Make 'Em Laugh

by Debbie Reynolds

  DEDICATION

  As always, I dedicate this book to my children,

  Carrie and Todd,

  and to my beautiful granddaughter, Billie Catherine.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Foreword by Carrie Fisher

  Preface

  1

  A Great Honor

  2

  The Cinderella Story of the Texas Tomboy

  3

  Early Days

  4

  It’s the Pictures That Got Smaller

  5

  A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Woids

  6

  The Royal Treatment

  7

  Friends Without Benefits

  8

  You Got to Have Friends

  9

  Family Matters

  10

  Happy Mother’s Day 2015

  Acknowledgments

  Index

  Photos Section

  About the Authors

  Also by Debbie Reynolds

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  FOREWORD

  by Carrie Fisher

  My mother has many extraordinary qualities, but the one I am concerning myself with here is her willingness to be ridiculous. She’s not only willing, she has the ability to shift into the ridiculous at ten thousand paces and put it to good use before anyone else has even noticed—an unmistakable sense of the absurd which at times is so powerful that many have considered attempting to use it to kill weeds.

  From my mother (and good neighbor) I learned what has proven to be the most valuable coping skill available to modern man (that is, if that contemporary guy is anything like me). So valuable I used it to introduce my show Wishful Drinking. And that skill boils down to this:

  “If my life wasn’t funny, it would just be true and that’s unacceptable.”

  My mother may not have used those exact words, but it’s been the gist of how she has managed to get through some death-defying life experiences.

  One of the biggest laughs we shared occurred the night my brother, Todd, shot himself in the upper thigh—and fortunately no higher—with a blank. My mother called a cab to get him to the hospital (ambulances can be so loud). Once he was settled into his room there, she returned home to the five homicide policemen who were waiting with me to arrest her for possession of an illegal firearm. They hauled the two of us down to the police station to be fingerprinted. I don’t need to tell you which finger she gave them to be printed. Finally back home at 6:00 A.M., the press began to come a-knocking.

  “Debbie, did you shoot your son to get publicity to restore your show’s disappointing business?”

  She looked at me with the eyes of the naughtiest, most successful truant to ever play Broadway in order to pay for her soon-to-be ex-husband’s debts. (Still with me?)

  “Yes!” she cried gaily through the door—as if agreeing to go to the prom with the star football player instead of answering a question that was everything but a question. “I did shoot Todd to improve business, which I hope works because I only have one more child to shoot and I am wishing for a long run!”

  If I learned nothing else from my mom—and I learned quite a bit, though her sex tips left something to be desired, so to speak—I learned this:

  “Life is fucking hilarious—especially when it’s not—because that’s the only time it truly has to be.”

  PREFACE

  When you’re born on April 1, you take everything with a laugh.

  In my 2013 memoir, Unsinkable, I wrote about the ups and downs that I’ve had over the past eight decades. At that time I was still on the road, working many weeks a year. Now I’m taking time for myself, and it feels good.

  For this book, I’m going to share with you some of the many fun (and some not so fun) experiences I’ve had. I live with the ghosts of comedy past, present, and future, and cherish what I remember of those who have gone before. As I rely on my memory for what you’ll read in the pages that follow, bear in mind that I do so with the belief that we should never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

  In our movie Singin’ in the Rain, Donald O’Connor has a fantastic number called “Make ’Em Laugh.” One of the lines in the song is “Make ’em laugh, make ’em laugh. Don’t you know everyone wants to laugh?”

  It’s a great joy to be an entertainer, something I feel I was born to be. It has given me an extraordinary life. Thanks to all of you who have shared this journey with me.

  Now sit back while I tell you about my friends, share some jokes, and have a glass of wine, or six.

  And as Groucho Marx used to say, “If you’ve heard this story before, don’t stop me, because I’d like to hear it again.”

  “A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.”

  —CHUCKLES THE CLOWN

  When I dressed up to go to a charity party, I gave good clown.

