I'm Dying Up Here: Heartbreak and High Times in Stand-Up Comedy's Golden Era
Page 18
In addition, he’d recently earned $175 for eleven performances at the Laff Stop in Newport Beach. So that came to $425 in a single month, which was a pretty big deal to him, given that he’d earned less than $1,000 in the previous twelve months. Maybe, at long last, something was going to break for him. He’d seen it happen before. Guys he knew had gone from where he was right now to stardom in the span of a few weeks. He was excited by the reawakened promise—and frightened, too. If the break came next week, would he be ready? He sat down and wrote a long letter home: Dear Dad and Barry,
I am sending one copy of this to each of you. It is important.
One of the worst offshoots of the Dante Shocko affair was that it gave both of you a negative experience in the area of investing in my word (predictions), my comedy and my assurances.
What the whole thing came down to is I was right. Dante Shocko was funny and made people laugh. But I was wrong. In an industry controlled by a few big distributors, the only things that interest them are films that look like big, big moneymakers, with big stars and often big special effects.
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 167
I’m Dying Up Here
167
My crazy little low-budget film might have made money in New York in the 1960s and early 1970s, but it just wasn’t to be, especially now, with millions of dollars in Hollywood hype to compete with.
Anyway, as I’ve told you both, the only way I can see the film making money is if I get hot as a performer. And that is starting to happen. I’m getting great spots at the Comedy Store on a regular basis while experienced friends of mine call in and get a lone spot every two weeks. It becomes quite evident that I’m hot and getting hotter.
But it’s still no easy road. I’m still in trouble economically. Yes, I can barely take care of food and rent, but I’m so close to making it that it kills me to think of the vital things I can’t afford.
Including:
1. At least two good suits (one casual, one a little more formal) for auditions, meeting people, important gigs and TV: Right now my best outfit for stage is Richard Lewis’s hand-me-down jeans (frayed at the bottom) and a slightly wrinkled (and out-of-date) jeans jacket. Sometimes it’s downright embarrassing.
2. Boots: My boots are cracking, the heels are run down and they are best described as embarrassing. I need new boots.
3. My other shoes are a pair of run-down sneakers that are peeling. I need new sneakers.
4. I need at least another pair of regular shoes for stage.
5. A few pairs of jeans: Most of mine are too tight, have a faded crotch or just look crummy (remember, it’s not like 20
hippies looking at me at Folk City. It’s 150 hip people at the Comedy Store and 80 rich, hip people at the Laff Stop, looking me over thoroughly). I really need to look better on stage.
6. Shirts: I keep wearing the few good ones I have over and over. It’s ridiculous. I need three or four new ones. Critical!
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 168
168
William Knoedelseder
7. Pictures taken and printed: I’m the only comic who doesn’t have an 8 × 10 (without a moustache, the way I look now). I need money to get them taken and printed. At the Laff Stop, everyone had a picture on the outside billboard. For me, they had a yellow piece of paper with my name written across it.
In this highly competitive business, image is very important.
Any sign of being a poor, unsuccessful loser can actually undo the good my comedy talent creates. It’s very frustrating.
8. Have my two front teeth filed down: A quick simple procedure that will take away an unprofessional jaggedness when I smile. (Has to be done before pictures.) 9. Acting lessons: Between Richard Lewis getting his own pilot and a trend toward hiring stand-ups in sitcoms (mainly because we can hype their shows when we do Carson, Griffin, Dinah and Douglas, which helps their ratings). Because of this I will soon be going to read for acting jobs. Only one problem. I haven’t had the slightest bit of training. I have no doubt that the verbal adeptness and stage presence that have made me a good comic will be useful as far as becoming a competent actor.
But I still need actual acting work and I need it now. Susan is in Victor French’s acting class (he’s the star of the ABC series Carter Country and one of the best teachers in Hollywood).
Susan could actually get me into class. It’s $50 a month (four Saturdays) but more than worth it.
