by Breuer, Jim
“Okay,” Alec said, getting into it. “But I gotta have a glass of scotch in my hand and a cigarette.” He remained in De Niro mode the rest of the day.
The sketch started off with Pesci introducing his old friend De Niro/Alec, who took a seat on the sofa. Then we brought out David Spade, who was playing Brad Pitt. There was a whole exchange where De Niro/Alec stood up from the couch to greet Brad/David and then he didn’t know whether to sit or remain standing out of courtesy, and Brad/David didn’t really know what was going on, which infuriated De Niro/Alec even more.
“What am I doin’?” De Niro/Alec said impatiently, addressing Brad/David. “Am I up? Am I down? What’s the deal here? Sit down already. Just sit down.” The crowd was howling. Then shortly after Brad/David sat down, Pesci/me got all paranoid and freaked out that Brad/David said something about him. Brad/David said, “No, I didn’t say anything.” And then De Niro/Alec said smugly, “I heard some things,” and the whole place erupted, and the beat-down ensued. Alec was brilliant.
Over the next year, my standing on SNL solidified. Sure, there was turbulence, but I launched a second character—Goat Boy—that was just as popular as my Pesci. I was reunited with Tracy Morgan when he joined the cast, and we even shared an office. We teamed up to do Wong and Owens, cheesy retired eighties porn stars who were desperately trying to work straight jobs, but every situation would always drag them back to their more hard-core side. They came out of the typical conversations Tracy and I would have every day.
“Can anybody actually retire from porn?” Tracy asked me one afternoon, kicking his feet up on the desk in the office we shared. “’Cause you can’t do it forever. That’s not a physical possibility.”
We pondered the idea, and pretty soon it became hilarious to us and Wong and Owens were born. I thought it would make for a great movie, even though it was probably the most embarrassing sketch I ever did. I was never required to strip down to a thong for any other job.
Anyway, with Pesci as a regular part of the rotation, I got to work with stars like John Goodman, Jim Carrey, and Kevin Spacey. They came to the show wanting to be in a Joe Pesci sketch. I felt pretty good, like I’d cracked the code. Lorne had private dinners on Tuesday nights, where only certain cast members got invited. And if you got an invite, that’s how you knew you were doing well. And eventually I would get those invites, usually when a guest host was feeling a bit uncomfortable and the producers wanted someone to lighten the mood at dinner. I was happy to oblige.
In the late winter or early spring of 1997, an intern told me that both De Niro’s camp and Scorsese’s camp wanted tapes of “The Joe Pesci Show.” That immediately ballooned my head. I was certain I was going to be in Goodfellas II or Taxi Driver II. My dreams from when I was a kid were all coming true. I was now going to be in movies with Pesci and De Niro, just like I promised Phil all those years ago when we were kids. I’d be the one calling De Niro “Bobby.”
The tapes went out, and no one ever called. No one sent me any scripts. No letters on Scorsese’s stationery ever arrived. But in early April, the head producer, Marci Klein, came into my office. If anyone made sure SNL happened, it was her. Marci was short, brunette, and tough, the daughter of Calvin. She’d been around the show for years, running things with a no-nonsense approach. She came in and shut the door quickly behind her, then stood in front of it. “Trouble,” I thought.
“Joe Pesci is coming in next Thursday,” she said, getting right to the point.
I was flabbergasted and asked, “What are you talking about?”
“You’re going to meet with him. He and Robert De Niro want to make a cameo on ‘The Joe Pesci Show’ next week. That’s it. And if this leaks, you get fired. End of story.”
She walked out of my office, closed the door, and then poked her head back in and smiled. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
I had over a week to agonize, freak out, and, most important, keep it to myself. Dee was the only person I told. I was happy to show her that the long struggle was paying off. Now I was back to thinking I was going to be buddies with De Niro and Pesci. I couldn’t wait to just connect on a regular-guy basis with my two heroes. Steve Koren had left the show by then; he was writing for Seinfeld, but he was the master behind the Pesci show, so we called him and he came back for a week to help write the script. He was more surprised than I was. De Niro didn’t do television. Lorne told the rest of the cast and made it clear that this was not to be announced.
