by Don Rickles
For years, Tony couldn’t say hello to me or Ricardo without offering us parts. He meant well, but we finally understood it wasn’t happening. At the same time, being in the company of Zorba was reward enough.
Meanwhile, back in Yugoslavia, Brian Hutton, director of Kelly’s Heroes, had hired half the Yugoslavian army as extras. The story revolved around GIs looking to steal gold bullion hoarded by Nazis. Complicated plot. Complicated production. Lots of explosions.
“With all these pellets going off,” I told the special effects man, “I’m a little worried.”
“Not to worry, Don,” he reassured me. “These pellets will never touch you.”
Next time I played a scene, crawling on my stomach under fire, a pellet shot right into my leg.
“I’m bleeding,” I told the effects man.
“Impossible,” he said.
Months later, after the film was finished, I had an operation in L.A. to remove the impossible pellet from my leg.
Before that, though, Hutton had us running around like headless chickens. Hutton was such an in-control director, you had the feeling that Marshal Tito, the Yugoslavian dictator, was working for him. I thought I spotted Tito at the barbecue spit basting a pig.
Another Hutton gofer had the vital job of bringing everyone hot coffee. His name was John Landis. Later when Landis became a big director and cast me in his vampire comedy, Innocent Blood, I kept yelling at him, “More hot coffee, John, more hot coffee!”
When the movie was over, I came home and waited for the premiere. The film opened to big business. Maybe this would do wonders for my acting career.
Didn’t exactly happen that way. My next role was in a film called The Love Machine.
Blink and you’d miss me.
The seventies were off to a roaring start.
Two overpriced nurses—Telly and Clint—tending to Rickles’ wound.
World’s Best Punch Line
Joe Bologna is a wonderful actor. I’ve known him for years. He was witness to one of the best moments in my career as a comic. The only problem is that it didn’t happen on stage, and it wasn’t my line.
It happened when Joe and I were walking in Manhattan and got approached by a homeless guy.
“Got any spare change?” he asked me.
I gave him five bucks.
“Go buy yourself a ranch,” I said.
He thanked me, started walking away and then turned back.
“Hey, mister,” he said, “now I need cattle.”
“Rickles, don’t you have a line for this guy?” asked Bologna.
Rickles had nothing, except a great story to tell for the rest of his life.
Famous Last Words
“You’re the perfect star for a sitcom, Don,” says a famous producer who will remain nameless.
I like flattery as much as the next guy, so I say, “Tell me more.”
“You’re a natural, Rickles. People like having you in their homes. Why else would Carson and the other talk show hosts have you on so much? You’re the average Joe with a wild sense of humor. You love your wife and your kids—that always comes across. And that’s the kind of sitcom you should do—head of the household, slightly zany, always getting in jams, but basically a good guy. Isn’t that you?”
“I suppose so,” I say, “except for one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“My kind of humor is hard to put in a script. My voice isn’t easy to write for. I make it up as I go along. I never know what I’m going to say next. I’m best when I go out there cold. You can’t do that in a sitcom.”
“Hollywood is full of great writers. You’ll find the right one.”
Couple of months later, I catch sitcom fever. Producers are interested. ABC is interested. Writers are interested. Scripts are coming in.
Here’s the setup: I’m an ad man. My wife’s name is Barbara. We have a little girl and a house in the suburbs. I work in the city, and I have a hard time adjusting to the modern world. Funny things happen to me. I’m a funny guy. You gotta like me. You gotta love me. The show has to work, but it doesn’t.
“What’s wrong?” asks the real-life Barbara when I get home from a hard day at the studio.
“The writing,” I say. “It doesn’t sound like me.”
“Well, tell them.”
“I do.”
“And what do they say?” asks Barbara.
“They say I’m funny and the writing’s funny and the show’s a guaranteed hit. The network is convinced.”
“And you aren’t?”
“I’m convinced I need other writers.”
So I get another writer. And then another. And then another after that.
I keep saying, “The story’s all right, but where are the laughs?”
“The laughs are there, Don,” they say. “They’re in the script. They’re in the delivery.”
Long story short: In 1972, The Don Rickles Show hits the airwaves.
Long story even shorter: In 1972, The Don Rickles Show is canceled.
Two years later, a certified public accountant starts up his own sitcom.
Ever hear of The Bob Newhart Show?
If at First You Don’t
Succeed…
“You’re a natural star for a sitcom,” said a Hollywood producer not long after the The Don Rickles Show left the air.
“Where have I heard that before?” I asked.
“A domestic comedy isn’t right for you. You’re wackier than that, Don. Your humor needs a different backdrop.”
“Like what?”
“Like the Navy.”
“Why the Navy?”
“You’ll make it funny.”
“I still worry that it’s hard to write for me.”
“Remember Sergeant Bilko?”
“Sure.”
“A genius show, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Loved it. I love Phil Silvers.”
“Well, what Bilko did for Silvers, this idea will do for you.”
Over the next few weeks, the idea took form: As Bilko was a sergeant in the Army, Sharkey was a chief petty officer in the Navy. Bilko had a band of guys under his command. So would Sharkey. They called Silvers’ show Sergeant Bilko. They were calling mine C.P.O. Sharkey.