10. Haircuts: I have to be able to look neat in this image-conscious town. I can’t ever go to something looking sloppy
’cause I couldn’t afford a haircut. Finally I’ve got my foot in the door and I hate to have it slammed shut because of stupid things.
11. Dining: Although I never do, and would never eat dinner out for pleasure on borrowed money, it’s important to be able to afford an emergency meal if it’s “good for business.” Even late-night snacks at Canter’s sometimes create deeper friendships and new “ins” to do other gigs.
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 169
I’m Dying Up Here
169
12. Singing lessons: I do some singing (half-joking) in my act. But I’ve been told I don’t have a bad voice. I’m sure singing lessons could help and possibly bring out a real and useful talent.
13. Car insurance: To prevent a big liability disaster that can cripple me for life. (I also need AAA for emergencies.) 14. Car repairs: Not many, but I have to be prepared for the occasional new tire or other little screw-up.
15. Improvisation classes: Without any training I’m one of the best natural improvisers around. If I had some training I could do improvs on stage and just boost my worth even more.
16. Money to legally change my name when appropriate.
17. Tape record cassettes, food, rent, vital expenses for these next critical months.
Now, if you are saying, “Why doesn’t he get a job?” Well, here’s why: I have a job. Stand-up comedy. It’s a job important enough for 780 people (three shows) to stand in line in the cold out at Newport Beach and pay $9 to see me. Two other comics and me is what beautiful rich people are fighting for tickets to see.
He didn’t say anything about the pay dispute or the CFC. He’d been trying not to think about all that, as if to acknowledge it would give it life. A strike at the Store was about the worst thing he could imagine. Despite his loyalty to Mitzi, he could never cross a picket line. He was predisposed by heredity to support the masses against the Man. But where would he perform if the Store were cordoned off by picketers? He couldn’t play the Improv at will like Lewis and Leno. He wasn’t on Budd Friedman’s A list (or B or C list, for that matter). TV talent scouts didn’t drive down to the Laff Stop in Newport Beach to check out acts. And even if they did, stage time would be at such a premium in a strike that the Laff Stop’s owner, Michael Callie, could pick and choose among the headliners whose TV appearances drew customers. If 1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 170
170
William Knoedelseder
the comics struck the Store, it would stop his recent career progress in its tracks and mark the return of Bad Luck Lubetkin.
He put the letter to his father and brother in a drawer.
Richard Lewis was working on a network TV pilot he had landed in the wake of Diary of a Young Comic. Called The 416th, it was a sitcom about a dysfunctional National Guard unit, sort of a countercultural remake of the old Sgt. Bilko series. The day job had prevented him from attending any of the comics’ meetings, but he’d heard all about the issues during after-hours gatherings at Canter’s.
The truth was, Lewis was ambivalent about the labor dispute.
“Of course the comedians deserve payment for making the club owners so successful for so many years,” he said. “There’s no legitimate rationale for them not paying. Without us, they’d have an empty shell with cockroaches. There’s no movie without a script, and
there is no comedy club without comics.”
At the same time, he thought that Lubetkin and a lot of other comics gave the club owners too much power by focusing on them. “I’m not working for Mitzi or Budd,” he said. “I’m working for me and the audience. I’m using their clubs for my purposes.”
He wasn’t sure that a picket line or a boycott would accomplish anything constructive. “I don’t want their $5 or $10 or $15,” he said. “I want their stage. I don’t want that price tag put on my set. I’m better than that. Yes, it’s humiliating to work for nothing. But is it any less humiliating to work for almost nothing?
Would I feel better using their stage to get ahead or having my work priced at $15? ”
Argus Hamilton felt no such ambivalence. He was among a group of about a dozen hard-core loyalists who quickly formed a protective circle around Shore. Shore was clearly shaken by the events of the previous week, stunned by both the number and names of the comics apparently allied with the CFC. Jay Leno?
