In Bradley Cooper’s new film "Is This Thing On?," Alex (Will Arnett) is trying to figure out his second act after the dissolution of his marriage to Tess (Laura Dern). After moving out of their house in the suburbs, he relocates to Greenwich Village, where he tries to get into the Olive Tree Cafe on MacDougal Street for a drink one night. He chafes when the bouncer tells him there is a cover fee to enter — unless he signs up for the stand-up comedy open mic downstairs.

He shrugs his shoulders, “Why not?”

Suddenly, he’s on stage at the Comedy Cellar, working through his problems on stage and even eliciting a few laughs.

Of course, it’s just a movie, and the Comedy Cellar — one of the country’s most famous comedy venues — is certainly an attractive setting. The Cellar was founded in 1981 and its walls are lined with photographs of famous comics who have performed there. It helped launch the careers of greats like Chris Rock, Amy Schumer and John Stewart. You’d be hard pressed to find a famous comedian who hasn’t performed at the Cellar.

And although most up-and-coming comics would kill for a chance to perform there, the club doesn’t let just anyone stumble in off the street and grab the mic.

So how do you actually land a set at the Comedy Cellar?

While there’s not a set script, there are a few essential ingredients: comedic talent, of course; practice and hard work; and years of cultivating relationships within the New York comedy scene.

But every stand-up comic in New York starts at the same place: open mic nights at comedy clubs, bars and restaurants across the city where anyone can get up on stage for a few minutes to try out their material.

I stopped by Freddy’s in South Slope, which hosts open mics every Monday and Wednesday night. Freddy’s has all the hallmarks of a classic dive bar: old wooden booths with eccentric wall hangings, including a life-size marlin; a simple menu offering burgers and fries; and a back room for live shows. It’s the perfect place for a new comic to try out their material judgement-free.

The back room was dimly lit and uncomfortably warm, and paint was peeling from the walls. About 15 men (no women) sat watching a young comedian perform on stage. It was definitely a stand-up routine, but laughs were conspicuously absent.

He would tell a joke about his girlfriend, or finding steady work, or New Year’s resolutions. An uncomfortable silence would follow, broken only by the comic shaking his head dejectedly and muttering, “Well, that one sucked.”

Eventually, an emcee emerged and ushered him off stage to polite applause. Another comic took his place. This pattern continued for roughly two hours.

After it ended, I realized I was the only one in the room who hadn’t performed.

Following the show, I sat down with the first comic I’d seen, Jake Jones of Bay Ridge. He was in good spirits despite the crickets during his set.

“Open mics are bombfests,” he said cheerfully, using a stand-up term that’s used to describe a set that goes very poorly. But that’s how you get better, he explained. “Every time I bomb, I come up with a better joke the next time.”

Does it hurt at all to bomb?

“Every day,“ he said. “I felt down today on stage. I had my first joke do good, after that it went downhill, and I was like, ‘What am I doing?”

Jones is determined, though. He moved to New York City last year from Orange County, California, to pursue a career in comedy, and for now, it’s all about getting the practice reps.

He tries to attend at least 20 open mics a week. “You can really time it up,” he explained. “You can hit one at 6 o’clock, and then 8 o’clock, and then sometimes like 11 o’clock at night. Those are kind of brutal sometimes.”

But that’s not the only way to find your footing in comedy.

“Going to as many open mics as possible always seemed like a kind of macho guy thing to do,” says Stef Dag over the phone. Dag, a New York comic who’s further along in her career, just completed a 17-city North American tour and performs regularly at another comedy club, The Stand, near Union Square. “For me, staying home and writing was more productive.”

She has also found success on social media, amassing more than 100,000 followers on Instagram, fueled in part by the popular dating show she hosts, "Hot & Single."

Still, both comics agree it takes a long time to get good.

“You’re not going to be good for 10 years,” Dag said. “You have to go through a sort of ego death or you’ll never get better.”

Beyond open mics, writing jokes at home and creating social media content, comics often launch their own shows with peers they meet along the way: informal, DIY comedy nights that function like amateur clubs. Jones hopes to launch one this year with a couple friends.

He also had an audition scheduled for the following night at Rodney’s, a comedy club on the Upper East Side. It’s his first audition, and he sounded a bit nervous. He signed up online when Rodney’s posted an open audition form. In general, though, to get an audition you need to be referred to a club’s booker by at least one comedian who has already “got passed” at the club.

“Getting passed” is industry slang for passing an audition, something akin to being initiated at a certain club. Once you’re passed, you can perform at the club, sometimes for years, and even for life.

Some clubs are more exclusive than others, and the Comedy Cellar, which encompasses the original MacDougal Street location, the Village Underground and the Fat Black Pussycat, is one of the hardest places to get passed at.

“It’s the scariest, most comedians would tell you,” Brooklyn-based comic Ophira Eisenberg said of the Cellar’s audition process. And even though she’s performed there more than 100 times, comedy can still be a grind.

“In the beginning, I remember many times thinking, ‘I should quit,’” she says. “Then, as you get older, you try to stay relevant. That’s a different kind of hurdle.”

I watched Eisenberg host a show at The Village Underground the night after Freddy’s, and the contrast between the two events couldn’t have been starker. This was a festive affair, and everyone wanted to be there.

Eisenberg opened with some crowd work, and her ability to adapt on the fly was impressive. She joked about a couple struggling to recall their child’s age, only to double down when she learned they had actually gotten married recently on the same weekend as the child’s birthday.

“Way to show him you care!” she joked.

Beyond the laughs and polished jokes, the comedians were noticeably comfortable. Gone were the nervous glances around the room before a punchline, or the visible deflation when a joke didn’t land.

These were seasoned professionals who had put in the time. There’s no short cut. Everyone starts in some stuffy, half-full back room in a bar.

Except maybe Will Arnett.