from director Tim Miller but still wouldn't make the movie. Reynolds compared those years of starts and stops to "the worst relationship I'd ever been in."

The clip leaked online in July 2014, and fans wanted to see the movie. By September, Fox had announced a release date.

To stay within budget, the writers had to rework the script. Screenwriter Paul Wernick recalled: "In 24 hours we cut $7 million from the script." Reynolds says the studio wouldn't let the writers work on set. He paid them out of his own salary so they could revise scenes and dialogue during filming.

Deadpool opened in February 2016. It took in over $13 at the worldwide box office for every dollar of its production budget.

In 2025, Reynolds acknowledged his role in the leak at the Toronto International Film Festival: "Yes, I cheated a little."

Would Deadpool ever have made it to theaters if the test footage had stayed at Fox and fans had never seen it?

Fox wouldn't move forward with Ryan Reynolds' Deadpool until the test footage leaked in 2014. The film went on to gross over $782 million worldwide on a $58 million production budget.

In the clip below, Jimmy Fallon asks Reynolds about the leak. "I'm 70% sure it wasn't me."
11 years trying to get the film made. After Green Lantern flopped in 2011, he nearly gave up on Deadpool. Fox approved a test clip from director Tim Miller but still wouldn't make the movie. Reynolds compared those years of starts and stops to "the worst relationship I'd ever been in."

The clip leaked online in July 2014, and fans wanted to see the movie. By September, Fox had announced a release date.

To stay within budget, the writers had to rework the script. Screenwriter Paul Wernick recalled: "In 24 hours we cut $7 million from the script." Reynolds says the studio wouldn't let the writers work on set. He paid them out of his own salary so they could revise scenes and dialogue during filming.

Deadpool opened in February 2016. It took in over $13 at the worldwide box office for every dollar of its production budget.

In 2025, Reynolds acknowledged his role in the leak at the Toronto International Film Festival: "Yes, I cheated a little."

Would Deadpool ever have made it to theaters if the test footage had stayed at Fox and fans had never seen it?

Hollywood's rich lost millions at poker in Molly Bloom's Four Seasons suite, up to $7,000 a night. She threw out Dan Bilzerian for winning, because he was "gonna bankrupt" them.

She lived off their tips, and in 2009 her income topped $4 million. The ones who played worst tipped below, Bilzerian explains why the invitations stopped. "She stopped inviting me back because she realized I was, you know, gonna bankrupt those f*cking guys."

Inside there were women in cocktail dresses, every kind of alcohol, sushi and "a full f*cking buffet." "You tipped her like three to five percent if you wanted to get a seat back," he says.

Bilzerian remembers: "She had dirt on most of these motherf*ckers, banging chicks while they had wives." So "if they didn't wanna pay, she had that f*cking ace in the hole."

The "suckers didn't really have to" tip, "but they tipped probably more than anybody." Bilzerian himself "made a little bit of money" at that table, and then the invitations stopped.

In 2013, Bloom was arrested with 33 others in a $100 million gambling and money-laundering case. She pleaded guilty, got probation and forfeited $125,000, before Jessica Chastain played her in Molly's Game.

Did Bloom throw him out to protect her players, or her tips?

Hollywood's rich lost millions at poker in Molly Bloom's Four Seasons suite, up to $7,000 a night. She threw out Dan Bilzerian for winning, because he was "gonna bankrupt" them.

She lived off their tips, and in 2009 her income topped $4 million. The ones who played worst tipped below, Bilzerian explains why the invitations stopped. "She stopped inviting me back because she realized I was, you know, gonna bankrupt those f*cking guys."

Inside there were women in cocktail dresses, every kind of alcohol, sushi and "a full f*cking buffet." "You tipped her like three to five percent if you wanted to get a seat back," he says.

Bilzerian remembers: "She had dirt on most of these motherf*ckers, banging chicks while they had wives." So "if they didn't wanna pay, she had that f*cking ace in the hole."

The "suckers didn't really have to" tip, "but they tipped probably more than anybody." Bilzerian himself "made a little bit of money" at that table, and then the invitations stopped.

