Who the Hell's in It

by Peter Bogdanovich

  Classic Martin and Lewis: Dean and Jerry in a typical moment from their original nightclub act—and as they would appear at the conclusion of each of their TV shows—re-created as the finale of The Caddy (1953); Martin’s first hit recording, “That’s Amore,” was introduced in this. Jerry suggested golf as a subject because Dean loved the game.

  Were all those films that you and Dean made big money-makers?

  Oh, God, yes. Sailor Beware [1951] did 72 million dollars when tickets were a quarter. We made more money for Wallis and Paramount than they had made in fifty years before that.

  Right up to the end?

  Oh, yeah. Hollywood or Bust [1956; last Martin and Lewis film] was a very big picture.

  When did you start really getting involved with rewriting and changing?

  I would have to say I wrote and collaborated on Pardners [1956]and Money From Home [1953], and collaborated with Frank on Artists and Models [1955]. I mean, doing a lot of visual stuff. The great story was Sailor Beware when Wallis said, “I need a block comedy scene.” I said, “I could have told you that the day I read the script.” He said, “Can you help me?” I said, “Yeah, let me think about it.” So I said, “I’ll help you, Hal, but it’s gotta be my way. I don’t want to get into a shouting match. I don’t want to get into I’ve-done-this-for-forty-years horseshit. Because you could have been doing wrong. But I’ll give you a hunk for the picture.” And I wrote the whole boxing sequence. This became the highlight of the film. When I handed it in to Wallis, though, he looked at it and said, “Jesus Christ, that looks like it could be terrific.” I said, “It will be terrific if I do it my way.” He said, “Well, you wrote it, I didn’t bother you.” I said, “Yeah, but now we’re gonna shoot.” “Well, what did you have in mind?” I said, “Seven cameras.” “What?” All he saw was dollars. I said, “Hal, I’m gonna use two slaves [less crucial cameras] that I probably won’t take a frame from, but I need them. And I need A, B, C, D and E [cameras] in absolutely critical positions, which will enable me to just go on through the whole sequence. I got a six-inch [lens] on that fucking camera and I know when to turn to it. I got a deuce [another lens] there that’s gonna cover the ring. I got a three-inch there I know I’m going to take him[self] into a waist shot.” We shot it, and it was a wonderful hunk.

  So you played it in one piece.

  Yeah. We did the inside of the scene in the locker room, with Dean and I. And I covered that with just two cameras, but we got it. Because I wanted spontaneity in it. So Wallis has the material, he looks at it, he loves it, and I said, “Now we have to talk about your owning it.” We’re having lunch at Lucey’s [restaurant across from Paramount lot]. He said, “What do you mean by ‘owning it’?” I said, “Well, you haven’t paid for it. And my contract with you is as an actor, not a writer, and if you’re going to use this material, you have to talk to my agent about a figure that I’m gonna want.” I said to [agent] Herman Citron, “Get fifty thousand for it—just get it.” A lot of money then. Wallis balked. “What!? Fifty thousand!” Herman said, “Don’t use it—it won’t cost you anything.” “What are you talking about? We shot it. It’s great, it’s wonderful.” “Yeah, but you don’t own it. You had no right to shoot it.” And what I did, in my little cagey thought-process in writing it, I wrote the cover page to read “Augmented Material for Sailor Beware requested by Wallis, Inc., by Jerry Lewis.” And that made it mine. It had nothing to do with the script. It came as an augmented blue page, an appendage to the script. So he knew I had him. He said, “Tell him I’ll give him forty.” And Herman said, “Listen to this: it’s not negotiable. He wants fifty thousand dollars.” And he went back to him a week later, he said, “Listen, Jerry sent you a message. You can make the check out to Muscular Dystrophy Association, but you’re going to make the check out. If it makes you feel any better that he’s not going to get any of it, make it out to the way I told you because he’s gonna give it to them anyhow.” Wallis is balking. It’s now November. He’s got 680 theaters booked for Sailor Beware on New Year’s Eve. If he doesn’t ship in the next five days, no theater will have the picture. He went up to the last day, that son-of-a-bitch.

