Growing Up Laughing Page 11

  It was a great night. My parents had flown over for the opening, and it was

  a triumph—for Neil Simon and all of the actors. At the end, the ovations seemed to go on forever. My dear parents told me later that they had sat on

  their hands throughout the applause, so no one would think they had started it.

  The excitement in my dressing room after the curtain came down was thrilling. My mother was ecstatic—everyone was happy and crying. Then I saw my father. He looked like he had just finished the triathalon. I knew he had lived through every moment of the play with me. And he was drained.

  I’ll never forget the look on his face. It wasn’t joy, it wasn’t pride. It was utter relief. I was going to be okay.

  The next morning I received spectacular reviews, but none more liberating to me than the one that ended with “She’s the daughter of an American comedian, I’m told.”

  In true form, Dad was funny about it all. One night I had forgotten my curlers at the hotel, and Dad ran over to the theatre with them in a paper bag. The old man at the stage door yelled down to my dressing room, “There’s a dark-complexioned man here with a package for you.” My very famous, very adorable father came down the stairs, handed me the bag of curlers and said, “I’m going back on American Airlines where they know who the hell I am!”

  Chapter 21

  Killing and Dying—Alan Alda

  Alan Alda and I made a movie together in 1968 called Jenny, and we’ve been friends ever since. He always makes me laugh, and I love listening to him tell stories about his childhood with his famous dad, the actor and musical star Robert Alda.

  Like me, Alan grew up surrounded by comedians—in his case, burlesque comics. He traveled with his parents and a troupe of singers, chorus girls and comedians to places like Buffalo, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. From the time he was two years old, he’d stand in the wings, watching very funny people perform about five times a day. (“Sometimes, we’d stay up all night drinking beer,” he jokes. “I didn’t drink beer till I was three.”) It’s always good to catch up with Alan, especially when we’re talking about our favorite topic: growing up with laughter.

  —M.T.

  Alan: Funny, I just saw you the other day. I was looking at pictures from my last birthday party, and there you were.

  Marlo: There I was.

  Alan: And you look good.

  Marlo: You’re sweet—you’re no slouch yourself.

  Alan: I don’t look too bad in pictures. I’ve noticed that I never like any pictures of me when they’re taken. I should put them in a drawer and wait three years—then I’ll look sensational.

  Marlo: I’m always glad to be there for your birthdays. It’s great being old friends. My father used to say, “Never trade an old friend in for a new one.”

  Alan: My dad was like that, too. Even after he began making movies in Hollywood, he never abandoned his old pals. The burlesque comics would come over on Sundays and there would be, like, fifty people there. They’d fire up the barbecue and everybody would get up and do old sketches. They’d even let me join in with them. I was constantly in the midst of funny people.

  Marlo: So your comic training started early. How old were you when you first realized you were funny?

  Alan: About four.

  Marlo: You’re kidding! Four?

  Alan: Four. And I remember exactly where I was. My parents were in bed, and I was in their bedroom, picking up newspapers from the floor. As soon as I picked one up, I’d immediately drop it—you know, like Buster Keaton. And each time I did it, my parents would laugh. Finally, my father said, “You’re doing a bit, aren’t you?” And that’s when I realized I was deliberately going for the laugh. I think that may be the first time I thought I was funny.

  Marlo: That’s so cute. You were already honing your physical shtick. But I’ve always believed there’s something more than just comic skill inside comedians. Do you agree?

  Alan: Yes. I think it comes from the desire—the need—to please. And you can’t ignore it. Comedians always talk about killing. In a sense, that’s a very accurate term. When you make people laugh, you make them helpless. So, in a way, you are killing them.

  Marlo: That’s interesting—I never thought of it that way.

  Alan: I think it’s good for people to laugh together—which is why I always recommend to actors that they laugh with one another an hour before a show. Because then they’ll be vulnerable and opened up to each other. You can’t stay guarded while you’re laughing. You can’t be in your own world when you’re on stage.

  Marlo: When does a comic truly know he’s killing?