NBC bought it.
I still worried that it was hard—if not impossible—to write for me, but writers were eager to prove me wrong.
“As Bilko defined TV for the fifties,” said one of the trade papers, “Sharkey will define the seventies.”
From his typewriter to God’s ear.
Turned out that God doesn’t read the trades.
It also turned out that Sharkey wasn’t a disaster. I liked the guy. He was a crazy Navy chief tailored after my own craziness. The audience liked him enough to keep him around for a couple of years. But I can hardly call it landmark television.
That distinction was reserved for my good friend from Chicago whose low-key psychologist character, like Lucy or Mary or Archie Bunker, will last forever. The Bob Newhart Show was brilliant.
Meanwhile, the most memorable moment for Sharkey came from out of the blue.
I had just guest-hosted the Tonight show, and, while conducting an interview, I accidentally broke Johnny’s favorite cigarette box. Next day on the air, Ed tells Johnny what happened. Johnny decides to have some fun. He has the cameras follow him as he marches out of his studio, down the hallway and bursts onto the soundstage where we’re shooting Sharkey. I’m in full Navy dress. Johnny doesn’t care.
That’s right, I’m C.P.O. Sharkey.
“Rickles,” he says, “you busted my cigarette case and you’re paying for it.”
Johnny goes on and on, raking me over the coals. It’s one of Carson’s funniest moments, totally spontaneous. I can’t stop laughing. I have no quick comeback. Johnny out-Rickles Rickles.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say when he’s through, “Mr. Johnny Carson!”
Johnny shouts back, “They know who I am!
You don’t have to introduce me.”
It’s Sharkey’s greatest moment: upstaged by King Carson.
King Elvis
Elvis was huge in the fifties. He had his troubles in the sixties, but he came roaring back in the seventies, when he was huge all over again.
Elvis took over Vegas and made the town his own. When he was playing the Hilton, everyone was happy because business trickled down from his show to everywhere else.
I’d only met the King in passing, but people kept saying he was a big fan of mine. I was flattered but never really believed it. I didn’t see Elvis going for my humor.
Then one night, when I’m on stage at the Sahara, there he is. He’s with his girlfriend, Linda Thompson, and he’s heading for the stage. The audience goes nuts, and all I can say is, “Elvis, it’s great to see you. Looks like you got enough gold around your neck to sink the Titanic.”
He laughs, but then again he might laugh at anything. His eyes tell me he’s feeling no pain.
“Mr. Rickles,” he says, “I came up here to help you.”
“Thank you, Elvis, I really appreciate it.”
“Mr. Rickles, I’m here to bless you. I have a poem I’d like to read in your honor.”
“Please do, Elvis.”
The poem is flowery and strange and no one knows what it’s about. When he’s through, I say: “Elvis, we love you. You’re a genius and a gentleman for gracing my stage. Now do me a favor. Take your chain, your belt and your cape and go home.”
To the Moon, Alice
(Without Jackie Gleason)
The seventies were also all about space exploration, a subject that interested me.
It became even more interesting when Barbara and I met Gene Cernan, commander of Apollo 17, the fifth and last manned mission to land on the moon. We became friendly, and Gene was nice enough to invite us to the launch—the first night launch in the history of the program. Along with a host of dignitaries and the crew’s families, Barb and I had ringside seats at the Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral. A priest gave the prelaunch blessing. I was going to ask why there wasn’t a rabbi, but I didn’t want to push it.
I had given Gene a tape and asked him to play it for the crew when they landed up there.
“Sure, Don,” said Gene. “What’s on it?”
“Just a little message for you and the boys,” I said.
The mission went well, and months later, after Gene returned safely to earth, we invited him to our home in Beverly Hills.
“Great job, Gene,” I said. “America’s proud of you. But I’m curious to know how the tape played on the moon. How did the crew react?”
“When we landed, I told the guys, ‘Here’s an inspiring message from my dear friend Don Rickles.’ I turned on the machine and out came a voice that boomed all over the moon: ‘Hey, guys, is this trip really necessary? You could have gone to Vegas for a lot less money and left those funny suits at home.’ ”
Gene was laughing, and I was proud that my voice had made it to the moon.
“For playing that tape, Gene,” I said, “I’m treating you to dinner among Hollywood’s finest at Chasen’s restaurant.”
We walked out to the garage. At the time I had a Rolls.
“You’re the space commander, Gene,” I said. “Why don’t you drive?”
“I’d love to,” said Gene.
We piled in, Gene turned the key in the ignition and…rrrrrrrr…. rrrrrrrr….
Nothing.
The Rolls’ engine had passed away.
“Lucky we’re with the commander,” I told Barbara as Gene got out to lift up the hood. He fooled with some wires.
“Try the engine now, Don,” said Gene.
I tried.
rrrrrrr…. rrrrrrrr….
Still dead.
Still confident, I watched Gene toy with some more wires.
“I think I got it,” he said. “It should turn over now.”
It didn’t. Even the rrrrrrrr was gone.
Gene shut the hood.
“What’s the solution, Commander?” I asked.
