lorne

You know him by his imitators, the ones he hand-picked for the show he made. Arguably the greatest comedy impresario of the modern age, Lorne Michaels, the lip-pursing, imperiously droll Canadian who created “Saturday Night Live,” has curiously enough never seemed like documentary material — there’s always been a strange satisfaction in him remaining an aloof, besuited guru, getting older but seeming beyond mystery. A well-timed impression always felt like enough. We’re laughing about someone we don’t know and there’s an odd purity in that.

Oscar-winner Morgan Neville’s “Lorne” — made with the begrudging OK of its subject as part of the 50th season hoopla — is, therefore, a curious instance of not being all that successful at unraveling the man, yet remaining perfectly enjoyable as a conduit for bite-size chunks of insight from not-so-famous associates and ultra-famous friends. It’s a well-meaning impression of a soul-searching documentary (and only an impression), but impressions can still be plenty entertaining.

Neville hedges his bet by filling us in on Michaels’ spotlight apprehension, making his reticence a through line. Interviewees joke about how inscrutable he is, guess at aspects of his biography, and early on we hear Michaels’ belief that explaining humor is pointless.

But would we have wanted a Jedi of few words to suddenly dissect his many brilliant casting choices or rehash the impetus to conceive the show, when it’s been written about repeatedly and even turned into a feature? Thankfully “Lorne” grasps this and instead decides the best narrative is one of Michaels as a force of stability amid constant change: shielding “SNL” from irrelevance and invasive network overlords, turning his unknowability into a kind of totem-like, hard-earned confidence, taking mentorship of talent seriously and accepting his mockability as the release valve that reinforces his wise stewardship.

Better to have dozens of funny, perceptive interviewees (Tina Fey, Conan O’Brien, John Mulaney, Adam Sandler, Lily Tomlin) piece it together, than to expect much from the guy who doesn’t care to self-analyze anyway. Likewise, don’t expect anything noteworthy from a pal like Paul Simon, who would rather be facile about his friendship with Michaels than informative.

Being there for his weekly routine captures something of Michaels’ entrenched schedule, as well as the scary-fast prep swirling around him. Seeing everyone crammed into his office for a howdy-host confab looks like the coolest family get-together. Same with the table read for dozens of mostly-to-be-axed sketches — like a dinner at which everyone’s trying to get Grandpa to laugh. The night-of-broadcast scenes draw you into the tension of finalizing and problem-solving and Michaels’ engagement with all manner of details is captivating.

Neville is smart enough as a documentarian to leave out platitudes, but also to let access to Michaels’ Maine retreat be a vibe rather than some knockout reveal. The result is an ode of sorts to elusive bossdom, where the cryptic may remain cryptic, decoded just enough to let us appreciate the achievement.

You’ll probably go straight from “Lorne” to rewatching notorious moments like the controversial Season 3 “stunt baby” sketch — and this is no doubt Michaels’ preferred outcome. Because, all those impersonations of chilly indifference aside, he will be known by what he got on the air: a legacy of generation-defining comedy that’s more impressive than any dutiful biodoc could ever be.