It's Good to Be the King

by James Robert Parish

  En route, the duo stopped at an all-night diner that catered to truck drivers. Brooks later recalled, “Ronny was still wearing his stage makeup and some pretty avant-garde clothes, and these big, hairy men all swiveled round and started to stare at us. Some of them even stood up. While we were eating, everything went very quiet. I was terrified. Suddenly, I turned on Ronny like a cobra and said, ‘I want my ring back.’ He said, ‘What?’ I said, ‘You spoke to that man. Back at the club. Don’t think I didn’t see you speaking to him, because I did. I want my ring back.’ And we both went into this berserk faggot row. Finally I picked up my cup of coffee and threw it in his face. Then I flounced out to the car with Ronny right behind me, wiping his eyes and screaming. Some of the truck drivers followed us out… [into] the parking lot. They just stood there, dumbstruck, with their hands on their hips, as we drove off, kissing and making up. I waved at them out of the window.”

  8

  Hail Caesar!

  Sid [Caesar] was a genius, a great comic actor—still is—the greatest mime who ever lived. Only he didn’t impersonate celebrities; he did types.… Sid had this terrific angle in him; he was angry with the world—and so was I. Maybe I was angry because I was a Jew, because I was short, because my mother didn’t buy me a bicycle, because it was tough to get ahead, because I wasn’t God—who knows why. Anyway, if Sid and I hadn’t felt so much alike, I would have been a comic ten years earlier. But he was such a great vehicle for my passion.

  –Mel Brooks, 1975

  Many media historians credit Milton Berle (1908–2002) as being America’s “Mr. Television.” He was the veteran comic who burst upon the fledgling television scene in 1948 with Texaco Star Theater. His weekly NBC-TV comedy/variety show quickly became a national craze and prompted many consumers to purchase their first television sets in order to see his Tuesday night funfest. The onetime child actor (who had been on Broadway, in silent films, and in vaudeville) had spent the 1930s and 1940s as a radio, film, and club personality best known for his amiable buffoonery. Berle relied largely on physical slapstick, snappy patter (rather than anecdotes), and an overbearing presence to capture audiences’ attention. He transferred this forceful performance style directly to the small screen, where his fearless persona mesmerized and bowled over audiences. In his no-holds-barred fashion, he entertained home viewers with his vaudeville-style telecasts. However, he really did not create an art form tailored for the intimacy of the new mass medium. That honor belonged to Sid Caesar.

  • • •

  Mel first heard about this new, funny saxophonist named Sid Caesar from their mutual friend Don Appell. Later, news spread in the Jewish Catskills that Caesar (born in 1922 in Yonkers, New York) was the brightest and most engaging new talent since Danny Kaye had risen to fame in the mountain resorts area a few years earlier. Brooks—who was always vastly curious about the competition—decided to find out for himself whether this highly touted musician was as amusing as people claimed and, if so, what he might learn from his rivals technique. On a rare day off, Mel went over to the Avon Lodge to see Sid perform. In typical Brooks manner, he analyzed how he stacked up against the “competition.” They both were Jewish and, in their families, each was of the first generation to be born in America. Similarly, Mel and Sid were both the youngest of several brothers and had a great respect for and attachment to their hardworking families. Like Mel the drummer, Sid the adept saxophonist had accidentally found himself gravitating from staff musician to house comic where his innate sense of rhythm stood him in good stead in giving his act its proper pacing.

  However, as Mel observed, there were many marked differences between the two emerging talents. Mel was still learning the ins and outs of his comedic trade as a (pool) tummler, while the four-years-older Caesar was already developing a rich reputation as a solo laughmaker among the tough Catskills audiences. (Then too, Sid’s talents as a sax player demonstrated that he was a far more serious and proficient musician than Mel was.)

  On other levels, the sensitive Mel also felt inadequate in comparison to Sid. For one thing, Brooks was short (less than five feet five inches) and possessed a funny-looking face that included a very prominent nose that looked more ethnic than noble. In contrast, Caesar was tall (six feet, two inches) and brawny and had a handsome profile.

  Most important, Mel appreciated that Sid had a remarkable, innate ability for comedy that was subtle, deep, and not derivative like much of Mel’s performance material at the time. (For Mel to make such an admission to himself was rare. By now, the young man had developed a selfprotective bravado regarding the quantity and quality of his own talents, all of which served to mask his insecurities about his actual abilities.)

