Make 'Em Laugh

by Debbie Reynolds

  On the night of the show, I was seated next to Jack at the desk. During our conversation, I admired his tie, which had a lot of bright colors—like pink and orange. Jack took it off and handed it to me.

  “It doesn’t match your handkerchief,” I said.

  He handed me his handkerchief.

  Emphatically, I pushed it back into Jack’s pocket.

  Jack took a pause, looked at the audience with a grin, then turned to me.

  “Were you that rough on Eddie Fisher?” he cracked.

  I’m sure I blushed, but instead of answering him, I dove under the desk. I reached up and grabbed Jack by his jacket, pulled him to the floor, undid the jacket, and threw it over the desk, followed closely by his wastebasket. I tossed my shoes in the air. A sock or two flew over the desk. The audience screamed at our mock striptease.

  When we came up from beneath the desk, Jack’s shirt was open to the waist. I was now holding his jacket. He pulled himself back together while the audience continued howling with laughter. At the end of the segment, he helped me put on my shoe. I didn’t feel like Cinderella, despite his gallant move.

  The press had a field day. “Debbie Goes Wild!” and “Debbie Dishevels Paar in Undressing of the TV Age,” headlines blared.

  I think Jack was just glad I didn’t toss his toupee when we were under the desk.

  Years later a reporter asked me about it.

  “I didn’t plan it,” I told him. “I just thought I ought to do something amusing as nothing much was happening on the show. The whole thing was spontaneous. At heart, I guess I’m just a baggy-pants comedienne.”

  After promising not to discuss “The Scandal,” Jack Paar brought up my ex. I dove under the desk, yanked him down with me, and proceeded to go for the laughs. Here we’re composing ourselves after our tussle.

  ROLLING WITH REGIS

  Joey Bishop was a member of the Rat Pack, along with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin, and Peter Lawford. He made his living as a standup comedian and actor, and had his own TV series from 1961 to 1965 in which he played a talk-show host. Two years after it was canceled he actually had his own talk show. Regis Philbin was his sidekick.

  I was one of Joey’s guests on the first episode, which aired on April 16, 1967. At one point Joey asked me about being a Girl Scout.

  I’m very proud of my time with the scouts. I told Joey that I was currently teaching my daughter’s troop the correct procedure to follow if someone’s clothes caught fire. Joey asked me what that was. Regis offered to help me demonstrate.

  I jumped out of my chair, flew across the stage, and pounced on him, tackling Regis to the floor. He didn’t know what hit him.

  Regis was a cute young thing in those days, small and wiry and fit. It took me a minute to get him pinned. Then I rolled him back and forth, to put out the imaginary fire, just like I taught my Girl Scouts to do. I was wearing a pale green beaded dress that cost several thousand dollars. It wasn’t worth five cents at the end of the show. Regis wasn’t very cooperative, and I split the skirt up the front when I straddled him. But that only made it funnier. The audience screamed, as did Joey’s other guests.

  I scraped my knees doing that stunt, and even bled a little. Bruised and bloodied, I finally let Regis get up. He looked shocked. We both looked like we might have been on fire.

  I think Regis appreciated the joke, even if I did muss him up. My performance made the front page of many newspapers in the country that weekend. The New York Sunday News ran a cover picture of me on top of Regis with my hands around his neck, under the headline “The Reynolds Blitz.” Inside the paper was a three-page article entitled “Debbie Lowers the Boom.” The writer quoted Regis as saying, “I’m honored to be the first man molested by Debbie Reynolds on national television.” Although he also said that he came out of our “tussle” with a scraped elbow, assorted bruises, and “a strange black and blue mark on my thigh,” he admitted that if he had really been on fire, I would have put it out in no time.

  When I tackled Regis Philbin on The Joey Bishop Show, our tumble made front-page news.

  Another gown sacrificed for comedy.

