Jana Schmieding is not only the star of the Peacock comedy “Rutherford Falls,” now in its second season, she is also a writer on the series. Set in the fictional town of the title, the show primarily pivots around the central friendship of best pals Reagan Wells (Schmieding), who is Native American, and Nathan Rutherford (played by Ed Helms), who is a descendant of the town’s white settler founder.
In Season 2, Nathan has finally realized there’s little honor in clinging to his family’s dubious history, which has freed up Reagan and him to embark on new adventures, both separately and together.
“Our showrunner Sierra Teller Ornelas really wanted to lean into the comedy of our characters this season,” Schmieding said. “She wanted to have these very fun, sitcom-ish episodes, all while threading a throughline that’s addressing real issues.”
This is Schmieding’s first major TV role but she has been doing comedy for 20 years. When asked about a worst moment in her career, she recalled a story that is not dissimilar to what we see transpire on Episode 5 of the new season of “Rutherford Falls,” wherein Reagan and local tribal casino owner Terry Thomas (played by Michael Greyeyes), are hired as Native consultants on a fictional TV show.
It’s a show-within-the-show that vaguely brings to mind “Yellowstone” and initially Terry sees big upsides: “First, we’ll offer them script notes. Then we say, ‘Why don’t you shoot the next season on the rez, spend some of that sweet location money here?’ And then before you know it, everyone wants to film here and the all-Native ‘Pitch Perfect 7′ gets shot at this casino.”
But despite their presence on set, the writers and producers blatantly have no interest in accuracy. A producer insists, “We want to get it right.” They do not want to get it right.
It’s a story based, in part, on Schmieding’s own experiences.
My worst moment …
“In 2018, I had been really plugging away and submitting my writing samples to all the different diversity fellowships in Hollywood, to no avail. All of my scripts centered a Native woman protagonist and I was getting no responses.
“I had quit my job at an education nonprofit and I was the poorest I had ever been in my adult life. My health care had run out and I was essentially selling my own beadwork to make money. But I was still connected in a fringe way, through Native friends, to the screenwriting community in Los Angeles. So I tried to take advantage of that and plug myself into Facebook groups and networking opportunities.
“And somebody connected me to a man who was writing a screenplay for a TV pilot that had a Native woman character in it. It was a sci-fi drama. And he was looking for a Native woman who would consult and do a sensitivity read on his script and help him to inform this character.
“I was like: OK, this is an in. This could be it.
“He sent me the script and I gave it a read. And I realized it was terrible. He had invented a monster and a ceremony in this Native woman’s life. So there was this creature element and then there was a spiritual element to that creature that was unleashed in a ceremony. Oh, and he wanted the woman to be from a Southwest nation.
“So he took me to coffee. And I understood the power dynamic in this situation. I also understood that I’m not from a Southwest tribe (Schmieding is Miniconjou and Sicangu Lakota), so this is not my specialty, I probably shouldn’t be the person reading this script. And I was also in a precarious situation because I knew I was going to have to tell this man — a non-Native man who was older than me, who has access to the industry — ‘no’ a lot.
“What I didn’t know at the time was that his script was in development, which is such a long and arduous and unpredictable process. So many writers go through development and your project may not get made ever. There are thousands upon thousands of projects that just sit on somebody’s computer. You could be in development for years. You could be in development on five different projects and none of them gets made.
“But I didn’t know that. So I decided I was going to be my patient and kind self. I was going to listen to what he wanted to talk about and I was going to find a way to guide his thinking toward: It might not be the best idea to depict a Native character in this way.
“My primary concern was that this project would get greenlit and that my name would be attached to it.
“When I met with the guy, he told me more about the story. Essentially, a Native woman who doesn’t know that she’s Native learns of her connection to her Native identity through encountering a quote-unquote ‘shaman’ who unleashes this evil being among the tribal community. And she is simultaneously haunted and is also the only one who can save this community.
“There were several different points of the script that I was afraid of. The use of the term ‘shaman’ alone — to me, it’s a word white people think Native people use. So I told this guy, ‘I don’t think he would be called a shaman. I don’t think he would call himself a shaman, unless he’s a scammer.’ And we got into kind of an argument about it! He was really sticking to it.