So Thursday afternoon came. I was anxious that Pesci would be a no-show and the whole plan would come unglued. Then an intern rapped on my office door and told me that the man had arrived with two beautiful female assistants (his and De Niro’s) and wanted to sit down with me before rehearsing. I walked nervously to the greenroom and peeked in to see Pesci decked out in a full-on sharkskin suit. He was wearing a gold pinkie ring, and he had an expensive pair of Italian sunglasses pushed up on his forehead. He was squinting underneath them, looking at pictures and posters from the show that were hanging on the wall.
As I walked in, he pushed the sunglasses back down onto his face, turned to me, and smiled.
“So you’re Joe Pesci,” he said with a laugh.
I was so freaked out I couldn’t even say more than “Hi.”
“Why don’t you sit down over here with me?” He motioned nonchalantly toward two sofas positioned next to each other. I walked over and sat down with him, and he started murmuring stuff about going to dinner last week at restaurants I’d never been to, with people like Jack Nicholson and “Bobby” De Niro. He was dropping names like crazy, I think, to indicate how he’d usually be spending his time if he weren’t so graciously hanging out with me. Then he stopped abruptly, looked me directly in the eyes, and with all seriousness said, “Well—you gonna thank me for giving you a career?”
Before I could answer, he continued with a stern tone. “Listen, I like comedy. I really do. You like those cartoon guys Beavis and Butthead?”
“Yeah,” I said. I was wondering when the punch line was coming.
“Yeah, me, too,” he said, chuckling. “Freakin’ idiots! That’s comedy.” Then he paused before continuing on, his smile disappearing. “But whatever it is you’re doing as me—that ain’t comedy.”
I was stunned.
He continued. “Lemme ask you something.”
“Go ahead,” I said, nodding.
“Are you Italian?” he asked. By the look on his face and the tone of his voice, he already knew the answer was no.
“No, sir.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I figured as much. So tell me this: Where do you get balls big enough to use terms like guinea, wop, and dago?”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“I always hear you, as me, using slurs like guinea, wop, and dago,” he said. “And I never hear you disparaging other races. It’s always derogatory about Italians and you’re not even Italian. That bothers me.”
“Well,” I explained, “I always consult with an Italian writer.”
“Frank Sebastiano?” he asked. Frank wrote for SNL for many years before he joined David Letterman. “Yeah, I know that guy. I talked to him. But here’s the thing. You and I are performers, and you and I know that when we’re on the screen, we’re the ones liable for the racial slurs that come out of our mouths. So you are the one who uses these racial slurs. Am I right or wrong?”
“Y-yeah, um,” I stammered. I felt like Spider from Goodfellas. He was attacking me perfectly and I had no comeback. The two assistant girls were across the room from us, both looking down at their shoes so intently you’d think they were made of gold. “No . . . yeah.” I was sweating.
“Where did you grow up, anyway?”
“On Long Island.” I thought knowing we were from common grounds might calm him down. “I actually have a lot of friends that say they know you. ...”
“Oh yeah,” he said cynically. “Where on Long Island?”
“Valley Stream.”
“Valley Stream?” He said it shaking his head. “I don’t know no one from Valley Stream.”
He wasn’t breaking character. So I just assumed he was a real-deal mafioso there to shake me down. And now I was going to have to pay him a percentage for the rest of my career. I was sure he was going to say, “For the rest of your life you owe me ten percent.” He was that serious.
“You know, my grandfather came here and built lower Manhattan,” he said. “I’m a just a simple family man. A nonviolent guy, and now I gotta deal with someone like you? Someone who portrays me as a vicious animal that walks around places beating people? My family turns on the TV and sees you doing me as a violent person, because of a character that I played in a film? That ain’t Joe Pesci! You are doing a caricature of a character.”
I wanted to ask him something: If I was responsible for the slurs I was supposedly using on TV, wasn’t he responsible for the violence during his movies? But I knew that would just make things worse. He knew I was spoofing, right? I loved the guy. This was all wrong.