  With Alan on location for Jenny. Were we really ever that young?

  Alan: When he’s got the whole room rocking with laughter. I remember I was once waiting to go on stage for some event and standing in the wings with Dan Rather. Alan King was on stage, and the place was his. I said to Rather, “Listen to him—listen to what he’s done!” He’d been on stage only two minutes, and the audience was in his complete control. Everything he said—every syllable—caused this eruption of hilarity in the audience.

  Marlo: What a great observation. What did Rather say?

  Alan: He said, “Oh yeah . . . What do you mean?”

  Marlo: That’s so funny. What about actual comic delivery? It’s a given among comedians that there are people who say funny things, and people who say things funny—like Jack Benny. He’d say one word—“Well!”—and it always brought the house down.

  Alan: Right. A funny person doesn’t need word-jokes or puns to get the laugh. A funny person doesn’t need formulas—like that thing with threes that you always hear in every amateur joke-teller’s joke. You know: “So this guy walks into the bar for the third time . . .” Whenever I hear the first thing, I think, Oh, shit, now I have to sit through two more of these . . .

  Marlo: I know exactly what you mean. I love the stories you’ve told me about your childhood. When you were nine, your father took you with him to the Hollywood Canteen to entertain American troops. What do you remember about that?

  Alan: We did Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” routine.

  Marlo: Wow, really?

  Alan: Yeah—I did Costello’s part.

  Marlo: That’s the part that gets all the laughs. Were you nervous?

  Alan: I was shaking with fear in the wings beforehand. But as I went out, I felt the warm spotlight on me, and within the first couple of lines, I heard this roar of laughter coming at me. It was such a feeling of power. Soldiers, sailors on their way to the Pacific, and here I was this nine-year-old kid.

  Marlo: Nine. That’s amazing

  Alan: And I could make them laugh.

  Marlo: Isn’t that great? It really says something that your father trusted you to come out there and do that routine with him, because if you weren’t good you could have killed it. His faith in you must have been empowering.

  Alan: It was. I remember the rehearsals. They were very loose, and he left a lot of the choices up to me. So the energy that came out of me was genuine.

  Marlo: And alive.

  Alan: Yes. And starting that way—planting my feet on the stage and feeling comfortable and confident that I could come up with that kind of energy—is what gave me the ability to go out there.

  Marlo: Right. It made you fearless.

  Alan: Yes, but there was also that sense of power. You know, people always talk about the dark spirit of comedians. Well, I think it comes from a deep feeling of powerlessness, a desire to score, to be there and to deserve to be there; and the feeling that, unless you control them, they’ll control you. They’ll kill you if you don’t kill them first.

  Marlo: What a combo—people you want to please and also want to kill. The language says it all. I can’t count how many times I heard that as a kid—my dad or one of his comic friends talking about having a bad night on stage. And how did they describe it? “I died.”

  Alan: And there’s nothing worse. Carol Burne
tt told me that when she was just starting out, she was once on stage in a nightclub and really bombing. After her act, she went backstage and was practically in tears. Suddenly this guy from the audience comes walking down the hallway, on his way to the bathroom. He says, “Hey, didn’t I just see you in the show out there?” Carol says, “Yeah.” And the guy says, “Jesus, you stink.”

  Marlo: Oh, God!

  Alan: So, yes, they will kill you.

  Marlo: But the best comedians always come bouncing back.

  Alan: Right, and all because of that need to please. That urge. Funny people—really funny people—will be funny under any circumstances. Someone can just lift their eyebrow or make a little shift in their tone, or get a look in their eye, and you’ll fall down laughing. And that’s because they want to be in a pleasant frequency with you. It’s like you’re both tuned into the same thing, and you’re dancing together. And through that funniness, the two of you can share a moment of pleasure that you can’t get any other way. An intimacy.

  Marlo: Intimacy. Dancing. Killing. A funny business, this comedy business.

  Alan: You bet.