  Jerry Lewis setting up a shot for The Ladies’ Man (1961), which he directed, co-wrote, produced and starred in. Note the RCA TV-camera mounted onto the 35mm camera, a device now installed within the camera and known as the Video Assist, invented by J.L.

  And then he paid?

  He paid me the fifty thousand.

  How did you first sign with Wallis? How did that come about?

  He saw us at the Copa and he was in that mix between Joe Pasternak and L. B. Mayer and Sam Goldwyn and Zanuck.

  He had a long history at Warners and at Paramount.

  And I wanted Paramount. I told Dean, I said, “We’re not going to go anywhere but Paramount.”

  Why did you feel that way? Because of Hope and Crosby?

  No, I was an usher at the Paramount [theater originally on Broadway].

  Oh, you liked the sound ofthat.

  I loved Paramount. And I also loved what [founder] Adolph Zukor represented, and Barney [Balaban, studio head]. They were like a hamisha group, I thought, and they were. I was right.

  Did you do some research on that, or you had instincts?

  I just knew about it. So when the Paramount deal came up, I said to Dean and [agent] Lew Wasserman, “This is good for us. I want to go there.” And Dean, of course, heard what I had said and said, “Fine.” So we went to Paramount.

  Was your deal with Wallis or was the deal with Paramount and Wallis?

  No, it was strictly a Wallis commitment that developed into my Paramount deal following that. But it was always Wallis.

  And when you guys broke up?

  We had to disseminate the material, as it were.

  You owed Wallis some pictures and so did Dean, separately?

  Right. Dean owed two and I owed two.

  Was the dynamic between you and Dean the same when you first got into features? Did it change?

  No. The change in the relationship started to fester in ’54.

  Do you know why?

  Yeah—outside factions. I’ve had a philosophy all my life: if you have something that’s whole, you can either take a knife and cut it in half or have outside factions ruin it. And that’s what happened. We had outside factions that were envious of our relationship. Whatever mean-spirited people do, we were getting the ass-end of it.

  You must have had a lot of that.

  Yes, we got a lot of it. But now, Dean’s pain was compounded by the fact that they’re not writing about him anymore. They write about Jerry all the time. I couldn’t see it ending, theoretically. We had every chance to go on for another ten years—theoretically. But if we couldn’t inject into it for the next ten years the same energy and the same passion that was there the first ten years, it won’t work. So I thought, Let’s quit a winner. Let’s go out way ahead. And I, literally, motivated the break.

  How?

  I went to Dean one day at the studio, I said, “You know what? I think we should go out like champs and not like bums. And if we keep up with what we’re carrying on now we’re going to be bums.”

  What did you mean?

  Nitpicking. Our being uncomfortable with one another. His not wanting to talk to me and my being hurt so desperately by it. And I just said, “I don’t think we can fix what’s happened to us and we should go our separate ways. You’ll be happier, ’cause you’ll be able to do the stuff that you are capable of doing. And I hope I can do something on my own. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen to either one of us. But I know that we should not stay together.”

  What had precipitated his not speaking to you and you being so hurt by that? The outside factions?

  Because he heard some shit that I was supposed to have said about him. I never spoke about him negatively. Even in the feud time. I loved him.

  So somebody was putting poison in him.

  A
bsolutely. I would say to him, “How do you listen to outside forces? How do you listen to outside people that don’t know who we are, what we’re about, and then they can come and poison your mind?” And he, of course, would deny hearing anything. But that’s his point of view. I said, “You don’t think that way, Dean. I’m sorry, I’m not going to buy that.” And I said, in this discussion—which was the one that broke the back of the team—when I said to him, “Look, after all is said and done, you’ve got to remember how we got here. Meaning, two guys that love one another.” And he said, “Look, Jerry, let me tell you something. You have always been and you are now, and always will be, a dollar sign to me.” There was a long pregnant pause. And I’m twenty-eight years old now. A mind of my own, have a point of view, pride—’cause he didn’t mean it.

  Did you know he didn’t mean it?

  No, not at the time. It killed me.

  What did you say?

  I just walked away after a long pause. I just walked out. But I contributed to the break by not challenging him. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not that good an actor. I been a dollar sign to you?! Bullshit! I’m your best friend. And you love me like I love you and you’re full of shit and somebody’s telling you shit.” Which is what I would normally have done. But I knew that we were getting to that time when we’d better just wrap it up. But it chilled me for six months. I couldn’t look at him. We had to do a movie yet. So we did Hollywood or Bust. We never said a word to one another.

