What's So Funny?: My Hilarious Life

by Tim Conway

  I had a blast doing The New Steve Allen Show. Why wouldn’t I, I was in great company. How could you go wrong working with people like Steve, Louis Nye, Tom Poston, Pat Harrington, Bill Dana, the Smothers Brothers, and, most especially, Don Knotts, the sweetest, funniest man in the world. I’d watched him do his “Man in the Street Interviews” with Steve, and he had me doubled over with laughter. Don would come out as this quivering bundle of nerves, his head jerking, his hands trembling, and Steve would stop him and ask him questions. He’d ask his name, and then say, “What is your occupation?” His voice shaky, Don would answer, “I’m a ne-ne-neurosurgeon,” or “I make d-d-d-dynamite.” It wasn’t just the material, it was the way he portrayed these people; you’d be laughing before he said a word. And it was all so gentle. Don Knotts and I got to be good friends and later worked together in movies. I did a bunch of films with him for Disney beginning with The Apple Dumpling Gang (1975).

  My introduction to Disney, aka The Mouse Factory, was The World’s Greatest Athlete in 1973. There’s nothing as pleasant as working at the Disney Studios. When you’ve grown up with Mickey, Donald, and the rest of the gang and then get the chance to work in the buildings where they were born, well, it just doesn’t get any better. They say that when you do a picture at Disney you get a script and then you meet your animal. Nine times out of ten that’s correct. If you’re doing a comedy you can rest assured that you’ll be working with a variety of creatures from dogs and cats to horses and mules. In The World’s Greatest Athlete, John Amos and I shared quite a few scenes with Ben, a man-eating Bengal tiger. Although Ben was trained, those words, “man-eating,” were not very reassuring. Ben did one particular trick that we all loved. On command, our man-eating tiger would chase after anyone who was moving rapidly, reach out with his paw, knock the person to the ground, and pretend to attack him by nuzzling the person’s throat. Whaddya know I was the person assigned to play opposite Ben in his signature hit-and-nuzzle scene. After the trainer demonstrated Ben’s acting ability by letting Ben chase and “attack” him, he called to me and said, “Okay, it’s your turn.”

  I was told to run across the set. When I’m being paid, I do what I’m told, so I ran. Suddenly Ben was beside me pushing me over with his paw. The next thing I knew I was on the floor with Ben practically on top of me, his huge head nestled in my neck. I have never come so close to loading my drawers as I did at that moment.

  Besides animals, Disney also had a reputation as the studio for pie throwing, which I discovered when I did The Shaggy D.A. (1976). I read and enjoyed the script they sent me until I came across the words, “pie fight.” I hate to see those two words together because I know what’s going to happen: My face and a pie are going to meet. Cherry is the pie of choice because of the color and its stick-to-itiveness. I learned that you try to keep your face from being directly hit for as long as you can because once they film you getting hit, you’ll be wearing that pie until the scene is completed. (To counteract your dodging, Disney actually hired professional pie-throwers.) The pie throwing can go on for days or even weeks. If you go into a second day’s shooting that means that at 6 A.M., somebody in the makeup department will hit you in the face with a pie in order to match the previous day’s shot. You wear that pie until someone says, “That’s a wrap for today.” Ah, but don’t think that ends it. What you want to hear them say is, “That’s a wrap.” Period. “For today” translates into: You’re going to get a pie in the face the next morning. I wore a pie for three days. On the fourth day, the script called for me to drive a convertible with the top down through a pillow factory. I was covered in feathers that I had to wear for two more days. On the seventh day, I drove through an auto body shop and got sprayed with orange paint. Naturally, I had to get made up in pie, feathers, and orange paint the next day. The assorted goo was piled on me in the morning, and we shot through the wee hours of the next day. Then, I heard the most beautiful words in the English language: “That’s a wrap.”

  Nothing as terrifying as tigers or cherry pies confronted Don Knotts and me when we did The Apple Dumpling Gang. But we did share some extraordinary moments. During the filming we were on location in Stockton, California, some three hundred miles from Los Angeles. For one scene in the movie, Don and I were disguised as two dance hall girls working in a western saloon. We wore low-cut frilly, black dresses, black stockings, high heels, and wigs. My wig was in an upsweep; Don’s was a mass of flowing locks with a big feather sticking up in the back. We made a pair of pretty hot chicks if I do say so myself. We stayed at a nearby motel and every morning we’d get in my rented car and I’d drive us to the train station where we were filming. During the week or so that we worked on the dance hall sequence, Don, who never bellyached, constantly complained that he was freezing to death during his costume change. The wardrobe trailer was unheated; really it was like being inside a refrigerator. I wasn’t bothered by the cold but I sympathized with him.