  In a widely syndicated article, the New York Times reported that I had “forever shattered” the accepted image of Girl Scouts as young girls in green uniforms “daintily peddling cookies” and replaced it with one of “embryo Amazons.” The writer went on:

  Disregarding a lovely coiffure and striking evening gown, Miss Reynolds executed a diving lunge mixed with the applicable nuances of post-graduate karate. Philbin was instantly prone on the studio floor with the actress simulating the process of smothering the remaining flames with her matching jacket as she rolled the victim over.

  Joey was thrilled—as he should have been. His producers couldn’t have bought such great publicity. Joey was very gracious afterward. He sent me a new dress to replace the one I’d ruined on the show.

  I didn’t always have to “molest” my host to be funny, of course. If I did it would become predictable, and I might not have been invited back. But sometimes I wore out a host in other ways.

  JITTERBUGGING WITH JOHNNY

  In April 1974, shortly after I’d finished my Broadway run in Irene, I made an appearance on The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson. I always enjoyed working with Johnny. He was quick with his conversation yet always deferential to his guests, which made him an excellent host.

  On this show, I entered wearing a print Gucci blouse with tan slacks. As Doc Severinsen played me on with some lively music, I broke into a few impromptu dance steps. Johnny stepped off his platform and came to greet me. Next thing I knew, we were dancing a jitterbug.

  It all happened very quickly. Then we went to Johnny’s desk on the platform and talked for a few minutes about disco dancing and the jitterbug. Johnny spoke knowingly about the studio system. We shared our respect for the “old school” way of dancing. I told him that Gene Kelly had taught me discipline.

  During the commercial break, Johnny and I went back to the performing area of the set to dance. We were in the middle of some crazy combinations when the break ended. Knowing we were on the air again, we just went with it. Johnny was very good at leading, but when he threw me over his back, it didn’t quite work. I slipped off his side and he put his arms under mine, to lift me up. Facing the audience, I started doing Martha Raye’s “rubber legs” shtick, crossing one leg over the other while sliding down closer to the floor. (Martha was a great physical comedian known for slapstick.) My legs were flying every which way. Johnny’s lucky I didn’t kick him anywhere vital.

  Finally Johnny just let me drop to the stage and sat down beside me. We embraced and stood up. Doc switched to some slow music, and Johnny and I started a waltz. What a good sport.

  We took our seats and Johnny made a few jokes. “This is cardiac city,” he said, and took a drink out of the mug on his desk. He kept talking but was panting, making it difficult for him to speak. He wiped his head with a towel.

  I hadn’t broken a sweat.

  I took over, asking the audience to give Johnny another hand for such a great dance. The audience cheered while Johnny was still catching his breath.

  “Why aren’t you breathing hard?” he managed to ask me.

  “Because I’m in great shape,” I replied honestly. I was just coming off a run on Broadway, where I’d sung and danced eight shows a week. Dancing with Johnny hadn’t even made me tired.

  “Well, I’m going to die,” he said, grabbing his chest.

  As Johnny continued to drink and joke about being winded, I asked him if he’d like me to help him out. He nodded—and I proceeded to interview myself.

  “So, Debbie, let me ask you a question. How is it being back in Los Angeles with all the smog—I mean fresh air—after so long in New York?”

  “Well, I’m happy to be back home, but these gas rations have me all mixed up. I’m an odd day but I can’t get even.”

  For you youngsters out there, in the early 1970s
our gasoline was rationed. If your license plate ended with an even number, you could buy gas only on even-numbered days. It worked the same way with odd numbers. Gas was only about thirty-five cents a gallon. It went to fifty cents. We were shocked when it reached a dollar a gallon.

  Johnny and I compared our ages. I was sure I was older than he.

  “Nobody’s older than Tammy,” I quipped.

  We put our heads together, whispering how old we were. I was only forty-two at the time. Forty-two! I’ve got shoes older than that now.

  Johnny asked for an oxygen mask to revive himself. I suggested that we go to commercial. Following the cue cards, Ed McMahon and I told the audience about a rug called Herculon. What a name.

  Johnny asked me about being nervous on opening night. I explained that it’s only natural to be nervous—you have a lot of new material and want everything to be right. We talked about my being on Broadway. I had done his show several times to promote Irene. He’d even had some of the cast on when Tonight was in New York for a visit.