  1

  A Great Honor

  At my age, a surprise can be hazardous to your health.

  In the early summer of 2014, I got a phone call from Linda Howard. Her husband, Ken Howard, is the president of the Screen Actors Guild–American Federation of Television and Radio Artists union.

  “I’m so excited, Debbie,” she said.

  “I’m glad you’re excited, dear. What’s making you so happy?”

  “I have a secret,” she replied. “But I can’t tell you.”

  That was all I had to hear. I’m not much for guessing games or surprises.

  “You’ve gone this far, Linda,” I said. “Don’t test my patience. Spill it.”

  Finally she blurted it out.

  “You’re getting this year’s SAG Lifetime Achievement Award!”

  Now it was my turn to be excited. Actually, stunned is a better word. I never expected to win any more awards, and I didn’t know there was a race for this one.

  I thanked Linda and we said our good-byes. The news was officially announced in July. After that, friends kept calling to congratulate me and the reality started to sink in. The awards show was scheduled to take place on January 25, 2015. That seemed like a long time in the future, and I put it out of my mind.

  A few years ago, I took a prescription medication for stomach pain. I had a terrible allergic reaction to it that caused my kidneys to shut down. Since then, I’ve been weak and often get sick to my stomach. I’ve had every test and seen many doctors, including a two-week stay at the world-famous Mayo Clinic, but no one could figure out what the problem was.

  The summer and fall passed quietly. I worked a bit, but enjoyed being at home more. My daughter, Carrie, was in London working on the new Star Wars movie. Her daughter, Billie, was with her. I busied myself getting the house updated by adding a new guest room next to my bedroom. It seemed the crew could only work on weekends, and I was awakened Saturday and Sunday mornings by construction noises. I spent a lot of time hiding out in my dressing room/closet, where the noise wasn’t as bad, napping in a comfortable chair. By December I was looking forward to the end of construction and getting through the holidays. I did a voice-over job my agent, Tom Markley, had set up for me, and was happy that I only threw up once.

  Then suddenly it was January. The producers of the SAG-AFTRA Awards show were anxious for me to do a lot of interviews, video shoots, and other appearances. The phone rang constantly.

  I’m not like a lot of celebrities. Being in the news is not important to me. I’ve been doing interviews since I was a teenager, more than sixty-five years ago. Most of my life has been spread out across newspaper headlines and magazine covers. I know the value of publicity, but I’ve done it all so many times, and now I find it exhausting. This time I just wasn’t up
to it. I was eighty-two years old, and as much as I wanted to help, it takes me a long while to transform from the Frannie Reynolds who naps in her closet to the movie star Debbie Reynolds.

  Many of the press people were kind enough to interview me over the phone, which was easy. There were very nice articles in People magazine, the Los Angeles Times, and USA Today.

  The SAG-AFTRA Awards ceremony was to take place on a Sunday. The week before was very hectic around the house. Carrie had been asked to present my award to me, and was preparing her speech. Two of my fellow performer friends from New York, Penny Worth and Harvey Evans, flew in for the occasion. Penny had appeared with me on Broadway, in 1973 and 1974, in Irene. Harvey is an actor/dancer who was in the original productions of some of the great Broadway musicals, including West Side Story, Gypsy, Follies, and Hello, Dolly! My son, Todd, and his wife, Catherine, came down from their ranch in San Luis Obispo. My granddaughter, Billie, was next door at Carrie’s house, with some friends and her adorable cocoa-colored bulldog, Tina.

  On Friday night I was feeling terribly ill with stomach problems. Carrie was in one of her manic moods, and decided to take care of me by reading T. S. Eliot poems to me and talking all night while I tried to get some sleep. By six in the morning, I had heard enough to last me for quite a while.

