Rehearsing was grueling. These numbers usually take weeks of planning, staging, and rehearsal. I was dropped into this epic only a few days before an important live performance. I remember driving from the valley over to the dingy Marathon studio on the Paramount lot, where Pat worked me hard to get me up to speed. She pushed me to perform better than I thought I could under the circumstances.
Before long I was tapping, twirling, doing the tango while running up and down the stairs, and grabbing and handing off lots of props. Hats and umbrellas went flying as Miss Burbank moved on to the next dance combination.
At the end of the number on the night of the show, I spoke about all the many wonderful actors who had received an Academy Award, people who are dedicated to excellence. Then former winners in all categories appeared at different levels of the set with escorts in tuxedos who moved them into position on the stairs and stage—everyone from actors Mickey Rooney, Anne Baxter, and Ernie Borgnine; director George Cukor; costume designer Edith Head; and composers Marvin Hamlisch, John Williams, and Henry Mancini; and many more. Then producer Howard Koch Jr. came out to introduce Bette Davis and Gregory Peck, who talked for another four minutes while the dancers, Oscar winners, and I stood on the stage. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity in stage time, Bob Hope was introduced as the host of the show—his last performance at the Oscars—and as the cameras focused in on Bob we all left the darkened stage behind him.
Like a visit to the White House, going to the Oscars is special. One year my friends from Virginia wanted to go. They paid for the tickets, so I went along. That was in 1985, when Prince was nominated for his song “When Doves Cry” from his film Purple Rain. He and two lady friends were seated next to us, which was exciting for the folks from Roanoke. Prince wore a purple lace shawl that covered his head, revealing little more than his eyes. When his name was announced, he took to the stage with the two women on his arms.
“This is Lisa and this is Wendy,” he introduced them, then asked Wendy, “Want to hold it?” and handed her his Oscar.
It was a fun moment. You don’t get to see things like this on a normal day outside of Hollywood.
In 1997 I was asked to present the Oscar for Best Score. As it happened, my daughter, Carrie, was writing for the show for the first time. That was the year my film Mother was up for consideration.
“Before we get to the nominees,” I started, “I’m not going to lie to you. I was a little disappointed by not being nominated myself, but what I did was, I took to my bed for two weeks. And then I discovered this wonderful support group called the Non-Nominees Anonymous . . . or Non-Anon. Well, maybe not so anonymous—Courtney Love, Madonna, Barbra Streisand.”
The camera cut to Barbra sitting in the audience next to James Brolin, her handsome husband.
“These wonderfully generous, gifted, uncomplicated women . . .”
I paused while the audience laughed, and the camera cut again to Barbra, who lowered her head and raised her hand to her cheek.
“. . . these lovely women took me in and nominated me as their friend. So it is to them that I would like to express my gratitude for helping me out of my deep funk into this shallow one. Now to the teleprompter.”
I began reading the prepared remarks about the “precious gift of laughter, the audience film comedy provides . . .”
This time the audience’s cheers and clapping made me pause, which was perfect for what came next.
“. . . the . . . the . . . provides.”
I stopped, squinting my eyes and making a sour face.
“Who wrote this drivel?” I said. “I would like to meet the writers who wrote this drivel. Is there a writer on premise? Is there a writer in the house? I would like to find out—”
Cut to my daughter entering from the wings, stage right, raising her arms in pretend annoyance, asking, “What? What is it, Mama?”
“Carrie, I can’t say this drivel.”
“Well, it’s my first year writing drivel. I was just following Hal’s lead.” She turned to the wings. “Could somebody get Hal Cantor? Or Buz, or Bruce?”
No response.
“Well, honey, we’ll just cut it,” I said.
“Oh, good,” Carrie said. “This show could be shorter, anyway.”
“Well, you couldn’t,” I cracked as she left the stage.
Carrie’s not the only wiseacre in the family.
