The Full Biography
Mike Myers. Comedian. The Scarborough kid who turned a basement, a spy, and an ogre into franchises, then chose a quieter house when the factory jammed.
This is his story.
The image most people still carry is a public-access basement in Aurora, or a British spy in a ruffled shirt, or a green ogre with a Scottish brogue arguing with a donkey. The year is 1992, or 1997, or 2001. The line, more often than not, is one the culture kept without asking who wrote it. What the still cannot show is Michael John Myers of Scarborough, Ontario, a child of Liverpool parents in a house that watched the BBC and hockey on the same set, and a living man who made three franchises and then, after a flop the town would not forgive, took fewer rooms on purpose.
He was born on May 25, 1963, in Scarborough, to Eric Myers, an insurance man, and Alice, a data processor. Both had come from the Old Swan neighborhood of Liverpool. The household was English in a Canadian suburb: football of the other kind, the Beatles, Peter Sellers, James Bond, Monty Python on the imported signal, and Maple Leafs hockey because the street required it. He has older brothers. He did commercials as a small child, which is a Canadian door that looks like nothing and is already work. The first pressure is a living room in which two countries were always on, and a boy who learned that a voice could be a ticket out of the room and back into it at the same time.
Sir John A. Macdonald Collegiate, then Second City. He joined the Toronto touring company after high school and earned the mainstage. Wayne Campbell was already a person before Saturday Night Live hired the man: a cable bit, a headbanger in a hockey haircut who treated a basement as a studio. Dieter, the German expressionist, was a Second City body first. In 1989 Lorne Michaels brought him to New York, mid-season, a Canadian unknown on a show that eats unknowns. He stayed through 1995. Wayne, with Dana Carvey as Garth. Linda Richman on “Coffee Talk,” a Long Island mother getting verklempt, built from the weather of Robin Ruzan’s family. Sprockets. The writing Emmy is in the file. The characters are what the country kept. He was not a host who happened to act. He was a writer who happened to need his own face.
The door that the public still uses is 1992. Penelope Spheeris directed Wayne’s World, a feature made from a sketch the network had already decided was a toy. It was not a toy. It was a hit, then a sequel the next year, then a set of phrases the malls wore out. This page will not reprint them as if they were a memoir. The picture proved a thing Hollywood prefers not to learn twice: a sketch can be a movie if the writer knows the basement is a real place. So I Married an Axe Murderer (1993) put him in a Scottish house and a San Francisco poetry slam in the same film. He left Saturday Night Live in 1995. The live show had been the shop. The shop had taught him he could build the next thing without a cue card.
Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery arrived in 1997, written by him, produced by him, with him as the spy and as Dr. Evil, a bald man in a gray suit who is also a joke about the 1960s and about the 1990s that were watching them. The first picture was a cult that became a climate. The Spy Who Shagged Me (1999) was a box-office weather system. Goldmember (2002) closed the trilogy. He played more than one person in each, because the Second City habit had never left: if the scene needs a villain, a henchman, and a grotesque, use the same metabolism. The ruffled shirt is the still. The writing is the job. He also played Steve Rubell in 54 (1998), a real nightclub owner in a real decade, a reminder that the character factory could do a room without a catchphrase.
DreamWorks needed an ogre. Chris Farley had been cast and had died before the part was finished. Myers took Shrek (2001), recorded it, then asked to do it again in a Scottish accent, which is the version the world has. The picture won the first Oscar given for animated feature. The sequels made the green man a civic object for a generation of children who did not know Wayne. He had now built three franchises from a Scarborough living room: a basement, a spy, an ogre. That is the public monument.
That is the turn, and it is easy to file as a flop. The Love Guru (2008) is the night the factory jammed. The picture was mocked. The town, which had eaten Austin for a decade, decided the writer had run out of disguises. He did not become a scandal. He became quieter. He directed a documentary, Supermensch: The Legend of Shep Gordon (2013), about the manager who had shepherded Alice Cooper and a great many other difficult acts. He took a small part as Ray Foster in Bohemian Rhapsody (2018), the EMI man who does not want Queen to release a six-minute single — a joke the movie is in on, because the culture already knows how that argument ends. He was not a producer of that picture. He was a Canadian in a cameo that pointed at his own Bond-and-BBC childhood. Netflix’s The Pentaverate (2022) put him back in multiple chairs at once. The rooms were smaller. The metabolism was the same.
The pictures between Austin and the guru are the working catalog the malls forget. Wayne’s World 2 (1993) brought Aerosmith into a garage and proved a sequel could still be a sketch that knew the basement. Mystery, Alaska (1999) put him on hockey ice in a town that could have been a Canadian cousin of Scarborough. The Cat in the Hat (2003) was a children’s picture the reviews treated as a dare he lost. View from the Top (2003) was a small part in someone else’s comedy. Shrek 2 (2004), Shrek the Third (2007), and Shrek Forever After (2010) kept the Scottish ogre in the civic square long after Wayne had become a midnight show. He had, by then, three franchises and a children’s book character the town would not forgive him for wearing. The writing is still the job. The disguises are the method. The factory jammed when the method met a script that could not carry it.