“Your other car,” he said with a smile.
“Wait a minute,” I said to my friend. “You can get to the moon in that Buck Rogers space ship, but you can’t get to Chasen’s in a Rolls-Royce?”
“That seems to be the size of it, Don.”
“Why don’t you make a long-distance call,” I suggest, “so I can hear you say ‘Houston, we have a problem.’ ”
End result: We went to Chasen’s in Barbara’s Chevy.
Thanks, Bill Harrah, for the good times at Tahoe.
“If I Can Make Them Laugh on
the Moon, Why Can’t I Make
Them Laugh at Harrah’s?”
That’s what I kept asking my booking agent when he told me that I couldn’t work at Bill Harrah’s Lake Tahoe resort.
“Bill’s a very reserved guy,” I was told. “He likes Eddie Arnold, Red Skelton and Jack Benny. People he respects.”
“You mean he doesn’t respect me?” I asked.
“To be honest,” said the agent, “no. You’re loud.”
“I’ll tone it down.”
“No you won’t. You’re incapable of toning it down. Look, Don, forget Harrah’s. You’re just not Bill Harrah’s type of act.”
I didn’t forget Harrah’s, though. I was successful in Vegas and saw no reason why I couldn’t be successful in Lake Tahoe.
The agent kept pushing, and finally Bill Harrah relented.
“I’ll try him for a week,” he said, “and then we’ll see.”
“Take it easy opening night,” the agent advised. “Bill’s going to be there. Treat him gently.”
Winter in Lake Tahoe.
Opening night.
Rickles on stage.
Bill Harrah in his private booth in the back of the room.
“Mr. Harrah,” I said, “I’m not too crazy about your hotel, but I’ll do you a favor and work here.”
No one ever talked that way to Bill Harrah.
“In fact, this whole resort is ridiculous,” I went on. “Why would anyone come up here and pay this kind of money to freeze their burgers off? Besides, Jews don’t ski. We own the mountain.”
It took Bill a while to react. Meanwhile, management turned green. I got the feeling I had worn out my welcome in the first minute.
But then Bill laughed.
Suddenly everyone was laughing.
From that moment on, I became a Harrah favorite. I played the resort five straight years.
Bill liked to take us out on his boat and sail around Lake Tahoe. Once, when I was with Barbara, Mindy and Larry, he showed us a gorgeous old mansion, right on the lake, where they had filmed the party scene in The Godfather II.
“Mindy,” I said to my young daughter, “when you grow up, this is where you’ll get married.” Then I turned to Barbara and said, “That’ll make the Corleones very happy.”
For my fiftieth birthday, Bill had a little surprise for me.
He drove to our villa in a brand-new silver metallic Corvette Sting Ray.
“Happy Birthday, Don,” Bill said. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks, Bill,” I said, before offering him a few bucks for a cab back to the hotel.
He Reads the New York Times
I read the New York Post.
He studies the editorials.
I study the sports page.
He likes polite discourse.
I’m loud.
So how the hell have we come to like each other so much?
We make each other laugh—that’s how.
Offstage, I’m Bob Newhart’s best audience and he’s mine. It helps, of course, that our wives have maintained their close friendship. Bob and I both subscribe to the philosophy that has saved many a marriage: Happy wife, happy life.
For some thirty-five years, the Newharts and the Rickleses have taken many happy vacations together. We’ve traveled the world. I’ve watched him hide as I’ve
made fun of people in foreign languages I don’t understand. He’s watched me doze off while he’s discussed the world’s problems. My problem was finding out if the Dodgers beat the Giants.
We once went to Spain and stayed in a private villa that had two sleeping quarters. One was a suite. The other wasn’t. Ginnie, who’s wonderful, said, “Bob, let’s give the Rickleses the suite.”
Bob wanted to flip for it. Ginnie said, “No, they’re our friends and they get the suite.”
The suite was fabulous. The Newharts’ room wasn’t. To get to their bathroom, they had to walk through our suite.
“You’re bothering us, Bob,” I’d tell him when he hurried through. “You’re ruining our vacation.”
Once, in the Hong Kong airport, we waited for our luggage. It was a madhouse, a sea of people, all scrambling to find their suitcases and trunks.
The usual procedure was this: Bob and Barbara would identify the luggage and deal with the customs officials while Ginnie and I found a comfortable bench and watched.
So the mess in Hong Kong hadn’t put Bob in a great mood.
“Hey, Bob,” I said, “while you’re sorting out luggage, see if any of those Chinese guys want to do our laundry.”
We often attracted American tourists.
Once in Germany, walking through some village, we were approached by a church group from Iowa.
“Look, Don,” said Bob. “Let’s be nice, but let’s not get into a long conversation. I don’t want to spend my afternoon talking about our TV shows.”
“Me either,” I said.
The first tourist who comes up starts gushing about The Bob Newhart Show. I expect Bob to politely blow him off. But when the guy asks a specific question about one of the episodes, Bob gets into a long conversation.
“Hey,” I say afterward, “I thought we weren’t going to talk to the tourists.”
“They would have asked about your shows,” Bob says, “but no one remembers them.”