  “Look,” I said, “Just get the wardrobe guy to give you the clothes. Get dressed in the motel in the morning then you won’t have to change in the trailer.”

  “Y’know, you got a good idea there, buddy,” said Don.

  That day when we got to the set we arranged for Don to bring his costume back to the motel. He was a happy man. The next morning, he emerged from his motel room in all his feminine finery and got in the car. I’ll admit he did look a little strange sitting there next to me, but it was what it was. As we drove along, Don couldn’t resist grabbing the opportunity to have some fun. He kept preening in his seat and giving friendly little waves to other drivers when we stopped at traffic lights. A day later the scene became even weirder. We were shooting the dance hall sequence when the director called a halt and announced that we’d finish the next day. I got into my regular clothes, but Don stayed in his costume. He kept on his makeup, too. Dance hall girls tend to pile it on a little thick, and his face glowed with pancake powder. Not to mention the bright red lipstick, the false eyelashes, and the wig with the plume in it. I drove back to the motel and dropped Don off at his room to change. I told him I was going to get a beer at the bar across the street before we went for dinner. He said he’d change into his civvies and join me.

  I went into the saloon, got my beer, and sat at the bar. Did I mention that this bar was rather a rough place to spend time? The locals didn’t much care for Hollywood types. I passed because I didn’t look like a movie person; ordinarily Don passed, too. I was sipping my beer and looking into the big mirror on the wall behind the bar when I saw Don enter. He was still in his dance hall outfit, the black stockings, the high heels, and the wig with a plume in it, the whole works. Everyone stopped talking, and all eyes were on him as he crossed the room and came over to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, loud enough for all to hear, “Have you got the keys to that room, big boy?”

  Every cowboy in that bar was looking at us. I pulled my head back, slowly looked Don up and down, and then drawled, “Well ma’am, don’t you think we ought to talk price first?”

  I can still hear the sound of Don’s laughter. We were just plain lucky that the cowboys found it amusing, too.

  The Apple Dumpling Gang did well enough for Don and me to appear in a sequel, The Apple Dumpling Gang Rides Again. After that, the Gang headed into the corral, but we continued to do films together, many of which I wrote. I did the screenplay for The Private Eyes, a take-off on the Sherlock Holmes adventures. Don played the Holmes character, Inspector Winship, and I was his sidekick, Doctor Tart. We had as much fun behind the scenes, maybe even more, than in front of the camera. The thing is, though I knew all my lines and exactly what I was supposed to do, I was always susceptible to throwing in a little something extra. For example, we were shooting a scene in The Private Eyes with Don and myself standing in front of a large window. I was supposed to send a message to Scotland Yard via a carrier pigeon with a little note attached to his leg. Don was to hand me the pigeon then tell me to throw the bird out the
window. During the shoot, I took the pigeon but, instead of opening the window and flinging him out, I threw the bird at the pane. The pigeon smashed through the glass, adjusted a few feathers, and went sailing off. (Wait, don’t call the ASPCA—the glass in the window was the breakaway kind.) Now if Don had laughed we’d have lost the whole scene. He didn’t, though, he just gave one of his “sniff” takes, a quick drawing of air up into his nostrils, and a couple of head bobs, and walked away. Thanks to him, we were able to keep the bit in the film.

  I learned a lot just watching Don Knotts at work. There wasn’t a phony motion in him, everything was character driven, and, oh, what characters he created! I think Barney Fife from The Andy Griffith Show is one of the greatest, funniest, and truest personalities ever seen on the screen. When you watched his antics as Andy Griffith’s deputy, you were watching Don Knotts. He was Barney Fife, a kind, gentle, fun-loving person who dedicated his life to making people smile. I’m so thankful I had the opportunity to know and to work with Don.