  We talked about how difficult it is to do so many shows a week. When I went to New York, I found out that the regular Broadway actors are a bit snobbish about motion picture people. They’re used to working so hard, doing eight shows a week. It is exhausting, but I was determined not to miss any shows. I wanted to prove that us Hollywood types could work hard, too.

  I appeared many times with Johnny and with many of his guest hosts. Once I was on with Jay Leno. Jay used to be my opening act when I performed in Reno and Lake Tahoe, Nevada. He recalled how I had suggested that he get his chin “done.” I didn’t remember saying that to him, but he actually went to a doctor to see what it would take to make his jaw and chin a normal size. The doctor told him it could be done but it would be a year before he could talk again. That was the end of that idea!

  I didn’t limit my roughhousing to talk shows, and getting older didn’t slow me down. Twenty-three years after I wore Johnny out, I got down in the dirt on one of the biggest sitcoms.

  THE DOMESTIC GODDESS

  You have to love a woman who was smart enough to turn jokes about her working-class family life into a sitcom that ran for nine years (from 1988 to 1997) on ABC. One of my favorite lines of hers is, “As a housewife, I feel that if the kids are still alive when my husband gets home from work then, hey, I’ve done my job.”

  Roseanne asked me to be on the third-to-last episode of the show’s final season, a real honor for me. I play her character’s mother-in-law, Audrey, who has just got out of an institution after being locked up there for nine years by her own son, Dan Connor (John Goodman’s character). I spend the entire show trying to kill him for sending me away.

  There’s a scene in which Roseanne and I get into a fight. When we talked about how we would do it, I assured her that I would be all right. I always did stunts myself—like getting thrown into mud puddles or riding seven-hundred-pound hogs around a barnyard, as I did in the 1959 movie The Mating Game. The hog tossed me off his back, then came over and licked my face. Ten years after that I’d done a television special called The Sound of Children that featured a big brown bear. At one point, I was told to give the bear a hug. I don’t recommend hugging bears. I’ll never forget that feeling of getting squeezed in its crushing arms. The bear literally took my breath away. I was scared and amazed that I came out without a scratch. A lot of time had passed since then, but I figured that, even so, I could manage a roll on the set with Roseanne.

  The scene takes place in the Connor family’s backyard. Roseanne catches me digging a hole to bury my son—her husband—alive. Roseanne and I really go full-tilt world-class wrestling. She throws me to the ground, takes a leap, and lands on me while I’m lying on my back. Then we tussle and argue, yelling at each other between tugs and punches.

  “He’ll just put me back in that hospital,” I scream.

  “Why would he do that? You’re well now,” Roseanne yells as she rolls over me. “Audrey, what happened to you out there in California? Did you have one too many of those frozen mocha Frappuccinos?”

  Finally she drags me off by one leg.

  A year later Roseanne had her own afternoon talk show and I was a guest. During our conversation she brought up my appearance on her sitcom. I explained to her that when I got home after filming that scene, my left side hurt me. I visited the doctor, who told me that my rib was broken.

  “I call it my Roseanne Rib.”

  “Oh my God, you never told me that,” Roseanne said. “You mean you broke your rib?”

  “No. You broke it.”

  She was so concerned that I had never mentioned my rib. But there was nothing to do about it. Roseanne also seemed surprised that I didn’t sue her. There wasn’t much point to that.

  After all her apologies, she told me that she had spoken with Carrie, who’d shared a story about me.

  “Carrie told me that you came out of the kitchen carrying a blender, saying, ‘Dear, what is this used for?’”

  I was shocked to hear that I had been in a kitchen—not the room where you’ll find me in any house. Roseanne is the domestic goddess, not me. Let someone else figure out what to do with all that machinery.

  I wasn’t always on the giving end when it came to “assault and battery.” In 1981 the great TV producer Aaron Spelling offered me my own television series.