  Chapter 22

  Comedians in Their Dressing Rooms

  George Burns, Milton Berle, Sid Caesar—any of the nightclub comedians I grew up with—could be found before a show in his dressing room, waiting to go on, sitting in his starched, white tux shirt, black satin bow tie, and . . . a pair of shorts. They never put their pants on till the last minute. As my dad used to say, “People eating dinner don’t want to look up at a guy with a crumpled crotch.”

  I loved that about those guys—such respect for the audience. And they all made it look so easy, as they’d stride out on stage to their theme songs, looking happy, snappy and eager to entertain you.

  Well, it’s not easy. That performance you’re watching as you sip your cocktail or enjoy your meal has been carefully measured, honed, worked and reworked until it feels good enough to present to you.

  Traveling around the country doing two shows a night, six nights a week, requires a huge amount of energy and Superman guts. You’ve got to have guts to go out there all alone, take a diverse group of strangers, spellbind them, and bring them together as your audience.

  My father always reminded me of a matador. Often when he was telling a story, he would make a turn, spin off course and back himself into a corner—seemingly a dead end. I’d wonder how he’d ever get back, and then he’d masterfully whip the cape of his wit, make another turn and bring the house down.

  I once had a pair of cuff links made for him with matadors on them, and on the back, I had engraved one word: “Olé.”

  One night at a party at our house, Bob Newhart told a story about a comedian in his dressing room, waiting to go on. He gets a knock on his door, and when he opens it, there’s a lovely looking woman standing there. He can see she’s a little nervous.

  “I am so sorry to disturb you,” she says, “but I just had to let you know that I saw your show last night, and I can’t tell you how much you did for me.”

  The woman gulps a breath.

  “You see, I lost my husband six months ago and I have been so blue ever since. I’ve really felt I had nothing to live for. But last night my friends dragged me out of the house, saying it would be good for me, and they brought me to see your show. Well, I laughed like I have never laughed before. Really, you were so wonderful, you took the sadness right out of me. And I just wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved my life. So I just thought if there’s anything I can do for you—I mean, I know you must be lonely on the road away from home. Well, I live nearby and I’d love to make you a home-cooked meal. I also have some very good wine. And, well, frankly, I’m a little lonely, too. So if you’d like to stay over, I have a beautiful negligee I could slip into. We could have a very lovely night together.”

  The comedian looks at her for a moment and then says, “Did you see the first show or the second show?”

  Chapter 23

  A Phone Call with Mr. Warmth—Don Rickles

  If there’s one thing that proves how many generations of comedy Don Rickles’s career has spanned, it’s that he still wears a classic tuxedo on stage. When’s the last time you saw that in a comedy club? I smile whenever I see Don, because he reminds me of all the comics I grew up with who thrived in the early days of Las Vegas. But Don was unique among them. He had chosen the most difficult and dangerous way of trying to make people laugh—by insulting them. And they loved it. They still do, tipping the maître d’ to put them up close in hopes of being the subject of his outrageous barbs. In 2008, Don had a best-selling memoir and won an Emmy for a documentary about his career. At 85, he continues to storm the stage and pack the house, because we know that beneath all that blustery insult stuff, the man is an adorable softie.

  —M.T.

  Marlo: Hello, Don?

  Don: Yeah . . .

  Marlo: Hi, it’s Marlo Thomas.

  Rickles: Hi Marlo. What are you doing in town?

  Marlo: I’m not in town, actually. I’m in New York.

  Rickles: Well, I’m not gonna do it.

  Marlo: You’re not going to do what?

  Rickles: I thought you were going to ask me to do something for that hospital you raise money for. And I was going to say, no, I’m sick, I can’t do it.

  Marlo: [Laughs] Oh, Don, you make me laugh. Wait. You’re not really sick, are you?

  Rickles: Yes. A truck hit me about a week ago, but I know you’ve been busy. Don’t worry about it.

  Marlo: [Laughs] Well, if you were sick, you know that I know a lot of people in the medical field, so you can always call me . . .

  Rickles: I’m too big now, Marlo. I can’t even speak to you. You know, when you become an Emmy winner . . .

