It's Good to Be the King

by James Robert Parish

  • • •

  On June 8, 1951, the Your Show of Shows revue debuted at the Chicago Theater. In the presentation, Sid and Imogene shared time on stage with other talent from their TV series: comedian Carl Reiner, singer Bill Hayes, and the Billy Williams Quartet (a vocal group). Backstage in Sid’s dressing room, the star’s entourage (including Caesar’s older brother/ assistant, Dave) was coping with the high-strung Brooks. Mel was on hand to provide any last-minute jokes that Sid might need to freshen oftrepeated routines during the Chicago run. However, Brooks too often had too little to do to keep himself occupied while waiting to be needed.

  It was not long before the antsy Brooks grew bored with being cooped up in the relatively small star’s quarters at the theater. Often he paced the halls backstage to kill time and expend some of his surplus energy. He furiously chain-smoked cigarettes as his busy mind concocted new visual and verbal bits that his boss might or might not decide to use the next time he was on stage. With a quicksilver mind that was always working in overdrive, Mel was a nonstop comedy invention machine, unable to withhold sharing his each and every wild, ridiculous suggestion with Caesar. Most of these absurd ideas Sid discarded with a slight back and forth shake of his head. However, the TV star knew that for every batch of unusable material that spewed forth from Mel’s frantic, fertile mind, there would be a gem that he could use—now or later—to amuse audiences.

  If the hectic regimen of the many daily shows was a strain for Caesar, Coca, and the others, it soon grew intolerably tedious for the hyperactive Mel. After all, he was stuck backstage—away from the limelight—awaiting the great Sid to return to his dressing room between performances. These bleak periods gave Mel ample time to ponder—and then discard as imprudent, disloyal thinking—the question of why he himself wasn’t performing onstage. After all, it was what he had always intended to do before he became a disciple, associate, and friend of the great Caesar.

  At the end of each long day at the Chicago Theater, Sid—accompanied by Dave and the faithful Mel—returned to the Drake Hotel. There, Caesar, who had a voracious appetite, looked forward to a deluxe late evening meal delivered by room service. On one of these nights, Brooks was especially restless. On the way back to Sid’s suite on the 18th floor, Mel kept urging Caesar to break the routine. “Let’s go out and do something!” he begged his boss. “Let’s see the nightlife!” The repeated requests fell on deaf ears. Unlike Mel, Sid was married and already a family man. He had no interest—especially after the exhausting series of daily performances—to see the town. The shy Caesar was much happier unwinding in the privacy of his hotel. There he could devour his large repast in peace and quiet, away from the public’s prying eyes.

  But Mel was always itching for activity, and it was especially true this evening. Once a notion had popped into his mind, he rarely could let it rest—no matter how many impediments there might be to accomplishing his latest whim. Once back at Caesar’s accommodations at the Drake, Mel continued harping at Sid, “Let’s get out of here! Let’s do something!” The self-contained Caesar vetoed or ignored each plea from his insistent sidekick.

  When room service delivered the sumptuous dinner, Caesar sat down at the dining table to tuck in to his elaborate spread. Food was a great pacifier for the highly creative, volatile Sid, who expended so much energy on pleasing the public while all the time fighting a constant battle to keep his inner (childhood) demons at bay. The meal was delicious, and the comedian consumed it in great mouthfuls. Meanwhile, as Dave Caesar looked on, ensuring that his sibling had everything at hand to make his repast as pleasant as possible, Mel continued to frantically pace the room liked a caged ferret. Every few minutes he confronted Sid with his latest nudging request that they go out—now.

  According to Caesar, he finally couldn’t take the pestering anymore. Reluctantly, he set down his knife and fork. Next, with lightning speed, the tremendously strong Sid seized the bothersome Mel by the collar and the seat of his pants and stuck him out the open window of the 18th-floor hotel room. As Caesar dangled Brooks out over the street down below, Sid gibed, “How far out do you want to go? Is that far enough?”

  Flailing in the wind and seeing fragmented moments of his life passing in front of him, the thrashing Brooks managed to timidly quip, “In would be nice.… In is good.” Meanwhile, the powerfully built Dave came to the rescue. He slowly pulled the distraught Sid, and, in turn, the dangling Mel, away from the window. As he was doing this, Dave spoke soothing words to his enraged brother. Finally, the acrophobic Mel was retrieved from the clutches of death and was soon back safely inside the suite.

  If this potentially near-death experience had deflated Mel Brooks’s insistent need to partake of Chicago nightlife, it did nothing to dispel his great affection for the gifted Caesar. (Similarly, it did not damage the complicated friendship that Sid shared with Mel. As Caesar said of Brooks in his memoir, Caesar’s Hours, “We were two close friends who genuinely loved each other and we had a relationship that was based on trust, affection and his relentless attempts to piss me off.”)