David Letterman? She couldn’t believe they would turn on her after all she had done for them. My God, Dave was set to guest-1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 171
I’m Dying Up Here
171
host The Tonight Show in a few weeks after only two previous appearances on the show! Wasn’t that proof enough that her concept worked? Couldn’t he see that the Store was the light?
Hamilton had never seen Mitzi so agitated and unsure of herself. He took on the role of Dreesen’s counterpart, lobbying other comics to support her in her time of trial, rallying everyone he could around the queen. And no one could talk up Mitzi better than Argus. In describing her particular genius, he would work himself into flights of pure Southern oratory. “She plays each one of us like a different instrument,” he’d say, “and has an incredible capacity for knowing just how to tune each one, especially those of us she has developed from scratch. The comics are her palette, and each night she uses the colors to paint a different beautiful picture that is the Comedy Store.” It moved some people nearly to tears and made others want to puke, but everyone knew it came from his heart, and they respected him.
That wasn’t the case with Ollie Joe Prater, who assumed a less admirable role in Mitzi’s defense, that of spy or snitch. Pretending to be sympathetic to the CFC, he eavesdropped on conversations and reported back to Mitzi on what he heard. That’s how she knew about Letterman’s leanings. Of course, everyone knew what Prater was doing because he was as subtle as an anvil. He might as well have cupped his hand to his ear.
The CFC had its own spies in Shore’s camp. A waitress named Robin called Dreesen to say that she had eavesdropped on an early evening meeting between Shore and her supporters in the Original Room and had overheard something she thought he should know about. Dreesen arranged to meet her at the coffee shop of the Continental Hyatt House. Robin told him that in the meeting Mitzi had expressed concern that the comics might boycott the Store in favor of the Improv. Argus and others said they doubted that would happen because, first and foremost, comics needed stage time, and the Improv only put on ten comics a night to the Comedy Store’s forty. The CFC would never get a majority 1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 172
172
William Knoedelseder
to go along with eliminating that many time slots. But Mitzi wasn’t convinced. Then someone in the back of the room, maybe Ollie Joe or Biff Maynard—Robin said she couldn’t tell because it was dark—shouted out, “What if there were no Improv? ”
Dreesen didn’t attach any significance to the comment. He was just glad to know that Mitzi was worried that they might go on strike. He thanked Robin and told her to keep her eyes and ears open.
Shore was absent from the Sunset club that Monday night when the CFC held its meeting to vote on her payment offer.
More than one hundred comics showed up, including the Mitzi loyalists and the headliners. Once again, Dreesen chaired the meeting, and once again Leno played class clown to a whole class of clowns. This time, however, there was an underlying soberness in the room that wasn’t there when they gathered at the union hall back in February. Dreesen saw determined faces looking back at him. They weren’t there to fuck around; they were there to get something done.
The first thing they did was officially elect him chairman of the CFC. He was both moved and unnerved by the vote. Did he really want to put himself in this position? Did he want to be responsible for all these inordinately needy people? Was he out of his mind?
For the first order of business, he yielded the floor to Paul Mooney, who had received a telegram earlier in the day that he wanted to read aloud. Mooney held his hand up for quiet, and when the crowd settled down, he started in:
To the comics of the newly formed comedy union I write these words of support because I believe your cause to be just and wholly within the concept of management and labor. It is not only immoral to work for nothing, it is also illegal. Slavery was banned with the signing of the emancipation proclamation over one century ago. I believe it is within the artist’s rights and 1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 173
I’m Dying Up Here
173
privileges to receive proper compensation for his or her efforts.
I want you to know I would honor your picket lines if need be. I am sure that most fair-minded artists in the community would be supportive of you also.
Sincerely,
Richard Pryor
A collective whoop of surprise went up as people jumped to their feet and applauded wildly, while Mitzi loyalists sat in slack-jawed silence. Dreesen followed Mooney by reading his telegram from Bob Hope. Again, there was a combination of applause and glum looks. Hope wasn’t anywhere near as popular with this crowd as Pryor, but no one missed the significance of the two statements: The CFC had support across the broad spectrum of established comedians, from Hope to Pryor.