  Much later, with a few films and a stage revue under his belt, Sid and Max Liebman (a veteran revue producer with whom Caesar had worked during World War II) revamped several old Caesar routines and added fresh material, honing everything into a polished whole. Along with such supporting acts as Gale Robbins, Bill Shirley, and a chorus line of leggy Copa gal dancers, Caesar opened his nightclub stint on January 2, 1947. It generated excellent reviews and club business. During the popular run, Sid’s old pal Don Appell dropped by the Copa to congratulate the show’s star. Appell came backstage accompanied by another Catskills veteran, Mel Brooks. The hyperactive young man was quick to praise the reserved Sid and to remind him of their past meetings at Avon Lodge when Mel was still going by the name of Melvin Kaminsky.

  Following Sid’s solid run at the Copa, Caesar and Max Liebman packaged a revue that toured major clubs in the United States. By October 1947, and once again under Liebman’s aegis, Sid was back in Manhattan. This time he was starring in a condensed stage revue at the cavernous Twentieth Century-Fox flagship movie palace, the magnificent Roxy Theater. There Caesar and his supporting acts performed several times daily between showings of the slightly risque costume spectacle Forever Amber. Sid and company received far better critiques than did the 138-minute blockbuster and enjoyed a several-week engagement at the Roxy. During the much-hyped run, Caesar welcomed several visitors backstage at the Roxy between performances. Among them was Mel Brooks, fresh from his “triumph” at the struggling Red Bank, New Jersey, theater.

  Brooks enthused to Caesar how much he enjoyed Sid’s Roxy showcase, and the two began to chitchat amiably on many subjects. Since Sid was always a man of relatively few words in social situations, it was the loquacious, nervous Mel who usually did most of the talking in their increasingly frequent get-togethers. It developed into a ritual that Brooks, who was out of work, would regularly come backstage to kibitz with his successful new friend. It was an unspoken part of the dynamic between these two men that Caesar was the important figure and that Brooks, at least for now, was merely an amusing—often wacky—hanger-on. At the time, the lopsided relationship seemed to satisfy both individuals.

  In early 1948, Sid opened on Broadway in a smart new musical revue, Make Mine Manhattan, which would run for a year. One day, backstage at the Broadhurst Theater, when Mel and Sid were conversing, Caesar informed Brooks that Max Liebman had been presented with the opportunity to produce a weekly television revue that would air simultaneously on both the NBC and Dumont networks. Liebman wanted to feature his protege, Caesar, on the program. The taciturn Sid allowed that he was inclined to accept the offer, which, he felt, would provide a good opportunity to break into a new medium.

  9

  Smashing into the Ranks

  Ever since I had worked in the Catskills, I had considered Mel [Brooks] to be sort of a groupie.… He loved comics and obviously wanted to be one himself.… He was funny and ingenious and he liked my type of humor, so he hung around me.

  –Sid Caesar, 1982

  To staff Sid Caesar’s upcoming TV show, titled the Admiral Broadway Revue, Max Liebman immediately turned to talent already well known to him. To write the weekly skits, he hired Lucille Kallen and Mel Tolkin, who had been loyal staff writers (of skits and song numbers) for Max for several
summer seasons at the Tamiment mountain resort in Pennsylvania. The bright, inventive Lucille was then in her late twenties and hailed from Los Angeles, while the erudite, serious Tolkin was slightly older and came from Russia via a long stopover in Canada. To perform the skits, Liebman signed not only his protégé Sid Caesar but also Mary McCarty (a brassy Broadway, club, and film talent). In addition, he hired the versatile, agile Imogene Coca. (She was a pixielike performer who boasted a tremendously expressive face, was extremely adept at pantomime and skit comedy, and was an accomplished dancer. This show business delight had been performing since childhood and had worked with Max in the late 1930s in The Straw Hat Revue.) Others slated to be part of the upcoming series included such on-the-rise performers as the stylish dancers Marge and Gower Champion.

  Frantic preparations got under way to air the new hour-long show—live on NBC-TV and simulcast on the Dumont network—each week beginning Friday, January 28, 1949. With so many loose ends to tie together quickly to meet the debut deadline—let alone the need to map out plans for each succeeding show—Max Liebman was in a whirlwind of hectic activity to meet the show’s diverse challenges. Despite all the pressures, Liebman was convinced that he was ideally suited to provide a first-class TV showcase that would please its sponsor, reviewers, and, most of all, home viewers.