  ALOHA PARADISE

  Aaron was the producer of The Love Boat, which ran from 1977 to 1987 and on which I had appeared twice as a guest star. He also created the series Dynasty, which was another huge hit for ABC in the 1980s. Aaron had a really good track record, and I went in hoping for the best. My show was to be filmed on location in Hawaii. It was called Aloha Paradise, and meant to be comedic.

  Trust me, it wasn’t.

  I played the manager of a resort called Paradise Village where guests come to deal with their love lives—either looking for love or falling in or out of it. The two-hour pilot was shot in Kona, Hawaii, a beautiful setting. Everything about it was lovely except the script. The writing was terrible. The producers were very hard on me. They hired someone to listen to every take to make sure I didn’t improvise one word off the script. The lighthearted writing and fun of The Love Boat series didn’t make the trip to Hawaii.

  On the set of Aloha Paradise with the handsome Van Johnson.

  After the pilot we came back to the States to finish the series at Universal Studios. We had six more episodes to shoot, complete with my script overseer. I hated every minute of it. The only good thing for me was having a lot of my friends come to appear on the show. Jonathan Winters, Van Johnson, Jim Nabors, and many other actors I admire were guest stars, but I was really unhappy.

  No matter how bad things get now, I just look on the bright side—at least I’m not working on Aloha Paradise!

  That covers talk shows and sitcoms. I’ll end this chapter with my experiences with another television tradition: the Oscars.

  AND THE WINNER IS . . .

  The 2015 Academy Awards ceremony was dazzling, as usual. Neil Patrick Harris worked extremely hard as the host. Just the opening number was enough, but he made it through the rest of the show wonderfully. Being on all the time must have been so difficult. I could see that he was working to be the best in this big job.

  When I costarred with Neil in a TV movie called A Christmas Wish in 1998, he was a nice, talented young man. He wasn’t familiar with my work, so he rented all my movies. As a young actress in 1948, I never dreamed of a time when you would be able to rent me for two dollars a day. Neil would come to the set having just run Singin’ in the Rain, and ask me to sing the songs with him. He’s my favorite grandson.

  I have a long history with the Academy Awards, having been a presenter or performer many times. My first appearance was in 1951, when I announced the cinematography awards in an eleven-dollar dress from Lerner’s department store. The first Oscars presentations to be televised were in 1953. Over the years, the show evolved from no-frills black-and-white
with no production numbers into the fabulous full-color extravaganza it is today. And I went from wearing off-the-rack dresses to gowns made especially for me by famous designers like Helen Rose, Bob Mackie, Ret Turner, Nolan Miller, and Ray Aghayan.

  In 1978 the Academy celebrated its fiftieth year. For this big anniversary, they announced on March 21 that Gene Kelly would be featured in a “spectacular opening production number” called “Look How Far We’ve Come.” That sounded great. Buz Kohan, one of Carol Burnett’s writers, created the special material.

  A few days later, Gene was out and Debbie was in. I was asked to substitute for Gene, who was unable to perform. On March 31 the Academy sent out another press release touting “the greatest cast ever assembled for 50th Awards Show.” This one mentioned that I would be performing in the opening number. The show was on April 3, and I was on the spot.

  Pat Birch was the choreographer. She had worked with Gene and two dozen dancers for this huge five-minute song-and-dance number that took place up and down two flights of stairs spread across the length of the stage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The routine was built around Gene, featuring lyrics and dances from the Chaplin era right up to Saturday Night Fever.

  The dancers were dressed in white tuxedo outfits, the men in long slacks, while the ladies wore white shorts and formal jackets with tails. They were all wonderful, young, and energetic. My costume was brown satin slacks and a tuxedo jacket with sequined accents. I think Bob Mackie helped me with the outfit, but he may have left it to the show’s costume designer, Moss Mabry. In addition to the dancing, I had to run up the stairs to a platform for more tap dancing. There were props—bowler hats for Chaplin, top hats for the Astaire lyrics, umbrellas for the Singin’ in the Rain section that featured Gene’s choreography from his famous number in our film.