“And then he was saying things like, ‘I think she’s only half Native American,’ and he started to get into the tricky binaries around blood quantum and percentages and fractions. And I was like, ‘This is a whole can of worms and really challenging to depict, and honestly a lot of Native people don’t resonate with that line of thinking.’ Native identity is about kinship, and those different ways of kinship are different for every nation. It’s complicated. It’s messy. But most people don’t identify as ‘half’ or ‘a quarter.’ You’re Native or you’re not.
“His response was sometimes interested in what I was saying, but for the most part he was argumentative and defensive — as if he knew more than me about this topic!
“But afterward, he said, ‘I hope that we can continue to have conversations.’ And I was thinking: I don’t know how to ask for compensation. I had done all this work up to this point for free. That’s how it goes. If you aren’t a legitimized writer, then all you are is a book of information to be mined. It’s very extractive.
“But I agreed to have two more phone meetings with him as he worked on his script, and by the last phone meeting, it had become obvious that he was not listening to any of my notes. This is what I wrote about in Episode 5 of ‘Rutherford Falls,’ when Terry and Reagan are having this discussion on the studio lot: These producers just want us to sign off on their bad ideas. And that’s what this guy wanted, for me to say, ‘Yeah, this is great! Go forth and conquer!’ And I wouldn’t.
“By the way, his offer of compensation was this: If the show gets picked up, in his mind, I will have a seat in the writer’s room. That was the payment: A potential staff writer position if the show got picked up. As if I wanted that, at all! But it really felt like an empty gesture. What people are really looking for in these situations is permission to do something horrible. But they’re not the ones who will shoulder the criticism, that will fall on the Native consultant or Native writers — that’s who is really going to get the ire.
“So that experience was a glimpse into the industry that I had never had before.
“I call it the cultural consulting industrial complex. It doesn’t give us leverage in the industry, or over our own careers. If anything, it tarnishes our reputation before we’re even given the opportunity to be the creators of our own stories. And it perpetuates misinformation about Indigenous lives, so it’s doing way more harm than service.
“I’ve been in this position a lot: Explaining my Native identity to non-Native people for the sake of whatever — sometimes it’s their curiosity, or my safety, or correcting educators about my history. But to see how frequently the sausage is made in Hollywood in this very bad way that exploits Native people and doesn’t listen to them? It doesn’t even provide Native writers with any opportunities. I just knew I was free labor to him.
“And I knew if this show ever got made, it would be ridiculed by Native people and possibly non-Native people. It was so outlandishly corny. And it did not get made.”
How did Schmieding finally end the interaction with him?
“There wasn’t a big falling out. I just remember walking away from our last phone call thinking: I don’t want to continue on with this. The more I get involved with this project and this person, the worse my opportunities will be.
“I was not in the WGA (Writers Guild of America) at the time and, yeah, I was worried that by challenging him, there could be some blowback.
“Even now, speaking about it to the Chicago Tribune, I’m scared. There’s something about being a Native person in this industry that is like, how dare you speak out against the forces of power — we will take this away from you. As quickly as you’ve gotten any opportunities, it can be taken back. Especially as a Native woman, I’m at the intersection of two very marginalized voices in this industry and I do not want to say or do anything that could potentially harm my chances at continuing my career here.
“It’s scary say what Hollywood doesn’t want to hear. But also, it needs to be said.
“This is something every Native writer has experienced. We’ve all been put in this position. Which is why Episode 5 is our love letter to Native Hollywood. It’s saying: We see you, we know the struggle! In the writer’s room, we’re always talking about ‘Yellowstone’ and all of the non-Native TV shows that people always watch. They’re so popular and have all these spinoffs and they are so problematic.
“I haven’t had contact with that guy since he asked me to read his script. I wonder if he’s seen the show or seen me on TV or even remembers who I am. Part of me thinks I wasn’t even a blip on his radar.”
The takeaway …
“To be more protective. I’ve talked with younger Native people since and I tell them, ‘Protect your stories. Protect our stories.’ We have been mined for generations. Our stories are interesting — people want to know them! But save them for when you get to tell them, don’t give them away for free.
“And sometimes it’s not even worth giving them away for money.
“Like Terry says in Episode 5: ‘Some things are more important than money. Very few things. Almost nothing. But some things.’ (Laughs) And that’s how I felt at the time. I was so broke I was almost willing to give up my stories. And I didn’t have to, thank God.
“But I got to see how easy it is for people to take, with no reciprocation.”
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