5
A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Woids
As comics, we all owe a great deal to the ones who went before us. Mae West, Moms Mabley, and Fanny Brice broke into the world of comedy where no women had ever worked before. Phyllis Diller was one of the first women to be a successful stand-up comedienne. Phyllis was followed by Joan Rivers, who inspired another generation of female comedy performers. (Phyllis was one of my mentors, as well as my great friend.) For every great comic like Robin Williams, there was a Jonathan Winters who inspired him. Wayland Flowers borrowed heavily from Redd Foxx, with Redd’s blessing. Bette Midler’s comedy was influenced by Belle Barth and Sophie Tucker. Eddie Murphy inspired Chris Rock. The list goes on.
When I began my film career, I was fortunate to become friends with some of the greatest comedians of all time. This picture is from when the Friars Club honored Lucy on her birthday.
We all love Lucy. This was an event honoring Lucille Ball.
What great company—the best in the business. Milton Berle, George Burns, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, and Groucho Marx.
I was asked to be the emcee, which I was happy to do. The tribute was a benefit for a Southern California children’s charity. The Friars were a rowdy bunch. On this night, Lucy was roasted by the greats of comedy, who were also our friends—Milton Berle, George Burns, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, and Groucho Marx. It was a very special event.
EVERYBODY LOVES LUCY
Was there ever a more talented comedienne than Lucille Ball? What an inspiration she is to everyone in comedy. I Love Lucy, her series with her Cuban bandleader husband, Desi Arnaz, was the biggest hit on television in the mid-1950s. The show was performed live before a studio audience, and used three cameras, a technique that changed the way sitcoms were shot. When it was syndicated, there was always an episode playing somewhere in the world at any given time. The show is still popular today. Lucy’s dazzling timing continues to inspire new generations of talented young comics. Her physical ability—the ways she used her body to get laughs—remains unequaled to this day.
In addition to being a great performer, Lucy was also one of the first women to excel in the television business. She produced and owned her shows, which she sold to CBS along with her image and name for millions of dollars at a time when that was really a lot of money. Lucy ran Desilu Studios, which in addition to her own shows produced series such as Mission: Impossible and Star Trek that continued in one form or another for decades. She was smart as well as beautiful and talented.
Lucy was also a lovely person. Unlike some other comics, she wasn’t “on” all the time. She didn’t try to be funny when you were around her. But as a comic actress, she was brilliant. Lucy used to visit our house when the children were young. Carrie was mesmerized by her deep voice.
“You’re a cute, fat little baby,” Lucy would say to Carrie. Carrie loved it.
With people’s voices, I was always careful with my children when they were growing up. Babies imitate the voices they hear. When people use high-pitched “baby talk,” the little ones soak it up like sponges. I wanted my daughter to have a well-placed voice, not a high, screechy one like I learned in Texas when I was growing up.
On her I Love Lucy series, Lucy did everything. Talk about shtick. One of the most famous is the episode “Lucy Does a TV Commercial.” The product is Vitameatavegamin. Lucy “spoons her way to health,” getting roaring drunk in the process. You can see it on YouTube. There’s nothing funnier—unless you look at Lucy and Ethel working in the candy factory (“Job Switching”) or Lucy stomping grapes at a winery in Italy (“Lucy’s I
talian Movie”). What a treasure.
Lucy loved her husband Desi Arnaz like nobody’s business. She was devoted to him. He loved Lucy but he couldn’t resist the temptations of ladies and liquor. Desi played around. He was always out somewhere. He was a charmer when he was sober, but when he drank it was all over.
Desi would stay out all night. Sometimes Lucy would call me at two or three in the morning looking for him.
“Why would he be here? You know I would never be with Desi,” I reassured her.
“I know, Debbie. But he said that he likes you. I took a chance.”
Even after she divorced him, Lucy still loved Desi. I knew that he still loved her, but she had to end it. She was so lonely.
Then in 1960 she met Gary Morton. He was a New York comic who was funny and nice. I had met Gary when I was first dating Eddie. When he was around Lucy, he made her laugh. He didn’t have any money when he married her in 1961 but he died rich. He was a good husband. He didn’t play around. He filled her life.
