Growing Up Laughing

by Marlo Thomas

  Marlo: But what I’m getting at is, what do these people have in common besides fame? Why would you go after Celine and Paula and Lindsay Lohan, but not someone like, say, Julia Roberts, who’s very famous—not that I think you should go after her . . .

  Kathy: Because they have it all and they’re full of shit.

  Look, the main reason I make fun of people is because of the choices they’ve made or the behavior they’ve displayed. Everyone gets that. People literally clapped with glee when they heard that Paris Hilton was going to jail. They look at Paris’s behavior or Lindsay’s behavior and think it’s appalling, because you and I never could have gotten away with that stuff when we were 19 or 20.

  Marlo: You seem especially fascinated with the sex life of big stars. Why is that any of your business—or anybody’s business?

  Kathy: I think it’s because our real sex lives are so imperfect, that when you hear these celebrity couples say they have sex once a day, you’re like, “Oh, bullshit! You can’t have sex once a day!” And I love it when celebrities go on talk shows after they’ve been dating a month, and say, “This person is the one!” And you’re just thinking, Uh-huh. Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .

  Marlo: Yeah, that is funny.

  Kathy: Right. And it’s funny to everybody because the typical American viewer sees through this stuff so much more than the celebrities realize. Hollywood celebrity is so full of crap.

  Marlo: But you’re getting pretty big yourself. Are you going to have to change your shtick now?

  Kathy: I have no worry about this at all. Two days ago I was at the airport and someone said, “Here’s your ticket, Ms. Gifford.” So just when I start to think I’m getting a little big for my britches, the world bitch-slaps me back into my place very, very quickly.

  Marlo: Does that make you feel bad?

  Kathy: Absolutely not. It’s the thing that amuses me most about Hollywood—that it’s never enough, you’re never famous enough. To me, that’s a bottomless pit of funny.

  Chapter Two: The Seinfeld Incident

  Marlo: What was that whole Seinfeld thing about?

  Kathy: I had a guest role on Seinfeld and I was a nervous wreck, because it was the number one show on TV, and those four people had become such giant stars. Their characters were national treasures, Jerry in particular. So when I went to the studio, I was really nervous. I mean, I’d never been to a set like that before—you know, where every piece of scenery is famous. Like the diner set. Or the apartment. You walk in and you want to steal a pillow, you know?

  Marlo: That’s so funny.

  Kathy: So I’m taking pictures of myself holding a teapot from the diner set, right? Jerry was doing the warm-up for

  the audience—which by the way, I think is a very smart thing to do. I’m shocked at how many TV comedians don’t do that.

  Marlo: Yeah, my dad used to do it, too. It’s great for the audience. So you’re on the set . . .

  Kathy: I’m on the set, and everyone is being very formal. Not that friendly. Even Jerry wasn’t being friendly, so it was tough. I remember thinking, Man, I’ve got to be on every second. I could get canned at any moment. And, you know, Larry David is . . . I mean, I love him and all, but that first day, man, that was a tough room.

  Marlo: So what happened?

  Kathy: Well, I was so shaken by Jerry’s behavior that after I taped the episode, I talked about it on my first HBO special. And, basically, the essence of my story was: Jerry Seinfeld is kind of a schmuck.

  Marlo: Oops.

  Kathy: Yup. And sure enough, he sees it.

  Marlo: Oh, God.

  Kathy: But here’s the thing: He thought I was a riot! He even sent me this funny letter that I have framed in my office.

  Marlo: Incredible. He’s got such a great sense of humor.

  Kathy: Right. So, next, they write a new episode where my character comes back and turns into a comedian who makes her living making fun of Jerry.

  Marlo: Oh, that’s great.

  Kathy: Yeah, I know. So I have to say that was sort of an important moment for me. For once in my career—for one second, maybe—I had captured what my dad had: the ability to give someone the business—or as my parents would call it, “giving them guff ”—and they actually took it in the spirit in which it was intended. Jerry didn’t ban me from NBC or anything. He actually thought I was funny, and wrote a whole new episode about it. It was kind of amazing. He’s amazing.