In 2013, Bloom was arrested with 33 others in a $100 million gambling and money-laundering case. She pleaded guilty, got probation and forfeited $125,000, before Jessica Chastain played her in Molly's Game.

Did Bloom throw him out to protect her players, or her tips?

Bradley Cooper once bashed his head on a concrete floor at a party to look tough, then did it again. He spent the night in a hospital waiting for stitches, and at 29 he was addicted to cocaine.

In 2011, People named him the Sexiest Man Alive, and by 2014 Forbes had him earning credits his neighbor Will Arnett, who told him, "You were a real asshole, man."

In the video below, Cooper says what he would have lost if he hadn't stopped. "I would never be sitting here with you."

It started with a $70,000 loan for acting school and a part on the TV show Alias. By season two he was so sidelined he thought, "I want to f*cking kill myself."

Addicted to cocaine, he left the show and tried to seem funny by copying mean comedians like Arnett. At another dinner with Arnett in July 2004, he remembers "thinking I was so funny."

Arnett, who lived next door, came over and told him, "You were a real asshole, man." Then he saw the dogs at the door, and at four in the afternoon Cooper still hadn't walked them.

"That was like the first time I ever realized I had a problem with drugs and alcohol," he says. He quit at 29 because it hit him: "I'm actually gonna ruin my life."

Five years later, The Hangover made him a star, and by 2012 he asked $15 million for the third one. He has 12 Oscar nominations, and in 2020 Brad Pitt said of him, "I got sober because of this guy."

Did Cooper save himself, or did it take one brutal sentence from a neighbor?

Bradley Cooper once bashed his head on a concrete floor at a party to look tough, then did it again. He spent the night in a hospital waiting for stitches, and at 29 he was addicted to cocaine.

In 2011, People named him the Sexiest Man Alive, and by 2014 Forbes had him earning credits his neighbor Will Arnett, who told him, "You were a real asshole, man."

In the video below, Cooper says what he would have lost if he hadn't stopped. "I would never be sitting here with you."

It started with a $70,000 loan for acting school and a part on the TV show Alias. By season two he was so sidelined he thought, "I want to f*cking kill myself."

Addicted to cocaine, he left the show and tried to seem funny by copying mean comedians like Arnett. At another dinner with Arnett in July 2004, he remembers "thinking I was so funny."

Arnett, who lived next door, came over and told him, "You were a real asshole, man." Then he saw the dogs at the door, and at four in the afternoon Cooper still hadn't walked them.

"That was like the first time I ever realized I had a problem with drugs and alcohol," he says. He quit at 29 because it hit him: "I'm actually gonna ruin my life."

Five years later, The Hangover made him a star, and by 2012 he asked $15 million for the third one. He has 12 Oscar nominations, and in 2020 Brad Pitt said of him, "I got sober because of this guy."

Did Cooper save himself, or did it take one brutal sentence from a neighbor?

From age 7 to 22, Glenn Close lived inside Moral Re-Armament, a movement she now calls "basically a cult." When she left, the only thing she knew how to do was act.

Acting brought her eight Oscar nominations without a single win. On November 15, the Academy finally gives her an video below, Close explains on the radio what those years did to her. "It was incredibly destructive for all of us."

Her parents joined when she was 7, and the family moved between the movement's centers. For two years they lived at its headquarters in Caux, Switzerland.

The movement preached "four absolutes": honesty, purity, unselfishness and love. "Everybody spouted the same things," Close says, "and there's a lot of rules, a lot of control."

Members "weren't allowed to do anything," she says, or were "made to feel guilty about any unnatural desire." As a teenager she was "repressed, clueless and guilt-ridden."

To stay in, she had to tell someone "all the bad things" she had done. She calls it "a deep humiliation, but it's also a diminishing."

In the 1960s she toured with the movement's singing groups and married a guitarist from one of them. Looking back, she calls it close to "an arranged marriage."

At 22 she "just left and went to college." For years she wouldn't trust her instincts, because they "had all been dictated" to her.