  During this tornado of preparation, Sid Caesar completed his run in Make Mine Manhattan. During the lengthy engagement, which finally closed on January 8, 1949, Mel Brooks and Max Liebman had their first encounter. It occurred one day when Liebman came by the Broadhurst Theater to chat with Sid. As had become Mel’s habit, he was hanging around backstage, happy to be in Caesar’s impressive orbit. Hardly had Sid said hello to his mentor, than he turned to his diminutive hanger-on and urged, “Do for Max what you just did for me.” The anxious-to-please Brooks immediately heeded the command of his revered leader. (Besides, the cheeky Mel was always ready to “audition” at a moment’s notice.) Brooks ran out onto the empty stage and, in his slightly raspy voice, launched into a full-force rendition of his trademark intro number, which he had employed repeatedly in the Catskills. He didn’t miss a beat as he gave an especially hard sell to his rendition of “Here I am, I’m Melvin Brooks.” He crooned—Al Jolson style—right through to his finish, fell down on one knee, smiled big, and ended his manic performance with his arms spread wide apart. Sid beamed as his zany pal intently “sold” the number. However, show business veteran Liebman was not impressed by this bizarre, cliched solo turn.

  A somewhat dismayed Liebman turned to Caesar and scoffed, “Who is this meshuggener?”

  • • •

  By January 1949, rehearsals were well under way for the fast-approaching opening show. So far, the eager Mel Brooks had been left out of the exciting action.

  The fact that Mel had been ignored by Max Liebman, the kingpin of the program, remained only a minor stumbling block to the ambitious Brooks. Brazenly, he decided to show up at rehearsals anyway and, somehow, make himself part of the proceedings. That was far easier said than done, even for the seemingly shameless Brooks. When Mel attempted to storm the International Theater, he was advised by burly security guards that he was not on the list of those authorized to be admitted to the inner sanctum. Pushy Mel then invoked repeatedly and insistently the name of his protector, Sid Caesar. A short time later, Sid’s manager, Leo Pillot, turned up to see what all the ruckus was about. Pillot claimed not to know who this noisy young man was or what he might want with the show’s busy star.

  “I know Sid Caesar,” Brooks persisted. “We talked about my writing a couple of jokes for him, and I’d like to see him.” Unimpressed by the interloper’s unrelenting plea, the annoyed manager gave the guards the order to “throw him out.” Mel was assisted in making an unceremonious exit from the premises. Undeterred, he returned to breech the fortress again. Tenaciously, he repeated his reasons for wanting to go inside. Again the security men ejected him from the building. All told, according to Brooks, he was tossed out three times.

  Whereas others, by this point, might have slunk away in abject embarrassment, not so the obstinate Mel Brooks. He doggedly made a fresh assault on gaining admission to the building. This time he was even more agitated than before and began screaming, “I know Sid Caesar! … Sid! … Sid! … Sid!” Eventually, the growing din outside caught Caesar’s attention and he left his rehearsal to investigate the source of the commotion. Discovering it was merely little Mel making all the racket, he quickly made provisions for Brooks to come inside. However, the interloper was instructed to remain quietly in the background, far away from the actual proceedings.

  For the driven Mel, every small step forward was a victory of sorts. In his heart of hearts, the ambitious outsider knew it could not be long before everyone had to realize just how valuable he could be to making the Admiral Broadway Revue a big success.

  On schedule, at eight that Friday night in late January 1949, the new TV program bowed live before an enthusiastic studio audience. The four clumsy, primitive TV cameras captured the proceedings in black and white for home audiences via the live broadcast to 24 stations and 17 other outlets by means of kinescope. (This was a predecessor to the taped filming of shows. In this crude process, a movie camera filmed the transmitted program as it aired live on a TV monitor. Thereafter, the kinescope could be aired by a television station at a later time and/or date.)

  On the positive side, John Crosby (of the New York Herald-Tribune) enthused about the Admiral Broadway Revue, “For an hour’s entertainment, I can’t think of anything better in New York’s expensive nightclubs.” In its appraisal, Time magazine judged, “Its jokes and patter are brittle, rowdy, funny, and full of satirical references.” Billboard magazine applauded, “Everybody concerned can take a long, deep and repeated bow.”