“I never meant to offend you,” I said meekly.
“You never meant to offend me?” he asked in a tone that suggested he thought I was lying. He took his sunglasses off and placed them on his thigh. “Then why would you use these ethnic slurs? And here’s another thing: Don’t thank me for showing up here. Thank Bobby. This is his idea. He’s the one who watches the tapes of your show, laughing his ass off, telling me, ‘We should go on that show and bust this guy’s balls. That would be a laugh.’ A laugh. So that’s why I’m here. I didn’t want to do this. I’m offended by it.
“And for the record, I don’t think you sound anything like me,” he spat. “You make me sound like Mickey Mouse.”
I stood up, convinced the sketch was toast. Pesci just came to clear the air, freak me out so bad I’d never embarrass him or demean his name again.
“I know you got upset when I said I didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Pesci,” I said slowly and earnestly. “To be honest, I really didn’t mean to offend you. Ever since I was a little kid and I saw Raging Bull, I looked for you in anything I could find. Easy Money—I loved it! I followed your career. I wanted to be you. I imitate you out of admiration. Not to be malicious.”
I was pacing the floor now, like a lawyer making his closing statement.
“I will never do the sketch again,” I said. “The last thing I want to do is hurt your feelings. But I do need to defend myself on one point. It might be splitting hairs, but if you really listen to the sketch, I never insulted Italians. I always do you getting mad at someone, and perhaps their prejudice, saying, ‘What do you think, I’m some kind of crazy rigatoni? A spazzed-out scungilli?’ But I never called an Italian that. I always accused a person of those thoughts as I beat them with a baseball bat.”
And as I was saying that, Pesci’s expression went from annoyed to annoyed with a little bit of sincere understanding in it. Then back to quietly annoyed.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, looking at me like I was a misguided chump. “I know that.”
“This has been a learning experience,” I said proudly. The armpits of my shirt were now oceans. “It’s not worth it. I apologize. I think you’re a phenomenal actor. We’ll never do the sketch again.”
“Wha? What?” he said, spitting out the words, scooting forward in his chair, the volatile, impatient guy returning. “Whaddaya mean we’re not gonna do it?!” he said. “I already told Bobby we’re gonna do it. Of course we’re gonna do it.”
He wagged his finger back and forth between me and him. “Jeez, I thought a guy from Long Island could take a little ball busting. I’m just playing games with you, Jimmy. Busting your balls. Sheesh.”
“Okay,” I said. I heaved a sigh of relief and, still, more than a little bewilderment. He’d toyed with me for fifteen minutes.
“You’re a funny guy,” Pesci said, breaking into a smile and nodding his head. Now I was feeling better. “I don’t understand the goat thing, though. What’s that all about? It weirds me out.” Goat Boy had come to life that season, and it evoked strong reactions in people. It didn’t bug me that he didn’t get it; I was more than happy he didn’t blow up the whole sketch and count me as an enemy. Still, I thought I’d at least explain.
“Well, he’s supposed to be a—”
“Okay, never mind that,” Pesci said, standing up and putting his sunglasses back on. “I’ve gotta car waiting for me downstairs. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m coming back tomorrow to block this scene. So you’ll tell me where to stand, where Bobby’s gotta stand, and I’ll let him know, ’cause Bobby don’t do no rehearsing. And we ain’t showing up for this whole dress rehearsal thing on Saturday. We show up for the real deal and that’s it. You got a problem with that?”
“No, sir.”
He came back Friday and took over the set, entertaining everyone with stories from the movies he’d been in. And he was telling corny and dirty jokes trying to make me laugh, saying, “Jimbo, ever hear this one?” It was great. He was calling me “Jimbo”!
But then on Saturday night, a half hour before dress rehearsal, the wheels flew off completely.
“De Niro’s not gonna make it,” Steve said. I was in hair and makeup getting my Pesci nose put on.
“Ha ha!” I said. “Good one, Steve.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not kidding you. Apparently, he didn’t know that Saturday Night Live is live.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t do live television.”