Second City and Saturday Night Live are the shop that made the rest possible. He arrived in New York in January 1989, mid-season, and stayed through the 1994–95 year. Wayne and Garth. Sprockets. Coffee Talk. Linda Richman getting verklempt over Barbra. He shared the writing Emmy because the characters were written, not merely performed. Lorne Michaels had hired a Canadian unknown. The unknown left with a basement, a German expressionist, and the proof that a sketch could be a movie if the writer knew the room was a real place. So I Married an Axe Murderer remains the Scottish house and the poetry slam. 54 remains Steve Rubell. Those two pictures are the reminder that the character factory could do a room without a catchphrase.
Eric Myers died in 1991, while the son was still on the live show. The English voice in the Scarborough house went quiet in the middle of the American fame. He has spoken of the father as the first audience for the voices. He has not turned that death into a monologue he owes a magazine. Robin Ruzan was the Wayne-years marriage; Coffee Talk had already borrowed her mother’s weather. Kelly Tisdale, a scenic artist, is the household of the quieter decades. Spike, Sunday Molly, and Paulie are the children. New York has been a working address. Los Angeles has been a working address. The house he does not tour is the one that matters.
Six things most people never knew
- The first pressure is a Liverpool house in a Toronto suburb. BBC and hockey. Sellers and the Leafs. Austin is a childhood, not a costume trunk.
- Wayne existed before Saturday Night Live. Second City. A cable minute. Michaels hired a character who already had a basement.
- He is a writer who acts, not a host who writes. The SNL Emmy is for writing. Austin is a script he owned. The catchphrases are a byproduct.
- Shrek was a second recording. Farley died. Myers took the part, then asked to do it Scottish. The accent is a choice, not an accident.
- The Love Guru is in the file. 2008. The factory jammed. The quieter years are a decision, not only a punishment.
- He is an Officer of the Order of Canada. 2017. The citation named the body of work. Scarborough still has the first living room.
He married Robin Ruzan in 1993, in the Wayne years. Coffee Talk had already borrowed her mother’s weather. The marriage ended in 2006. In 2010 he married Kelly Tisdale, a scenic artist. They have three children. The household is the thing he does not tour. Friends from the Second City rooms describe a man who arrived with more characters than the bill required and stayed until the bit was a person. Eric, the father, died in 1991, while the son was still on the live show; the English voice in the Scarborough house went quiet in the middle of the American fame. That is in the file. It is not a monologue he owes a magazine.
The later years
The years after the guru are not a disappearance. They are a man who had already built the monument and did not care to live inside the gift shop. He directed Supermensch: The Legend of Shep Gordon in 2013 and treated another man’s career as a subject worth a whole picture, not a punch line. David O. Russell put him in Amsterdam (2022). Terminal (2018) was a small thriller part. Bohemian Rhapsody (2018) let him play the EMI man who loses the argument about a six-minute single — a joke pointed at his own Bond-and-BBC childhood. Netflix’s The Pentaverate (2022) put him back in multiple chairs at once: a secret society, a Canadian metabolism, a series the town treated as a curiosity instead of a climate. The rooms were smaller. The writing habit had not left.
The Order of Canada arrived in 2017; he was made an Officer. The citation named the body of work. A star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame had arrived in 2002, in the Austin weather. He has taken the honors the way he once took a cue card: politely, and then back to the next voice. He is in his sixties as this is written. He is living. He is quieter than the basement. Kelly and the three children are the present tense. Scarborough is still the first living room. New York and Los Angeles are the working addresses. The three franchises are the climate other people still occupy. He has not gone back to Saturday Night Live as a weekly chair. He has not owed the mall another disguise on the mall’s clock.
What he has done in these decades is not a farewell tour with a logo. It is a decision to stop feeding the mall on the mall’s schedule. Wayne still plays at midnight as if 1992 were a renewable resource. Austin still walks into a Halloween and changes the temperature. Children who have never seen a Bond film can do the ogre. He has shown up when a part needed a certain Canadian exactness and stayed home when the part was only a chance to wear the old shirt. The Love Guru is a night. The quieter house is the choice. The living room in Scarborough is still the origin. Spike, Sunday Molly, and Paulie are the present tense. Kelly is the household. The Order of Canada is a citation. The three franchises are other people’s weather now, which is what he wanted.
After the spotlight moved
It moved, and then it did not. Wayne’s World still plays at midnight as if 1992 were a renewable resource. Austin still walks into a Halloween and changes the temperature. Children who have never seen a Bond film can do the ogre. Younger comics who turn a sketch into a universe are in his shop whether they send a note or not. The Love Guru is a night. The living room in Scarborough is the origin. The quieter house is the choice.
He came out of a Liverpool kitchen in Ontario, learned voices, joined Second City, wrote Wayne into a movie, wrote a spy the 1990s needed, gave an ogre a Scottish voice after a friend’s death, jammed the factory, took the Order of Canada, and raised three children out of the frame. If you only remember the basement, you have the still. If you remember the BBC set, the writing credit, and the years he declined to feed the mall, you have him.
Portrait: DoD News · CC BY 2.0 · via Wikimedia Commons