  Frank said you never spoke to each other, except in scenes.

  It was terrible. I even took off on Frank one day. He was there, that’s why. But I let a toilet-bowl mouth come out, disrespectful and ill-mannered, and all of the pain came out in that tirade I gave Frank. When I got all through—there were 180 people on the set—Frank said to me, “Try this scene.” And I gave him a reading like, “Why don’t you do it? See if you know how.” Something like that. And the rest of my life I’ll remember his saying, “That’s it!” He came over to me and took me by the arm, walked me into the key light, stood me there, he said, “Stay right here.” And he brought everyone around the set and he said, “Let me tell you something—you spoiled, untalented prick—what you put people through and what you’ve done these last three months to all of these people, and me: 1) You don’t have the right to do that; 2)Your life is not the only one that’s meaningful on this earth.” And he went on for ten minutes. Dagger, dagger, dagger, dagger, bazooka, dagger. And I’m paralyzed, I can’t move. And he ended with, “Now get your fucking, unfunny ass off my set.” And I turned and I walked, with all eyes on me, everyone in shock, everyone knowing I had it coming, but everyone feeling badly that I got it.

  I go home and I call Frank—I get him on the phone. He said, “I have nothing to say to you,” and he hung up. I called back, I said, “Frank, I need your help.” So he stayed on the line. I said, “I need your help—I’ve got to see you—I’ve got to talk to you. Will you meet me in my dressing room tomorrow morning?” He said, “What time?” I said, “Six o’clock.” He said, “I’ll be there.” I meet him the next morning and I said, “I want to thank you for what you did. I’m sure that you were thinking I’d fire you, which I can’t, because you were right and I was wrong. And I think I really needed what you did for me because—I’m not making any excuses but whatever I did, I didn’t mean to do. And I think whatever I did was a human response to the pain that I’m in, and I have no right to give other people pain because I’m in pain. And I think I can be better if you give me another chance.” He said, “OK, be on the set, know your words, nine o’clock, and we’ll see.” And he left my dressing room. I went on the set at nine o’clock and worked. I’ve never berated anyone again since that day, about anything. And he saved my life, because if I had continued with the thought-process I’d have gotten in terrible trouble.

  Did you know right away when you met him on Artists and Models that he was the best director you had worked with?

  Right away. Come to me with a cartoon brain and I’m in heaven.* And how he’d laugh! We would talk it down and he’d sit there, and I said, “If you close your eyes, you’re not gonna be able to say ‘Print.’” I’d get him crazy. The most fun he ever had was having me come in a door ’cause any time he’d yell “Action,” I’d have a black guy come out instead of me; I’d come out with a pig; I’d have flowers; I’d throw water at him. And maybe on take 9 I would come out to do the scene. I’ve got some of those out-takes—they’re hysterical.

  I notice you still use an electric typewriter [on a side table by Lewis’ desk].

  Hey, I wrote The Nutty Professor [1963] on that thing. I’ve got this terrible loyalty to equipment. You know why I’m a dichotomy? I’ll tell you why: because I love progress but I hate change. It’s the truth. I mean, I’m the first guy to run to you and tell you about a technical aspect of our business and I’m thrilled. And then I don’t want them to put a hotel in Hyde Park—a fuckin’ Hilton?!

  Speaking of technology, how did you come up with the Video Assist—which now everybody uses?

  When Frank said to me, “You, director—go, boy,” I knew that day was going to happen. In 1956. Not literally that script, but in ’56, ’cause Dean and I had just broken up, and I decided if I am going to direct, I’m going to need a couple of tools. And the best tool in the world, for me, would be a Video Assist, so I could be on both sides of the camera. I was able to direct myself. On The Bellboy, there was no videotape, but I had twenty-five monitors on the set. Anywhere I would work, there’s a monitor. Any actor I’m talking to, there’s a monitor. I turn to do the bit with the lady over there, there’s a monitor. I could see exactly that the camera was stopping on the mark I gave them.

  All the spinal injuries you’ve had were from your work—from all the falls.

  Everything from my work.

