Jeff Baena Is Gone, but the Creative Family He Nurtured Lives On

I could never put into words what Jeff Baena meant to those of us who called him a friend—and I probably shouldn’t even try. I was a visitor in Jeff’s life and in his home. Other people lived much closer to him, literally and otherwise. I live in New York. Jeff hated New York. Even when he was here, he wouldn’t venture far. You saw Jeff at Jeff’s house, but it wasn’t a place where he lived—Jeff’s house was a social nexus that existed wherever he happened to be.

Jeff is gone now, but the house he built will remain. His life’s work—I’ve come to realize over these last few days—was creating for dozens (maybe hundreds?) of people a sense of community that reflected all aspects of his personality. There was basketball Jeff. (I never knew him.) Poker Jeff. (I saw him in passing while staying at his house when I’d return home after a late night.) Game night Jeff. (I knew him well. Perhaps the most widely known Jeff. To me, this meant Codenames, Balderdash, Rummikub, and Scrabble. He was undefeated—and undefeatable—at Scrabble. It was astonishing and maddening to play him, and I am incredible at Scrabble.) Movie lover Jeff. (We argued, debated, agreed, round and round in circles.) And the Jeff the public could and still can access: filmmaker Jeff.

I had the privilege of being convinced to spend a month with this Jeff. He asked me to play a central role in his second film, Joshy. I’d known him for less than a year. We had bonded over our mutual love of games, and he wanted me to be a character not unlike myself: at a bachelor weekend, wanting mostly to avoid strippers and booze in favor of setting up a game table. I didn’t want to do it because I was intimidated by the improvisational structure of the film and going toe-to-toe with undeniable comedic powerhouses like Thomas Middleditch, Adam Pally, Nick Kroll, and Brett Gelman.) Joe Swanberg said I had no choice: “Be the guy who helps the filmmaker make the movie he sees in his head.” Jeff saw Joshy in his head and I was in it. So I was in it.

Making Joshy in Ojai meant residing in Jeff’s house for a month. Every night was game night. Every day ended with the cast eating together and listening to music that Jeff, and only Jeff, curated. The “work” was an opportunity for him to sit at the head of the table and not get up for weeks. To host, to curate, to introduce, to nurture. These were Jeff’s objectives, whether at his home for a night or on a shoot for weeks.

I was with Jeff when he built a house in Baltimore. We were attending the Maryland Film Festival in 2017, and he was livid that he forgot to pack Codenames. To have that many filmmakers in one place and not have game night was unthinkable. And so he spent the day creating, from scratch, a handmade Codenames deck so that in a multipurpose room on the top floor of the hotel—which we did not have permission to be in—everybody could be a guest at Jeff’s bespoke game night.

I’ve been speaking with many people who knew and loved him to try and understand the Jeffs that I didn’t know or know as well. I asked Alison Brie—who made four movies with him, co-writing and producing the last two, Horse Girl and Spin Me Round—what she thought the thing was about him that made him so special to all of us. “He wanted us to have a whole experience that wasn’t just what was on camera,” she said. “When I think about our two trips to Italy for The Little Hours and Spin Me Round, the social side of it was equal if not more important. Really wanting to bring people out. Someone like Paul Reiser would fly out for a day of shooting in Italy and then fly back to America. There was a magic about working with Jeff—he could sell people on this magic artistic situation. It wasn’t about ‘let’s see if this person can act this role.’ It was about ‘let’s get a great collection of people and hang with them.’”

Jeff loved Robert Altman. California Split was a favorite. I remember hearing a (possibly apocryphal) story that when Altman would call up his usual cast and collaborators for a new movie, he’d say something like, “We’re having another party.” Jeff had a party at his house twice a week—poker night and game night. He had a filmmaking party every 18 months or so. You just had to go to Jeff’s house. Not because you were required to—you wanted to. You wanted to stop by. You wanted to travel to set, if only for one day. The people you’d be around had been invited by someone with very discerning standards for who would vibe with the energy, so a good time in great company was guaranteed.

I asked a group chat to share photos of Jeff’s house—game nights, dinner hangs. I’ve looked at the 60 photos Chad Hartigan sent of various get-togethers over the past year. They capture the essence of Jeff’s house, but nothing will replicate the spirit. Walking into game night, you’d see an actor or two you maybe recognized, a filmmaker you’re a fan of, and then some guy, or maybe a few some guys. No personality was larger than any other, except for Jeff’s. You’d sometimes get the feeling his wife, Aubrey Plaza, was content to be another guest at game night, even in her own home. It wasn’t her party. When the door opened and the players came through, Jeff and Aubrey’s home became Jeff’s house with Jeff’s rules.

He—controversially—required people entering his home to take COVID-19 tests well into 2023. He’d hold court and tell you facts and opinions of his (turns out all his opinions were facts), explain why a movie you liked was bad or a view of yours should be revisited, and then get up to give you some remedy for your diet or health issues.

I remember hearing Marc Maron interview Garry Shandling on WTF. He spoke of these legendary pick-up basketball games at his house. Maron confessed he always thought coming to them would have been a great opportunity to meet amazing people. Shandling shot this down: If you thought of it as an opportunity, you wouldn’t be welcome.

I’ve thought about this a lot lately, knowing I won’t sit at Jeff’s table again for a game night. Because this logic is simultaneously correct and not: Situations like these were an opportunity, but only for a unique social experience that may or may not later shift to Ojai or Italy for a quick film shoot, and then relocate back to Los Angeles to be continued, indefinitely. I had the opportunity at Jeff’s house to meet some truly amazing people and introduce Jeff to some too: My friend Liz came to pick me up at his house once and never left. She remained a part of both poker night and game night, ultimately playing more games with him than I probably ever did.

Honestly, I don’t know what meaning these recollections will turn out to have. I wanted to write this so that I can read it later and remember what Jeff’s house meant to me. For somebody reading this who knows Jeff only as a filmmaker, his distinct social presence is essential to understanding him as a person. One could be forgiven for saying that, as a filmmaker—not unlike myself or our mutual friend Swanberg (who introduced me to him)—Jeff was a director who worked often, typically with lots of the same people, and that his work, Joe’s work, my work, all render us part of a continuum of like-minded filmmakers.

But that is only a fraction of the story. That is one room in the house that Jeff built: a house with a door that was always open, food and drinks for all, probably something to smoke, and plenty of friends or future friends waiting to greet you. I lived too far away; I saw Jeff too infrequently. I’m not the person to write about Jeff’s house, I’m a person who is writing about Jeff’s house. I’d like to read 10 other recollections of other peoples’ experiences of being at his house—the one he lived in or the one he built to bring his creative family together.