  All of the regulars on Steve’s show were given the opportunity to create characters that suited our particular comedy style. What’s more, Steve was the perfect foil for each of us. My routines usually involved Dag Herferd in multiple roles. For instance, I’d be introduced as “Dag Herferd, The World’s Greatest ____” and Steve would fill in the space. One time it would be “Detective,” the next “Jockey,” or “Cotton Picker,” or “Ocarina Soloist,” and so forth. Whatever occupation he announced, I’d fall right into it. I’d totter or saunter (depending on my character) out from the wings, take my seat, and answer the questions Steve threw at me. Some of it was written down, but that didn’t stop me from tossing in a few lines from left field. Whenever I did this, Steve would look up with this bemused expression on his face, which gradually worked its way into a grin, then a smile, then a laugh. I loved getting Steve to cackle. I didn’t realize it at the time but I was in training for Harvey Korman.

  Sadly, The New Steve Allen Show was cancelled after fourteen episodes, but the good thing was I’d made a splash, a small one, on national television. I returned to Cleveland and to the welcoming arms of Ernie and the rest of the gang.

  The Importance of Being Ernest Borgnine

  Of the many wonderful things that came out of being on the Allen show, right near the top would be my gaining not only an agent but a friend. Phil Weltman of the William Morris Agency saw my first appearance and immediately called the studio to get my number. The next thing I knew, he was on the phone telling me that he wanted to represent me.

  “As what?” I asked.

  “As your agent,” he replied.

  “Oh,” said I, “what does that mean?”

  “My agency will handle you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a very funny man. I think you’re going places, and we can help you get there. We’ll find you work and negotiate your fees, things like that.”

  “Gee, that sounds nice, but why would you want to do it?”

  “Well, we take a percentage of your fees.”

  “Oh, you want money, too?”

  I was half kidding. I knew nothing about agents or managers. I knew nothing about the business end of the business, which, I think, is why I had whatever success I did. I’ve always had a loose approach to work, whatever I was doing was fine, and wherever I was going was fine. If things didn’t work out and I got fired, that was fine, too. I’d go on to the next gig. It wasn’t arrogance, it’s just that I did what I thought was funny and, fortunately, most of the time I was right. One thing’s for sure, I was absolutely right when I signed with Phil Weltman.

  In a business that was often just that, Phil was a guy who truly cared about the people he represented. He was my one and only agent until the day he died. He was a marvelous, gentle guy and also a Mr. Malaprop. He tended to relate things inside out. One time we were talking about pro football and an underdog team that, surprisingly, had won a game. Phil meant to say, “Any team can win on any given Sunday.” Which makes sense. But, what he said was, “If it’s Sunday, a team can win any time they want to.” Which doesn’t make sense. Phil had been a high-ranking army officer during World War II and had a real soft spot for England. We were talking about Anglo-American relations when Phil commented, “You know, when I was stationed in France we saw quite a bit of Wimpy.”

  I knew he meant to say “Winnie,” the nickname of Winston Churchill, but he’d mixed up Popeye’s hamburger-loving pal with Britain’s prime minister. I thought I’d help him out and responded, jokingly, “You know, whenever I saw Wimpy, he always had a hamburger.”

  Phil corrected me, “I don’t think that Wimpy had a hamburger. I’m pretty sure it was a derby.”

  Phil was one-of-a-kind and is the person most responsible for whatever success has come my way. He got me my first major television role soon after The New Steve Allen Show was cancelled. In 1962, a producer named Ed Montagne was putting together a comedy television series based on a TV drama, Seven Against the Sea. (Montagne already had scored big with The Phil Silvers Show, a military comedy set on an army base.) The upcoming series, renamed, McHale’s Navy, took place on a Pacific island during World War II. The story centered on the commanding officer of a PT boat. Ernest Borgnine had been cast as the CO, Lieutenant Commander Quinton McHale. They were looking for someone to play the role of Ensign Charles Parker, a sweet, not too bright, inept kind of guy who was second in command to McHale and who got into some sort of trouble in every episode. (Does the description sound like someone you know?) Montagne had seen me on Steve’s show and called Phil to tell him that they wanted me for the part. Then Phil called me in Cleveland and told me about the offer. I said no.

  “Are you nuts?” Phil demanded.