Thus emboldened, the assemblage quickly voted down Mitzi’s offer by a wide margin. “If she charges a cover, then she has to pay” had become a battle cry. They weren’t going to accept any proposal that didn’t include payment for performances in the Original Room and at Westwood. Before they adjourned, several shouting matches broke out between dissidents and Shore stal-warts, causing some to wonder whether they were witnessing the first shots fired in a civil war.
Dreesen was troubled by the evening’s events. He’d been hoping the membership would accept Shore’s offer and everything could return to how it was before. He was surprised at how strong and united they’d become. He felt some pride about that, but he also worried that they were about to pass the point of no return. If Mitzi didn’t come back with a better offer, then what was their option other than, as Mark Lonow had said, to throw up a picket line and shut the place down? And where would that put him? At the front of a pack of placard-carrying clowns demanding to be treated like longshoremen? Holy shit! How in the fuck did he get here?
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 174
174
William Knoedelseder
In the middle of a fitful sleep that night, he sat bolt upright in bed. He had it! An idea that would solve everything! He marched right into Shore’s office the next day.
“Mitzi, I think I have a way for everybody to get what they want. It hit me last night; you just raise the cover charge by a dollar, from $4.50 to $5.50, and give that dollar to the comics. They get paid and it doesn’t cost you a dime. It so simple I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before.”
She looked at him as if he were a tiresome child and began shaking her head.
“No, Tommy. Like I keep telling you, the Store is a workshop and in that environment the comics don’t deserve to get paid.”
He sat there for a few moments saying nothing, running her statement through his head: They don’t deserve to get paid. So, it was never about money, he thought; it was always about power and control. And she was never goin
g to pay them unless she was forced to. Holy shit, indeed.
As he got up to go, she said, “I don’t want you here anymore.”
She was talking about the CFC meetings, but he knew that she meant him, too.
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 175
Fire!
However much Budd Friedman may have secretly been enjoying Mitzi Shore’s travails, he knew that sooner or later the mob would come for him. Several comics had told him as much, joking, “Hey, Budd, you’re on next.”
To which he replied, not joking at all, “Fuck you. I bust my ass to keep this place going. The comics I put on my stage at 9:00 p.m.
should be paying me, and the day I’m forced to pay them is the day I close down and open a restaurant.”
That was all bluster, of course. Friedman knew that if Mitzi made a deal to pay the comics then he would have to make the same deal, and that worried him. He was going through a divorce, and it appeared likely that he’d wind up having to relinquish ownership of the New York club to his estranged wife, Silver. New York was a cash cow; LA was barely breaking even. He’d recently opened a branch in Las Vegas, and the roof had promptly collapsed. Mitzi could afford to make a deal with the comics. He wasn’t sure he could.
Still, it wasn’t as if he was having a bad time. For Budd, moving to Los Angeles had been a longtime dream come true. He loved the weather. He loved his house in the Hollywood Hills with its 175
1586483173 text_rev.qxd:Layout 1 5/19/09 1:55 PM Page 176
176
William Knoedelseder
pool and hot tub. He loved his year-round tan. And even though it didn’t make as much money as the New York club, he loved his Melrose place, in no small part because it was such a great venue for meeting women. He was forty-seven, freshly single, and feeling frisky, and the club’s female employees, patrons, and performers soon learned that he was something of a hound. Every night it seemed that he was entertaining another woman with bottles of champagne in his cordoned-off VIP section of the back room. He was unabashed about it and took offense whenever anyone suggested he was conducting some kind of couch-casting operation. “I would never put an act on my stage because I went to bed with them,” he’d say, adding after a pause, “unless they were good on stage. I have too much pride in my business, and I wouldn’t want to be embarrassed. I wouldn’t want anyone to know I slept with a bad singer or comedienne.”