That’s how cool De Niro was. For the twenty years the show had been on the air, he had no idea it was live. So now we had to ask ourselves: Do we still do it? We’d heard nothing about Pesci bailing, so the producers asked Darrell Hammond to play a fake De Niro alongside the real Pesci. It was going to be me, Colin Quinn as a fake De Niro, the real Pesci as himself, and Darrell as a fake-real-fake De Niro. It made no sense. Steve Koren wasn’t into it. I certainly wasn’t into it. No one was into it. Steve and I argued with the producers that we should go with just the real Pesci and be insanely grateful for our good fortune. The dilemma lasted all the way up until the eight P.M. dress rehearsal show. I took the stage, got behind my desk, and when “fifteen seconds” was shouted and the studio quieted to a hush, I could see Darrell in a De Niro getup waiting in the wings, but both the real Pesci and De Niro were no-shows.
I knew the sketch was going to be a debacle. Defeated, I went into it halfheartedly, not giving my all to my lines or to my character. And Pesci and De Niro, real or fake, weren’t due to come onstage until the very end, so I had to slug my way through the whole thing, with Rob Lowe impersonating Eric Roberts and Chris Kattan adeptly playing David Spade.
The sketch ground its way out, and right at the end, I heard the loudest roar from a crowd I’ve ever heard in my whole life. It was as if the Beatles were all alive and had decided to show up that night. I looked over to where Darrell was standing to see that the real Pesci and De Niro had emerged from the wings and come onstage. De Niro had a little hat on, and he was looking over at me with a sparkle in his eye, grinning his famous grin. I could not have been more surprised. They’d been nowhere near the stage, or maybe even the whole studio, until the very second they were supposed to walk onstage. And every time De Niro opened his mouth, the crowd went wild.
The big joke of the sketch was that after Pesci lectured me—much in the same way he lectured me in the greenroom—De Niro busted Colin Quinn, wagging his finger, eyeballing his horrible orange suit, and asking bluntly, “Who are you supposed to be?”
And Colin very matter-of-factly answered, “Colin Quinn. Remote Control?” name-checking his old MTV game show.
And once the dress sketch was over, they split and didn’t return until they were due to appear on the broadcast show. By then, masses and masses of people had shown up, because word got out that Pesci and De Niro were on the show. Everyone’s managers and agents, and all the friends they could sneak in, were milling around the h
allway, hoping for a chance to see the goodfellas, even if only on the monitors. And just like that, the hallway noise died down, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea as Pesci and De Niro returned and made their way toward the studio. De Niro nodded politely every few feet, asking, “How ya doing?” to assorted hangers-on.
Pesci spotted me and winked. “This is the big night, Jimmy,” he said, squeezing my arm. “You ready? We’re gonna have fun. See you in a couple minutes.” Then he and De Niro went into their dressing room. The next time I saw them was during the live sketch. I got into makeup and wardrobe and Lorne approached me much in the manner that Pesci did. “Big night,” he said in his typical understated way. “You ready for it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks a lot, Lorne. Thank you so much.”
“People are going to see this for a long time, Jim,” he said matter-of-factly. Through all of our disagreements and misunderstandings, this was what I loved about Lorne. He always seemed to have a sense of how everything would play out. In one calm sentence, he’d subtly motivated me to focus. And he said it so simply and so assuredly that I really just paid attention to his words. He helped me make the moment. And it’s one of the greatest moments, I’d wager, in the history of SNL. Over thirteen years later, it still makes me immensely proud, and I still hear about it from fans.
After the sketch, Pesci found me on my way to remove my prosthetic nose.
“You never met Bobby yet, did ya?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s dying to meet you.”
We went into his dressing room, and I said, “Mr. De Niro, thank you so much. I swear to God. That was unbelievable.”
“No, no, no,” he said, closing his eyes and nodding his head quickly. “You’re good. You’re very funny. Very funny.”
“Nah ...”
“No,” he said, and slapped me on the shoulder. “You’re very funny.”
“Thanks,” I said, and without any hesitation, I added, “Can you sign my Raging Bull tape?”