  Marlo: I know. I watched the show, and it was quite a thrill to see you win.

  Rickles: Oh, you saw it.

  Marlo: Yes, Phil and I watched it together. It was great.

  Rickles: Did Phil understand it?

  Marlo: [Laughs] Yeah, he got it.

  Rickles: Explain to Phil that I got bigger than him, and now I don’t have to go to Cleveland to be on his Mickey Mouse show.

  Marlo: Well, you’ll be happy to know that he’s not in Cleveland anymore.

  Rickles: I know that, Marlo. I’ve been around.

  Marlo: I’m calling you because I’m writing a book that has lots of stories about my dad . . .

  Rickles: Who’s your dad?

  Marlo: Some old guy. I also read your book . . .

  Rickles: Oh, did you?

  Marlo: Yes.

  Rickles: Did you enjoy it?

  Marlo: Yes I did. I loved the stories about your mother and your relationship with Frank Sinatra. Great stuff.

  Rickles: Well, thanks. You know, I have a new one out now.

  Marlo: I know—the one with the letters to you. I read that, too. I thought it was fun.

  Rickles: It’s so funny. All of a sudden I’ve become the Jewish Mark Twain. Tell Phil I’m the Jewish Mark Twain.

  Marlo: I will. He’ll get that. He knows from Mark Twain.

  Rickles: Okay.

  Marlo: So, anyway, my book is about growing up with comedy, and I was wondering, was there somebody in your childhood who made you laugh? How did you become as funny as you are?

  Rickles: It was always my personality. Even as a kid, my sarcastic humor and the insults, it was all just in me. It’s not something you go to school for, though Milton Berle was my hero when I was growing up.

  Marlo: You watched him on television?

  Rickles: Yeah, Milton was one of the first guys I used to watch. His delivery was something else. Then as I got older, I realized I was wrong. Don’t put that in the book.

  Marlo: [Laughs] Too late—it’s in.

  Rickles: I think he would’ve gotten a kick out of that.

  Marlo: Me, too. How about on the radio? Any heroes there?

  Rickles: Jack Benny, Sid Caesar, and t
hat whole group. Those were the guys I listened to.

  Marlo: Were you funny in school? Did you make people laugh?

  Rickles: Yeah, I was the president of the Dramatics Club in high school, and failing every subject.

  Marlo: Because you were funny?

  Rickles: Because I was always busy acting and never studying. Then the war came, and I went into the navy.

  Marlo: I saw that picture of you in your book. You were handsome as a sailor.

  Rickles: Handsome? You must have cataracts.

  Marlo: Not yet, thank you. So when did you realize you could make people laugh? When you were a little boy, did you make your parents laugh?

  Rickles: It wasn’t like that. In my case, I never realized it. My mother would just say, “Get up there and do Uncle Jack—show everybody how he walks.” So I’d make fun of my Uncle Jack. And my Aunt Dora. Then when I was about 12 and the holidays came around—Hanukkah or Christmas—I would get up in the synagogue and do impersonations of the rabbi, off the top of my head.

  Marlo: So your mother knew you were funny.

  Rickles: Yes, she knew I was funny, but believe it or not, she didn’t believe in my humor.

  Marlo: Meaning?

  Rickles: Meaning, she’d laugh, but she’d say, “Why can’t you be like Alan King?”

  Marlo: That’s funny.

  Rickles: Used to break me up. But once my career took off and she started to get jewelry and a nice house, she said, “Okay. Your humor has some merit to it.”

  Marlo: Right. Let’s get back to the synagogue. You’d actually get up and imitate the rabbi? That’s pretty nervy.

  Rickles: Oh, sure. But I’ve always had a way of doing things that were funny. Like at the Kennedy Center Awards. When Clint Eastwood received that honor, he invited Barbara and me to be there. A lot of stars were invited to speak, and everyone’s saying, “Clint is a genius,” “Clint is the greatest,” “God bless Clint,” and so on. And I get up and say, “Now, Clint I’m gonna be very honest with you—you’re a lousy actor.” And everybody falls down.