When I would visit Agnes Moorehead on Roxbury Drive, we’d go across the street to Lucy’s house to run movies and just be girlfriends having some laughs together. I’d always purposely leave something behind.
“Can’t you remember anything?” Lucy would say when I came to pick it up. “These earrings are real!”
I wonder if she knew it was just an excuse to visit her again.
I Love Lucy ran from 1951 to 1957. After that Lucy had three more hit series: The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour (1954–1957); The Lucy Show (1962–1968); and Here’s Lucy (1968–1974). Her last show, Life with Lucy, ran for only thirteen episodes, in 1986. It broke Lucy’s heart when it was canceled. She felt ignored by the public. That really hurt her. She retired to playing backgammon and cards with Gary.
But she loved Desi to the end. When he was dying in 1986, she would go to him, still loving him. They had a special love story.
MILTON BERLE
“Mr. Television” and “Uncle Miltie” were Milton Berle’s popular nicknames in the 1950s. When his Texaco Star Theater was aired on Tuesday nights, business dropped in restaurants and bars because everyone stayed home to watch the show. His program is credited for selling televisions all over America. Milton transitioned from a life in vaudeville to being the first really huge TV star. He was followed by other actors and vaudevillians who became TV stars, like Jack Benny, husband-and-wife team George Burns and Gracie Allen, and Lucy, the queen of the small screen.
Milton was one of the founders of the Friars Club. Whenever he was there he would have himself paged all over so everyone would know he was in the club.
“Milton Berle is wanted in the game room.”
“Mr. Berle has a phone call at the front desk.”
The Friars was also one of the places my second husband went to gamble every day. Harry played cards with Milton often, and they became friendly. So I also got to know Milton better, and the more I got to know Milton, the less I liked him. His behavior was rude. He used very trashy language around everyone. He loved vulgar humor. (To “clean up his act,” he once introduced Lucille Ball as “Lucille Testicle.”)
Once Milton was at a party at our house on Greenway Drive. I had new white carpeting everywhere. Not the most practical choice for someone with children and poodles, but I liked the look of it. Most of my guests were considerate. I did everything I could to make them feel comfortable. Milton was seated in a chair in the living room with his ever-present cigar. He dropped the ashes all over the floor, instead of in a nearby ashtray. When it looked like he was about to drop the lit cigar butt on my rug, I motioned to my security guard, Zinc, to help Uncle Miltie to the car. Milton’s wife never came to parties with him, so he left with Zinc.
Of course, Milton’s own parties were another matter. At one of them I attended, he’d hired Scotty Bowers to shock the guests, who included great stars like Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. Everyone was there. In 2012 Bowers published a bestselling memoir about his days as a hustler and sex procurer in Hollywood. He was known for his large endowment. Milton used to have him lay it on a silver tray with parsley and other garnishes, like an hors d’oeuvre, and circulate among the guests. People would try to pick it up from the tray and keep going and going until they realized they weren’t holding an actual sausage, then yank their empty hands away. Bowers would say, “Ooh.” Not my idea of funny.
But it does remind me of a very old joke that I will share with you. Old jokes get to live on from generation to generation because they’re funny. Jokes that die when they’re delivered don’t get handed down from one comic to the next.
As the story goes, there was a man named Herschel the Magnificent whose “gift” was even greater than Scotty’s. Herschel would enter a showroom dressed in his bathrobe. In front of him would be a table with walnuts laid out on it.
Herschel would open his robe, revealing his mighty manhood. Grabbing his penis as if it were a baseball bat, he would walk by the table, cracking each walnut as he passed.
The crowd would cheer at Herschel’s special talent. Many people in his audience returned several times to see the show.
Years passed. One day a man who hadn’t seen Herschel in a long time decided to catch his act again. Inside the nightclub, he was surprised to see the table laid out with coconuts instead of walnuts.
Herschel entered, older but still virile, and went down the row of coconuts, cracking each one.
After the show, the man went back to speak with Herschel.