  Chapter Three: The Pipeline

  Marlo: You said you captured a bit of what your dad had. Tell me about that.

  Kathy: My dad passed away two years ago, but he was hysterically funny. And he had the unique ability to be funny on cue. He was a natural wit. Very, very dry and sarcastic, and he never censored himself. That’s where I get that particular . . . affliction. He had a little bit of what I call “the Don Rickles license to kill.” But he was truly so likeable that he could get away with anything.

  Marlo: Do you have a specific memory?

  Kathy: Yeah. My dad was a pretty good fix-it guy, and he was always helping his buddies redo their bathrooms or rec rooms. One of these friends, Mr. Gillian, redid his rec room himself, and invited my father over one Sunday after church to take a look. My dad and I walk in—I was little and my father was holding my hand. And all the Gillians are there, watching, and Mr. Gillian says, “So, Johnny, what do you think?” And my dad looks around the room, takes this perfectly timed beat and says, “What a shit box!”

  Marlo: Oh, no.

  Kathy: The Gillians laughed, Dad laughed and I giggled and thought, “Oh, my dad is the funniest person in the whole world!” It didn’t even occur to me as a little kid that he was using a curse word.

  Marlo: Right.

  Kathy: Nobody in the room cried. Nobody got offended. Nobody said, “How dare you!” Everybody just knew he was kidding. Of course, when my mother found out later, she said to my father, “You said what?!”

  Marlo: So this is where your style of humor came from.

  Kathy: Yes, it’s a very direct pipeline from my mom and dad.

  Marlo: Your mom is funny, too?

  Kathy: She’s funny, but she doesn’t really know it. My dad was like a comedian, my mom was more of a character. Okay, here’s an example: For my whole life, my mother has told me I’m not likeable.

  Marlo: No—really?

  Kathy: Really. And the way it comes out of her mouth is hysterical. She’s not saying it to be a horrible person; she’s just saying it like a director says when he’s giving you a good note. Like “You’re doing really well—we just need you to play the character a little bit more likeable.” It’s like my mom is actually directing me in life.

  Chapter Four: The Town Crier

  Marlo: Were there a lot of kids in your family?

  Kathy: Yeah, I’m the youngest of five kids.

  Marlo: And you were the one who entertained everybody, right?

  Kathy: Not really. Growing up, I was more like . . . Do you know that book The Alcoholic Family? It lists all the roles family members take on—like, one person is “The Peacemaker.” Another is “The Mouse.” Another is “The Clown.”

  Marlo: And you were the clown?

  Kathy: No—I think I was the mouse, because I was more interested in getting people to hear whatever outrageous thing was happening, or whatever I thought was the truth. That’s what I do in my act today. So in our family, I’d say everybody was probably wittier that me. I was more like the town crier.

  Marlo: When did you first get the idea that you could make people laugh? Were you the class cut-up?

  Kathy: I was definitely the class cut-up—but it was the classic survivor story. I was this little, spindly, freckly, pale kid with kinky bozo hair. Completely picked on. Never in a popular group or anything.

  Marlo: So getting laughs made you popular.

  Kathy: It never made me popular—but it made me not get picked on anymore. I remember the specific tipping point. I was nine or ten, and the mean g
irls’ clique was really coming down hard on me, one girl in particular. So I made this clever joke about her, and sort of packed the joke with facts—like she’d gotten a bad score on a test, or something. And I did it in front of her girlfriends.

  Marlo: And?

  Kathy: And she backed off. That was kind of a big moment for me, you know? I wasn’t making them laugh to be popular. I just thought, Well, if I can keep them distracted by laughing at my jokes, then maybe they won’t be so focused on kicking my ass after school.

  Chapter Five: Griffin vs. Kidman

  Marlo: Your whole act is built around being on the celebrity D-List, and you really are the queen of self-deprecation. When did that start?

  Kathy: That’s something from my parents, too, and I think it’s kind of an Irish-Catholic thing. There’s this kind of philosophy they all have—a strong edict about keeping everyone in their place. My mom still uses the expression “Don’t get so high and mighty.”