The movement, now called Initiatives of Change, describes its mission as "building trust across the world's divides." Close says she has had no contact with it since she left.

Years after leaving, she saw a childhood trauma specialist. She has forgiven her parents: "They had their reasons for doing what they did."

Should parents be free to raise their kids inside a movement they believe in, or should children choose for themselves?

From age 7 to 22, Glenn Close lived inside Moral Re-Armament, a movement she now calls "basically a cult." When she left, the only thing she knew how to do was act.

Acting brought her eight Oscar nominations without a single win. On November 15, the Academy finally gives her an video below, Close explains on the radio what those years did to her. "It was incredibly destructive for all of us."

Her parents joined when she was 7, and the family moved between the movement's centers. For two years they lived at its headquarters in Caux, Switzerland.

The movement preached "four absolutes": honesty, purity, unselfishness and love. "Everybody spouted the same things," Close says, "and there's a lot of rules, a lot of control."

Members "weren't allowed to do anything," she says, or were "made to feel guilty about any unnatural desire." As a teenager she was "repressed, clueless and guilt-ridden."

To stay in, she had to tell someone "all the bad things" she had done. She calls it "a deep humiliation, but it's also a diminishing."

In the 1960s she toured with the movement's singing groups and married a guitarist from one of them. Looking back, she calls it close to "an arranged marriage."

At 22 she "just left and went to college." For years she wouldn't trust her instincts, because they "had all been dictated" to her.

The movement, now called Initiatives of Change, describes its mission as "building trust across the world's divides." Close says she has had no contact with it since she left.

Years after leaving, she saw a childhood trauma specialist. She has forgiven her parents: "They had their reasons for doing what they did."

Should parents be free to raise their kids inside a movement they believe in, or should children choose for themselves?

In 1991, ABC's Primetime Live reported that believers sent televangelist Robert Tilton about $80 million a year. Their prayer requests, the show found, ended up in the trash at his bank.

In the video below, ABC shows what happened to the letters his viewers mailed in. "The sh."

On air, Tilton asked viewers to "make a thousand dollar vow of faith." His mailings had them send back prayer cloths and hand tracings for him to pray over.

The letters went unopened to his bank in Tulsa, which took out the money. In its garbage, ABC found thousands of them, including a letter with personal photos and a $7,000 pledge.

Tilton refused to give ABC an interview and answered on his own show. "Somebody stole those prayer requests and put them in the dumpster just to shoot that picture," he said.

He said he prayed over every request, lying on them until the ink's chemicals "got into my bloodstream." That, he said, caused "two small strokes in my brain."

He sued ABC for libel and lost, and by 1993 his audience had fallen 85 percent. By 1997 he was back on TV, and in 1998, Salon reported, he took in nearly $1 million a month.

Why did people still send Tilton money: they never saw ABC's report, or faith mattered more than proof?

In 1991, ABC's Primetime Live reported that believers sent televangelist Robert Tilton about $80 million a year. Their prayer requests, the show found, ended up in the trash at his bank.

In the video below, ABC shows what happened to the letters his viewers mailed in. "The sh."

On air, Tilton asked viewers to "make a thousand dollar vow of faith." His mailings had them send back prayer cloths and hand tracings for him to pray over.

The letters went unopened to his bank in Tulsa, which took out the money. In its garbage, ABC found thousands of them, including a letter with personal photos and a $7,000 pledge.

Tilton refused to give ABC an interview and answered on his own show. "Somebody stole those prayer requests and put them in the dumpster just to shoot that picture," he said.

He said he prayed over every request, lying on them until the ink's chemicals "got into my bloodstream." That, he said, caused "two small strokes in my brain."

He sued ABC for libel and lost, and by 1993 his audience had fallen 85 percent. By 1997 he was back on TV, and in 1998, Salon reported, he took in nearly $1 million a month.

Why did people still send Tilton money: they never saw ABC's report, or faith mattered more than proof?

In 1980, Suzanne Somers was paid $30,000 an episode on Three's Company and asked ABC for $150,000. That was what male TV stars were getting, and within a year she was off the show.