  By Saturday afternoon I was so tired I couldn’t move. I had to cancel my rehearsal that was scheduled for 4:00 P.M. We let the show’s producers know that I wouldn’t be there, but Carrie would be. She slept most of the morning, then arrived at the Shrine Auditorium and was met in the parking lot by the crew that she and Todd had hired to film a documentary about our family. They followed Carrie around the rehearsal, filming as she ran through her speech, checked out where we would be sitting on Sunday, and discussed the staging with the director. Then they sat in the limo with Carrie on the ride back. They couldn’t film there, because Carrie was in the dark reading selections from her T. S. Eliot book.

  Two Vietnamese makeup women were waiting outside when they arrived at Carrie’s house. Carrie’s assistant had arranged from the car for them to do Carrie’s nails. They all went inside together.

  By now I was having dinner—in my bed. My house was full of guests and their pets: Carrie’s French bulldog, Gary; Billie’s smaller French bulldog, Tina; and Todd’s blind and deaf Australian shepherd, Yippee. Catherine usually travels with her pet rooster, Nugget, but thankfully he was off in a coop somewhere. You can tell who’s around by which animal is on the loose nearby. At one point, Billie’s bulldog rushed into my room like a tornado and ate all of the dog cookies I keep at the foot of my bed. Then she rummaged around, looking for more treats and toys. Todd had to come and take her outside.

  Finally everything quieted down a bit, so I could get some rest.

  I got up at noon on Sunday. The first thing I did was vomit. After that I was afraid to eat anything, so I just had a little tea. My hairdresser, Pinky, arrived at one o’clock to start styling my wig. I had to get my own hair set and ready. (I use my own hair on the sides and a wig for bangs.) I’d twirl a curl, then toss my cookies.

  It wasn’t looking good for our Debbie. My lifetime achievement would be getting into my gown.

  The documentary crew invaded the house again. They were all over while we were getting ourselves together for the show. When I was ready to get my hair done, I had to wait for the crew to finish interviewing Pinky. Only after they were done could she come in to help me. It took me four hours to pull myself together. I threw up so many times that I asked my assistant, Donald Light, to put a wastebasket with a plastic trash bag in the car, in case I got sick on the way to the Shrine. I had to deal with a microphone cord under my Spanx, because Todd wanted the crew to record everything during the trip there and back. Spanx can hold in anything, but mine were working overtime.

  I don’t know how people stand doing reality shows. It’s so intrusive having a camera in your face all the time. I’m not concerned with biographies while I’m trying to get ready to receive an award. As far as I was concerned, the crew was in the way and causing too many problems.

  The stars were not aligning for me to have a good night.

  We’d hired two limos to take us to the Shrine. Carrie, Billie, Todd, Catherine, and I were to ride in one; our friends Penny and Harvey and Margie Duncan; Donald; my accompanist, Joey Singer; and my friend and coauthor, Dori Hannaway, in the other. Everyone was waiting for me in our parking lot so we could get on the road. When I got outside, all the dogs were running around and yapping. Carrie looked beautiful in a black dress with a train everyone kept stepping on.

  We left most of the documentary folks behind as we took off for downtown Los Angeles. Two cameramen crammed into the car with us. There wasn’t much traffic on the way, but we arrived at the Shrine so late, everyone was already inside the auditorium. The show had begun. I wanted a picture of Carrie and Billie and me as we got out of the car, but that wasn’t possible.

  We pulled up at the backstage entrance. I was taken from the stage door to the wardrobe room, where Ret Turner was waiting on the couch that my family had requested for me. Everybody kept asking Ret to get up so I could lie down. Instead we just sat together and talked in order to block out the usual backstage chaos.

  I’ve known Ret for decades. He’s one of my favorite designers. I asked him how he was doing, and how his design partner, Bob Mackie, was. Ret asked me if the gold beaded dress I was wearing was one of theirs. I told him it was a copy of one they had done for me years ago. We chatted about our dear friend Mary Ann Mobley, who had recently died. Ret said he’d attended her memorial service in Tennessee. After a few minutes, we were asked to go to our table in the ballroom.