  Marlo: Right.

  Kathy: Or, “Look at herself—she thinks she’s the queen of England!” That’s the attitude I grew up around, and I just felt it was funny. I could never understand these households where the parents would say things that were, like, supportive. I thought it was hilarious when kids would say, “My parents tell me I can grow up to be whatever I want to be!” I’d just roll off my chair laughing. I’d think, Well, they’re kidding with you! You can’t be whatever you want to be! You have to be what they tell you your limitations are!

  Marlo: That’s very funny.

  Kathy: You know, when I was in high school, I used to tease my mom. I’d say to her, “Why didn’t you guys ever tell me that I could grow up to be a ballerina?” She’d say, “Because you have piano legs.” I just sort of laughed and said, “Oh, I guess you’re right.”

  Marlo: Why do you think people find self-deprecation so funny?

  Kathy: Because they can relate to it. I think more people can relate to me than they can to Nicole Kidman. I mean, if you’re going down the line and ask women, “Well, who do you really relate to?” they’re not going to say Nicole or Charlize Theron or Jessica Biel . . .

  Marlo: Right, right . . .

  Kathy: I mean, I wish I was Nicole Kidman! And I think women admire those people who are all perfect and put together. I just don’t think they look at those people and say, “Hey, she’s just like me!”

  Marlo: So in a way, they need you.

  Kathy: Yes. And I need them.

  Chapter 40

  Capra, Orson (the Other One), and Me

  I got a call from Fred Silverman, the programming chief of ABC.

  “I’d like you to make a Christmas special for us,” he told me. “Something we could play for a few years.”

  “Me?” I said. “I’m not Sammy Davis. I don’t sing and dance. What kind of Christmas special could I possibly make?”

  “Just think about it,” Fred said.

  “All right,” I responded, “but it’s already February. You mean for a year from this Christmas, right?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean this Christmas.”

  Really?

  IT SEEMED IMPOSSIBLE to create a brand-new anything in such an incredibly short time frame, but I talked it over anyway with Carole and Bruce Hart. We had done the Free to Be album, book and TV special together a few years before. Both of them were writers who were sharp on story and structure, and Bruce was a lyricist, as well. I loved working with them, and we were also good pals.

  We agreed that a musical show was out of the question, unless I wanted to play host, like the Ed Sullivan role. So we started thinking about classic movies we might remake. We didn’t have much time, and coming up with the perfect Christmas movie for me wasn’t so easy. I was too old to play the little girl in Miracle on 34th Street, too tall to play Tiny Tim, and no matter what the film, Santa always had to be a guy.

  We finally hit on it—we’d remake the Frank Capra classic It’s a Wonderful Life. It wasn’t really a Christmas story, but the plot builds to a moving and memorable scene on Christmas night. And the message was pure Capra—that each and every life mattered, and if one person was removed from the tapestry, all the other lives around him would never have been the same.

  In the original, Jimmy Stewart played George Bailey, the man whose life mattered. For our movie, we’d turn George into a part for me, and call her Mary Bailey.

  But remake Frank Capra—wasn’t that a mortal sin?

  I’d grown up on Capra’s films—Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, You Can’t Take It with You, It Happened One Night. They were Dad’s favorites, along with Preston Sturges’s films. Terre and I could recite almost every line from Sturges’s Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, starring Eddie Bracken. We’d even practice Bracken’s famous triple takes in our bathroom mirror. (Anybody can do a double take, but only Bracken could do three.)

  Universal owned the rights to Wonderful Life, but Freddie loved our idea, so he arranged for us to produce it with Universal as our partners. “Partners”—they keep the money.

  Out of respect to Mr. Capra, I knew that I had to let him know that I was going to remake his film. So I called him and asked if he’d have lunch with me. He lived in Palm Springs, but was coming to L.A. the following week, and he agreed to meet me. What a thrill it was to talk with him about his movies, and to have this icon all to myself. I asked him why he wasn’t making movies anymore. There was no one like him, and we needed more of him.