  I explained that I was having a good time doing my lousy show in Cleveland and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to go back out to Hollywood. I was comfortable and happy where I was. Phil urged me to give it some more thought; I said I’d get back to him. I told a few people at the station about the offer and when I said I didn’t want to take it, they questioned my sanity. Eventually, the station manager found out and this time, instead of threatening to fire me as he did when The New Steve Allen Show was offered, he actually did fire me. I had no choice but to go.

  I went home and informed my wife that we were moving to Los Angeles. She was fine with it. As I’ve mentioned, our first little cookie was in the oven, and daughter Kelly would be born in California. In fact, all my kids are Californians. When I told Sophia and Dan we were moving to L.A., Dan shrugged his shoulders and Sophia let loose a torrent of Romanian during which I heard the word nebun at least a dozen times. (I’ll save you the trouble of looking it up; it means “crazy.”) With Sophia’s word(s) ringing in my ear, I took my wife and myself way out west.

  Our first apartment was in Van Nuys in the San Fernando Valley. Later, we bought a house in Encino. Matter of fact, I’ve never left the Valley. I became a Californian, but every summer we went back to Ohio to visit with my parents and my pals. As I’ve said, Sophia and Dan really enjoyed being grandparents and we gave them plenty of opportunity by providing so many grandkids.

  I was overwhelmed by Hollywood. I couldn’t believe it. Here was a hick from Chagrin Falls breathing the same air and walking on the same sound stages as the biggest stars in the business. It blew my mind. The first day of rehearsal for McHale’s Navy, I walked into yet another enormous conference room and sat down at a long table. Seated opposite me was Ernest Borgnine, one of those superstars I’d idolized. I saw him in Bad Day at Black Rock, From Here to Eternity, Marty, and so many other movies. He was terrific in every film he made and, while he didn’t fit the description of leading man, he managed to win the Best Actor Oscar for his performance in Marty. The minute I sat down, Ernie reached across the table, stuck out his hand, and said, “I’m Ernie Borgnine, and you’re Tim Conway, right?”

  “I have absolutely no idea who I am,” was what I started to say. I was so taken aback th
at he knew my name, or at least, what sounded like my name that all I could do was take his outstretched hand in mine and hold on to it. I wanted to freeze this moment in my memory bank; Oscar winner shakes hands with Ghoulardi stooge.

  “I, ah, I,” were the only words that came out of my mouth.

  Ernie grinned.

  “You’re from Cleveland, right?” He smiled his big gap-toothed smile and offered me another chance to speak.

  “I, ah, I. . . .”

  Honestly, I couldn’t get past the second “I.” I didn’t know what to say. I was starstruck. Sure I’d been exposed to a lot of talented people, but they were television performers. Ernest Borgnine was a movie star, like the ones I’d seen on the screen at the Falls Theatre. For Pete’s sake, he was one of the ones I worshipped. Today, movie and television stars are interchangeable, not to mention those so-called stars from those reality shows. For me a star is a John Wayne or a Ginger Rogers.

  Meanwhile, I’m still holding hands with Ernest Borgnine and my tongue is tied. Ernie, bless his big heart, realized that I was dumbstruck. Slowly and gently, he removed his hand and sat back down. I followed his lead, although I more collapsed in my chair rather than sat. Right then and there, Ernest Borgnine took me under his wing. He mentored me for the next three years and became another one of those guys with whom I had a lifelong friendship—and it all began with McHale’s. We were buddies right up until his death at the age of ninety-five in July of 2012.

  In nearly a century of life, Ernie never lost his zest. He was the most “people person” I ever met. Wherever he was or whatever he was doing, if he saw a group talking, he’d walk over and join right in. He used to love to go on long car trips just to bring his friendly act on the road. He’d drive around the country and when he spotted families sitting on their front porches, he’d stop, get out of the car, go up on the porch, pull up a chair, sit down, and start schmoozing. Everybody knew who he was, and, as he himself admitted, it wasn’t because he’d won an Academy Award for Marty, it was because they all loved McHale’s. When he stopped the long-distance jaunts, he bought himself a Smart Car and tooled around Los Angeles. That was quite a sight. The car was just large enough to cover him; really, it looked as though he was wearing it. He never stopped working, either. He made appearances all over the USA from L.A. to New York. And right up to the very end, Ernie was on the phone with me trying to get me to go with him to some convention for people seeking memorabilia from old television shows.