  We were seated down front, near the stage. Once in place, I was too sick to enjoy the evening. I was thrilled to receive this honor, but was wondering what I was doing there. The night took on a dreamlike quality. Or maybe I really was in a dream. Everything appeared to be covered in a cloudlike haze.

  Joan Collins came over, wearing a glittering black-sequined gown with black satin balloon sleeves and matching elbow-length gloves, a thigh-high slit in the skirt, and sensible ombré pumps. With her bright red lipstick and perfect long black wig, she looked stunning, as usual. Some other people also stopped by to say hello and take pictures. Reese Witherspoon came over to me. She was adorable, dressed all in white: a doll. My head was spinning just a bit when the production people came to get Carrie to take her onstage to introduce me.

  “I am very close to this year’s Life Achievement winner,” she said. “Not only was my grandmother her mother, she is the grandmother to my alleged daughter. It also turns out that we’re neighbors. She’s my mother. Actually, she’s been more than a mother to me. Not much, but a little bit. She’s been an unsolicited stylist, interior decorator, and marriage counselor. Prior to our meeting, she was the voluptuous, fertile half of America’s Sweethearts. She was Elizabeth Taylor’s maid of honor, a baton twirler, and a French horn player.”

  Carrie looked beautiful. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it was well received.

  Todd was smiling, so I assumed Carrie was saying something funny.

  “She’s a movie star, a recording artist, Broadway actor, dance studio owner, preservationist of Hollywood’s greatest artifacts, and a cofounder of the Thalians, a group that raised more than thirty million dollars for mental health and related causes.”

  The audience applauded. I didn’t know if it was time to get up or not. Maybe I should get up. The haze closed in.

  “Four and a half million of that is allocated just for me,” Carrie continued. “She is an extremely kind, generous, and gifted friend who would give you the shirt off her back . . . if Vivien Leigh hadn’t worn it in Gone With the Wind.

  “And it’s the Debbie Reynolds of the big screen who made it all possible.”

  The lights went down as a movie screen was lowered onstage, film clips began to roll, and a much younger Debbie flickered on the scre
en. Someone came to the table to lead us to the stage. Billie was on my left side. Todd grasped my right hand. I took a few steps.

  Suddenly Birdman appeared before me—Michael Keaton. What a brilliant man he is.

  “Hi, Debbie,” he said, “I’m here to take your arm.”

  Now I knew I was in a dream. I looked over his shoulder to see if there was a bird creature behind him. I didn’t see any feathers.

  “Take both of them,” I replied. “They’re up for grabs.”

  I don’t know if he heard me, but he was so sweet to take me to the edge of the stage.

  Billie and Todd walked me up the stairs and across to Carrie. I stood next to her in the darkness. I couldn’t see or hear anything.

  The lights came on. Carrie took my hand.

  “I am proud to present the Screen Actors Guild Life Achievement Award to my mother, Debbie Reynolds.”

  The theme from Singin’ in the Rain began to play. The audience rose and cheered. I couldn’t see anyone but I was thrilled by their warm response. Carrie moved aside so I could speak.

  I couldn’t find the teleprompter.

  I thanked Carrie and Todd, mentioned Singin’ in the Rain, and proceeded from memory as best I could, under the circumstances.

  “I want to thank the Screen Actors Guild for this award. It is very unexpected.

  “I’ve been in the business for sixty-six years. I’m very excited to be here. I had great teachers. L. B. Mayer. Let’s not mention Gene Kelly—he was the best in the whole world. I had the best. And I was very excited.”

  I said that I’d had a good time wearing myself out making Singin’ in the Rain, and looked at Carrie.

  “I had a wonderful hairdo in that movie. Some of you may not remember this, but I had a bun. At the back of my head. A big, ugly bun.

  “When my daughter had just gotten a part in a picture, as Princess Leia in Star Wars, I said, ‘Carrie, be careful of any weird hairdos.’ So luckily George [Lucas] gave her two buns. Thank you, George.”