“Herschel. It’s good to see you’re still performing. I’ve been a fan for many years. But I must ask, why are you cracking coconuts now instead of walnuts?”
“Well,” said Herschel, “my eyes ain’t what they used to be.”
I don’t know if Milton ever used that joke. It probably wasn’t dirty enough. His fellow comics used to say that it was impossible to steal from Milton because none of his material was his.
One of the last times I saw Milton was at another Friars Club event. Jack Carter was onstage doing his routine. Milton was heckling him from the wings. When that didn’t work, Milton started to go onstage to interrupt Jack in person. I grabbed Milton by his shirt and pulled him back into the wings.
We got into a fight.
“What are you, his agent?” Milton yelled at me.
“No, you’re just being rude. Stop it.”
“Why don’t you shut up!”
That was all I needed to hear. I took a swing at him, calling him a son of a bitch. Not very ladylike of me, but at least Jack got to finish his set without any more interruptions.
I really don’t like disparaging people, so I’ll end by just saying that while I respected Milton’s talent, I didn’t enjoy being around him.
GEORGE BURNS AND GRACIE ALLEN
When I think of George Burns, I think of a roué. He loved to flirt. If you were sitting next to him, he would always have his hand on your leg, massaging it.
George and Gracie started out in vaudeville with Gracie as the “straight man” but switched roles because she got all the laughs. George was great friends with Jack Benny. Like Jack, Milton Berle, and Bob Hope, George and Gracie successfully made the transition from the stage to radio, then to film and TV. From 1950 to 1958 they had a television series on CBS called The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show.
I went to YouTube to refresh my memory so I could give you an idea of how remarkable they were. Their TV show was really ahead of its time. George would step outside the action and comment to the audience about the wacky goings-on and Gracie’s attempts to trick him into doing what she wanted. He’d find out by turning on his own TV set in another room, and watch Gracie scheming with another cast member.
Take the episode “The Termites.” Gracie has decided she wants to redo the bedroom and has hired an expensive decorator. Her neighbor and best friend, Blanche, asks if George will care about the cost. “He never cares how much I spend as long as he doesn’t know I’m spending it,” Gracie explains. Then the d
ecorator arrives, and the three of them talk about what needs to be done. Blanche explains that Gracie wants the redecoration to be a surprise for her husband. He asks where George is. “In the bedroom,” Gracie tells him. That’s a problem, the decorator says, because he needs to see how much he can salvage (meaning in the bedroom). Thinking the decorator is talking about George, Gracie says, “He’s very well preserved.” Blanche tells her the decorator means the bedroom, and Gracie says that if the bedroom looked as good as George, she wouldn’t have it done over.
While the audience’s heads are still spinning, George enters and Gracie tries to deflect his interest. He leaves and goes into an upstairs room, turns on his TV, and sees her making plans with the decorator. Then he steps outside onto his dark balcony.
“Look, fellas,” he tells the unseen camera crew. “It’s all right to have it night for the show but for my monologue I’d like a little more light.”
The lights come up and he goes into his monologue, addressing the viewing audience and using pauses, the occasional raised eyebrow, and brilliant writing to get laughs. And cigar puffs. (“When I tell a joke, I pause and puff on my cigar,” George once explained. “That way, the audience knows I’ve told a joke.”)
“How about that television set of mine?” he begins. “That set’s quite a gimmick. Twenty-seven-inch keyhole. Indoor television sets are quite the thing. They’ve installed some of them in factories already. Boss just sits in his office, turns on the television screen, sees which workers do the most work, and those are the ones he fires. You see, if you work hard you get tired, and the lines show on your face and you don’t photograph well. And who wants to look at a bad picture on the television screen?”
George goes on to talk about one boss who installed a secret TV monitor but got suspicious when his employees showed up at work wearing Max Factor’s Pan-Cake Makeup—product placement as punch line! Not only is he describing closed-circuit TV, which had not yet come into wide use, but by joking about everyday people playing to the cameras as though they were actors, George is practically predicting what we’ve come to know as reality TV!
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