  His answer was fascinating. “A good director doesn’t just shoot the script,” he told me. “He has his eyes and ears open to any new idea that might come along. For example, you remember the school dance scene in Wonderful Life?”

  “Of course,” I said. “What Capra buff doesn’t remember when the gymnasium floor opens up, and Stewart and Donna Reed fall into the swimming pool underneath it?”

  Capra smiled. “That wasn’t in the script,” he said. “I didn’t even know they had that sliding floor at Beverly Hills High. But when we got there that day to shoot the scene, someone on the crew told me about the pool, and I knew I had to use it. We had already shot the scene that came after it, when they walk home from the dance. So we’d have to reshoot it, because now they’d have to have wet hair and be dressed in robes.”

  I was confused. “What does that have to do with not making movies anymore?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t do that today,” he said. “I’m too old. I’d just shoot the script. And that’s not the way you make a good movie.”

  Sigh.

  I then told Capra that I was planning on remaking that very movie, and I asked if he’d consider being a consultant on it. It would be such an honor to work with him, I said. His response was a most definite no.

  His answer saddened me. I not only wanted to spend time with him, but even more, I wanted his approval.

  “Well, do you have any advice for me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Don’t do it.”

  I tried one more time to convince him, by comparing his classic film with all the classics in literature that had been retold many times through the years, some of them for centuries. But his stand was clear. He wasn’t angry. He was, well . . . Sicilian. And if there’s one thing I’d learned from my life experience, it was that you don’t talk a Sicilian into or out of anything. I really couldn’t blame him. He just didn’t want to be a part of the remaking of his own classic. I loved him, I honored him, I had wanted him to be a part of it. I hoped now he wouldn’t blame me for wanting to remake it.

  So we forged ahead.

  One of the most memorable characters in the picture is Mr. Potter, who was played in the original by the great Lionel Barrymore. Potter was a true villain. He owned everything in the small town of Bedford Falls, and delighted in buying up even more, no matter how much it destroyed other people’s lives. He was the original “greed is good” character.

  In my mind, no one could replace Barrymore in that part but Orson Welles. The head of ABC movies, Brandon Stodd
ard, bet me a hundred dollars I would never get Welles—and for a while, he was winning the bet. At first, I couldn’t even find him, but Cybill Shepherd (who lived with Peter Bogdanovich, a great pal of Orson’s) sneaked me his home number. I tried him at all different times of the day, but he was never there, and I didn’t want to leave a message. The surprise attack is always your best chance.

  Frustrated, I tried him at eight in the morning. Oh God, I thought as I listened to his phone ring in my receiver, what if he gets mad at such an early call? What if he just hangs up on me?

  A groggy voice answered the phone. It was unmistakably Welles. I immediately dove into my pitch, chirping on about how I was producing a television remake of the movie, and no one but him could possibly replace Barrymore, and that we’d schedule the shoot so he only had to work five days—I was talking as fast as I could. And the poor man was just trying to wake up.

  Finally I took a breath, and he spoke.

  “How much will you pay me?” he asked.

  “How much do you want?” I said.

  “Ten thousand a day.”

  “Sold!” I said.

  I already had a hundred dollars from Brandon. Now I just had to find the other $49,900.

  WE CAST WAYNE ROGERS as my husband, and he was terrific in the part. But as we started to work on the script, what was really interesting was to see how our gender-switch underscored the difference between men’s and women’s roles. For me to play the George Bailey part, our screenwriter, Lionel Chetwynd, barely had to change a line from the original screenplay. The character was in financial ruin, brought on by the greedy Mr. Potter, but was so loved in the town that his neighbors all stepped forward to rescue him. That scenario could happen to a man or woman, so it wasn’t hard to change the gender for that character.

  Orson Welles and me. There’s something I never thought I’d say.

  Bailey’s wife was another matter. In the original, all Donna Reed’s character needed to do was support George’s dreams and dearly love him. But for Wayne to play my husband, he couldn’t just be supportive on the home front. We had to give him a job, his own goals and new lines. Many of them.