In the video below, Somers recalls how her husband asked for that money and a share of the t my career was over."

He told them no TV actress was more popular with viewers 18 to 49. Producer Mickey Ross stomped out his cigarette and asked, "You want me to share my blood with her?"

Another producer, Ted Bergmann, says he offered $5,000 more and laughed at $150,000. Her co-stars would need raises too: "That's a half a million dollars before we even start writing a script."

Then, Bergmann says, she missed a taping because of a broken rib. She wouldn't see the producers' doctor, and they refused to let her "hold the show hostage."

ABC wouldn't let them fire her, so they cut her to one-minute phone calls, taped apart from the cast. "They would have a police guard come meet me at the back door," Somers says.

After the season the producers dropped her, and she sued for $2 million. An arbitrator awarded her only $30,000, the pay for one missed episode.

Did Somers lose the show for asking to be paid like the men, or for holding it hostage?

In 1980, Suzanne Somers was paid $30,000 an episode on Three's Company and asked ABC for $150,000. That was what male TV stars were getting, and within a year she was off the show.

In the video below, Somers recalls how her husband asked for that money and a share of the t my career was over."

He told them no TV actress was more popular with viewers 18 to 49. Producer Mickey Ross stomped out his cigarette and asked, "You want me to share my blood with her?"

Another producer, Ted Bergmann, says he offered $5,000 more and laughed at $150,000. Her co-stars would need raises too: "That's a half a million dollars before we even start writing a script."

Then, Bergmann says, she missed a taping because of a broken rib. She wouldn't see the producers' doctor, and they refused to let her "hold the show hostage."

ABC wouldn't let them fire her, so they cut her to one-minute phone calls, taped apart from the cast. "They would have a police guard come meet me at the back door," Somers says.

After the season the producers dropped her, and she sued for $2 million. An arbitrator awarded her only $30,000, the pay for one missed episode.

Did Somers lose the show for asking to be paid like the men, or for holding it hostage?

In 1989, NBC's researchers rated Jerry Seinfeld's pilot "weak," and the network passed on the show. Eight years later, 30 seconds of ads on Seinfeld sold for more than $500,000.

In the video below, Seinfeld reads the NBC memo he framed on his wall. "No segment of the audience show again."

NBC had first signed him so no rival network could make him a late-night competitor to The Tonight Show. It let him try a sitcom just to keep him busy.

NBC tested the pilot on 400 households, and viewers felt "Jerry needed a better backup ensemble." "Can you imagine a better backup ensemble in the world than those three people?" Seinfeld asks.

NBC left the show off its fall schedule, and its rights to it were running out. Then Rick Ludwin, who ran NBC's specials, canceled a Bob Hope special to pay for four more episodes.

Four was the smallest order a network had ever made, and no other network wanted the show. To Seinfeld, it sounded like "don't quit your day job."

By 2014, Seinfeld had earned about $4 billion worldwide, second only to Friends. Seinfeld and co-creator Larry David kept the memo: "Larry and I both hung it up near our toilets."

Was NBC's test wrong, or was the pilot really weak and the show grew into a hit later?

In 1989, NBC's researchers rated Jerry Seinfeld's pilot "weak," and the network passed on the show. Eight years later, 30 seconds of ads on Seinfeld sold for more than $500,000.

In the video below, Seinfeld reads the NBC memo he framed on his wall. "No segment of the audience show again."

NBC had first signed him so no rival network could make him a late-night competitor to The Tonight Show. It let him try a sitcom just to keep him busy.

NBC tested the pilot on 400 households, and viewers felt "Jerry needed a better backup ensemble." "Can you imagine a better backup ensemble in the world than those three people?" Seinfeld asks.

NBC left the show off its fall schedule, and its rights to it were running out. Then Rick Ludwin, who ran NBC's specials, canceled a Bob Hope special to pay for four more episodes.

Four was the smallest order a network had ever made, and no other network wanted the show. To Seinfeld, it sounded like "don't quit your day job."