  The networks and the sponsor were pleased, and Max Liebman was jubilant. He bragged to a reporter for the New York World-Telegram: “Whereas it takes months and months to put on a two-hour revue on Broadway, we do an original one-hour show, with singing, dancing, and comedy—in one week. Theatre die-hards speak of the thrill of opening night. Hell, we have one every night.”

  In the next few weeks, Admiral Broadway Revue plowed onward, mixing both old and new skits, and fighting the clock to, somehow, be prepared to air live again on its next appointed Friday evening time slot. It was during the fourth week that Mel Brooks’s dogged patience regarding this show business venture finally paid off.

  One day in late February, Sid and company were rehearsing a skit, “The Professor and the Jungle Boy.” Somehow, it was not coming together. During the dress rehearsal a few hours before the actual broadcast, the star, Liebman, and the writing staff (Mel Tolkin, Lucille Kallen, and, sometimes, Ray Carter) concluded that something was missing from the piece. No one could quite put his or her finger on what new funny ingredient needed to be introduced or which facet of the skit required quick reshaping. Finally, Caesar signaled one of his group to go find Brooks, who was sure to be nearby. Soon, Mel rushed onto the scene. He was full of his usual energy, and beamed a bright smile at being so summoned—so obviously wanted. He inquired solicitously what he could do to help out. Sid concisely recounted the stumbling block they were experiencing with the skit. That done, he ordered Mel, “Do something. Write!”

  Brooks always operated best under extreme pressure—it made his creative juices flow. He swiftly suggested a few off-the-wall ideas that did not meet with much approval from the others. Then inspiration suddenly hit him. He proposed using a bizarre noise (which he called “the Cry of the Crazy Crow”) to demonstrate how the boy in the troubled sketch ordered his morning meal back in the wilds. Sid was pleased, and, minutes later, the strange, harsh cawing sound was heard on air as part of the skit. It worked—the studio audience laughed.

  Having proven himself so admirably under fire, Mel was no longer persona non grata with some of the staff, although Max Liebman continued to ignore this annoying pip-squeak. The official sho
w writers tolerated Brooks as long as he didn’t interfere with their skit-writing chores, which were often carried out in the building’s hallways or in their cramped assigned quarters in the overcrowded theater facility: the jockstrap-strewn dressing room of the show’s male dancers.

  It was not too long before Caesar, who knew all too well what it was like to be poor and to live from hand to mouth, felt duty-bound to provide Brooks with some sort of actual weekly stipend. He asked Mel how much he wanted to remain on tap day in and day out to provide the Admiral Broadway Revue with comedic bits (i.e., shtick) as the occasion demanded it. Mel quickly shot back that $50 a week would be good. (This was the amount some of the others on the show’s staff were then earning.)

  Caesar countered, “That’s unheard of. Let’s make it forty.”

  Brooks insisted, “No, I need fifty.”

  Caesar suggested, “Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll give you forty-five if Max [Liebman] gives you the other five.” Sid consulted with Max, but Liebman, still vastly unimpressed with the unorthodox, unseasoned Mel, said, “No!” So Caesar, wanting to help Mel keep afloat and sensing that this go-getter had the fertile imagination to provide useful comedic ideas in the future, decided to pay Brooks $40 a week from his own wallet.

  Time passed. Mel continued to contribute ideas to Sid for the weekly allotment of TV sketches. One of Brooks’s specialties became a recurring skit called “Nonentities in the News.” In this piece, utility cast member Tom Avera portrayed a reporter assigned to interview a series of strange characters played by Sid and other cast regulars.

  By springtime, Mel had gained more confidence from his assorted contributions to Admiral Broadway Revue and boldly approached Caesar for a salary increase. Sid was inclined to say no but decided to see for himself where Mel was then living. (He wanted to judge in person if Brooks’s claim that he was living in a hovel was merely a dramatic exaggeration.) The TV star traveled down to Broome Street in Greenwich Village to check out Mel’s basement residence. It required only a quick look for Sid to realize that his cohort was not living in a hovel but beneath a hovel. Caesar promptly bumped up Brooks’s stipend to $50 a week.