  Occupational hazard.

  You see, there’s an old comic theory: if you get in trouble, take a fall. I learned that early on: if you’re in trouble, go for the fucking fall. My dad was so cute—he’d watch me take a fall on the set while making a movie: “You know what that fall’s gonna cost ya? Wait till you’re fifty-one or fifty-two—will you pay for that fuckin’ fall!” He was right. I’ve been doing nothing but paying for them all.

  You took a lot of falls.

  Peter, I was in such bad shape with pain that when I was in London, which was 1977, and I’m still eating thirteen Percodan a day. Well, you can’t get Percodan in London so when I meet Moe Green, who owns Green’s delicatessen in Soho, I told him of my plight. He comes out of his office and he says, “Be here at midnight tonight—outside, right by the lamppost.” I said, “With a little fog, we’re doing Sherlock Holmes.” He laughed; he said, “He won’t meet you inside. He needs air. He needs space.” I said, “For a buy of Percodan?” He said, “That’s right.” So he’s bringing me ten of them, OK? For a thousand dollars. A hundred dollars a tablet. Hey, I’m thrilled to death. I did my show, I’m off the stage at the Palladium at eleven, I got there at five to twelve, and I’m standing outside Green’s delicatessen. A little fog came in, I said, “Fucking Sherlock Holmes—I swear to God.” The guy comes up. “Hey, how ya doin’, mate? Are you the buy?” “Yes, I’m the buy.” “OK, let’s see your loot.” I give him ten one-hundred-dollar bills, he counts them, then he hands me a brown envelope. That’s how I got fixed that night. But meanwhile, it didn’t get me through the whole day tomorrow because I only had ten. That was how bad it was. You become very, very strategic with your bullshit—knowing you’re not supposed to be doing it in the first place. But, yeah, let the next man talk—let him have my pain—you go through all that denial shit. And then, when he cleaned me out, Michael [Dr. DeBakey] said, “Now it’s up to you—your head’s gonna take you from this point on.” Bad addiction—bad. I was taking Quaaludes to get up. I was taking Nembutal to get down. It’s a vicious system.

  And all that was going on for about thirteen years?

 
; Yeah—from ’65 to ’78.

  How’d you work, then?

  They tell me I did five telethons from ’73, ’74, ’75, ’76, ’77—I don’t remember one of them. They told me I did three movies. I don’t remember that either. I don’t remember anything. From ’73 to ’77—black. I run into my library and look up ’77 once in a while, I pull a tape out, put it on. Yeah, that’s me, I was there, I think.

  Do you remember when you see it?

  No!

  What about the telethon you did when Dean came on?

  That was ’76. I was starting to come around pretty good. Because, you see, in ’76 I was already immune to the Percodan. I’m taking it, but it wasn’t doing nutsy, crazy shit to me. And there was no alternative except shooting up. And I would never do such a thing. I figured I’ll handle the pain. And, thank God, Michael says that I’ve got the highest pain tolerance of anyone he’s ever known. That I can take pain longer, and more brutal pain, than he’s ever seen with anybody.

  That means when you were doing those falls, you probably were in pain, but you just …

  When the laughter’s there, you don’t know anything else. There’s no ham in my family, I got it all.

  When did things get difficult in terms of making pictures?

  I don’t know—1970, I guess. Around 1970 I started to see the decline of quality thought-processes. They were gone. I made Which Way to the Front? [1970], which was a goddamn good movie, and Warner Bros. flushed it in the toilet because they had Woodstock [1970]. I was very debilitated by what they did to the movie. I mean, my children didn’t see it! And because I made a movie for four and a half million—well, you can’t put that in competition with a movie that costs thirty million. So [studio head] John Calley and I—we had at it. And he said, “Jesus Christ, you’re the most hostile man I ever met in my life.” I said, “I am, John. When I’m fucked, I’m hostile.” I said, “But, Jesus Christ, John, this is your gig—who would you have me come to, to be hostile? Are you running this studio or not?” Then he had compassion for me; he said, “I know where you’re coming from. You know, what could I tell you—New York said …” “OK.” Then it started to get iffy. When I did Cracking Up [1983], which was twelve years hence, even then I could feel the shake in the industry—it was going a crazy way.