By 2014, Seinfeld had earned about $4 billion worldwide, second only to Friends. Seinfeld and co-creator Larry David kept the memo: "Larry and I both hung it up near our toilets."

Was NBC's test wrong, or was the pilot really weak and the show grew into a hit later?

Leah Remini of The King of Queens says she gave Scientology about $5 million over 30 years. When she left in 2013, the church declared her an enemy.

In the video below, Remini explains what climbing the church's levels costs. "You have to be wealthy to get to this."

She joined tcom star she rose to the upper levels. "I spent close to $2 million for services and training," she writes in her memoir.

She also "donated roughly $3 million to church causes," then began to doubt where the money went. The church called her book "revisionist history" and said "donations vary depending on each member's means."

Her new status, "suppressive person," meant every member had to cut her off. Her 2023 lawsuit against the church and its leader David Miscavige says she was "stalked, surveilled, harassed, threatened, intimidated."

The church says it has a free-speech right to call her a "bigot." Members, it says, simply won't "have anything to do with" anyone expelled.

In July 2026, an appeals court ruled that calling her an "unhinged religious bigot" is opinion. But her harassment case survived, and in December it goes back to court in Los Angeles.

Can a church charge believers millions to reach its top levels, or should faith have no price tag?

Leah Remini of The King of Queens says she gave Scientology about $5 million over 30 years. When she left in 2013, the church declared her an enemy.

In the video below, Remini explains what climbing the church's levels costs. "You have to be wealthy to get to this."

She joined tcom star she rose to the upper levels. "I spent close to $2 million for services and training," she writes in her memoir.

She also "donated roughly $3 million to church causes," then began to doubt where the money went. The church called her book "revisionist history" and said "donations vary depending on each member's means."

Her new status, "suppressive person," meant every member had to cut her off. Her 2023 lawsuit against the church and its leader David Miscavige says she was "stalked, surveilled, harassed, threatened, intimidated."

The church says it has a free-speech right to call her a "bigot." Members, it says, simply won't "have anything to do with" anyone expelled.

In July 2026, an appeals court ruled that calling her an "unhinged religious bigot" is opinion. But her harassment case survived, and in December it goes back to court in Los Angeles.

Can a church charge believers millions to reach its top levels, or should faith have no price tag?

In July 2004, CBS fired CSI stars George Eads and Jorja Fox after they pushed for raises. In just over a week, both were back, for the same $100,000 an episode.

In the video below, the whole standoff takes under two minutes. "CBS promptly made examples out of them by firing t-watched drama on TV, and both had been on it from the first episode. They earned about $100,000 an episode and wanted pay that matched the ratings.

CBS said no: their deals had already been reworked after two seasons and still had years to run. "There comes a point where we feel a contract is a contract," said CBS boss Leslie Moonves.

Then came the first day of filming for season five. Eads skipped it, and Fox never returned a signed promise to show up.

CBS fired both of them. Eads said he had overslept and it was "never about money," and Fox said her promise was in the mail.

Other cast members got raises, but the two came back at their old pay. They also had to promise not to renegotiate until their contracts ran out in 2007.

Was CBS right to put its stars in their place, or did the faces of TV's top show deserve more?

In July 2004, CBS fired CSI stars George Eads and Jorja Fox after they pushed for raises. In just over a week, both were back, for the same $100,000 an episode.

In the video below, the whole standoff takes under two minutes. "CBS promptly made examples out of them by firing t-watched drama on TV, and both had been on it from the first episode. They earned about $100,000 an episode and wanted pay that matched the ratings.

CBS said no: their deals had already been reworked after two seasons and still had years to run. "There comes a point where we feel a contract is a contract," said CBS boss Leslie Moonves.

Then came the first day of filming for season five. Eads skipped it, and Fox never returned a signed promise to show up.

CBS fired both of them. Eads said he had overslept and it was "never about money," and Fox said her promise was in the mail.

Other cast members got raises, but the two came back at their old pay. They also had to promise not to renegotiate until their contracts ran out in 2007.

Was CBS right to put its stars in their place, or did the faces of TV's top show deserve more?