  As Mel rightly anticipated, the dangling episode soon became common knowledge and quickly turned into a show business legend (in which, as retold by many persons over the years, the setting of the incident kept moving up to higher floors at the Drake Hotel). This would not be the first or the last time that Mel would face such a traumatic physical or emotional situation. As he had already proven during his army service in World War II in Europe—and as he would countless other times during his extensive, multifaceted show business career—he was a born survivor.

  12

  On the Torturous Road to Success

  I stayed with the game [i.e., working on TV with Sid Caesar] because the money got better and better. I always thought it was just something I would do until I found myself.

  –Mel Brooks, 1966

  By 1952, Mel Brooks was in his midtwenties. Since officially joining the writing staff of Your Show of Shows he had received several healthy salary increases: jumps from $50 to $150 per week and then much higher. Brooks’s pay raises reinforced a discussion Liebman had had with his junior staff writer some months before. Max had said, “You know, Mel, when I first saw you backstage at the Broadhurst Theater, well, I would say from that moment until this very moment, you were a kid.” That is not to say that Brooks’s unorthodox behavior still did not drive Liebman to distraction, but now he accepted that the young man had a fertile comedic mind and was a good addition to the Your Show of Shows company.

  Also in this period there were changes in the writers’ room. When Lucille Kallen went on maternity leave, the comedy writing team of Danny Simon and his younger brother Neil filled in for her. (The siblings departed when Kallen returned to work.) Later in the show’s run, Tony Webster became the first non-Jew to join the ranks of the Your Show of Shows writing team. Another regular attendee at the writers’ meetings was Carl Reiner, who had joined the lineup some months after the series debuted. Reiner, who had been born in the Bronx and was already a seasoned veteran of stage and TV shows, had a wonderfully inventive comic mind. He also displayed a flair for doing foreign-language double-talk—almost as well as the mighty Caesar. (What convinced Max Liebman to bring the multitalented Carl aboard was that he was slightly taller than Sid. This factor fulfilled Max’s dictate that a show’s support comedian—i.e., the second banana—should always be taller than the leading man.) Like Sid Caesar (and the less frequently present Imogene Coca), Reiner made solid contributions to the creation of the weekly skits. In short order, Carl became a close friend of Mel’s.

  Then there was Howard Morris, the third banana on Your Show of Shows. This New York-born actor was added to the cast of regulars in 1951. (Some have suggested that at one point, the aggressive Brooks hoped to win the acting post handed to the newcomer.) Previously, Morris had done occasional sketch work on Admiral Broadway Revue. In contrast to Reiner, Howard was short and physically quite slight. This provided an immediate vi
sual contrast between him, Caesar, and Reiner when they performed together in front of the cameras. More important, Howard was sufficiently light of weight that the brawny Caesar could easily pick up the diminutive man and cart him about the stage—a gambit utilized to great effect on several Your Show of Shows sketches. Like Reiner, Morris made a habit of sitting in on the writers’ meeting because (1) it was such fun and (2) it was a wonderful way to be in on the genesis of scripts and to learn all the nuances as the sketches developed. By becoming familiar with the material in this manner, these players had an easier time of learning their lines and the comic business amid the pressure of doing a weekly show. (Another of Liebman’s dictates for his TV showcase was that no cue cards were to be used by the cast during the actual broadcast, just as no canned laughter was employed to “sweeten” the responses of the live studio audience.)

  Brooks and Morris got off to a wacky start together. The madcap Mel thought it would be amusing to introduce himself to newcomer Morris by pretending to be a Frenchman visiting New York to observe the creative process on Your Show of Shows. For several days, Brooks kept up the charade, peppering his brief interchanges with Morris with a French word and relying on a great deal of pantomime. Howie, as most of his friends called him, could not make heads or tails of this absurd visitor from abroad who spoke broken English with such a heavy Yiddish accent. Then one day, the quirky Frenchman approached Morris and said in perfect English, “How the hell are you, Howie?”

  In the coming months these two Jewish men, who both understood and loved the art of comedy, became good friends at and away from work. At least so the trusting Morris thought. One time the pair was strolling along a Greenwich Village street when, suddenly, Howie felt a sharp jab in his back. A voice growled, “Your money or your life!” Morris was caught totally off guard and swung around to see why his attacker sounded so much like Mel. Now standing face-to-face with the “robber,” Howie saw that it was indeed Brooks. Unfortunately, there was no smile on the comedy writer’s face. In fact, he had a strange, wild look in his eyes and a most determined set to his jaw. Morris was baffled by the situation and felt he should humor his “friend.” He surrendered his watch, wallet, and other valuables. (According to some accounts of the bizarre incident, Mel tied up his perplexed victim before disappearing into the night.)

  The next day, a mystified Morris questioned several others at work about this peculiar episode and how he should best handle the situation. He was reassured, “Oh, that’s just Mel. He has these strange blackouts and one day he’ll suddenly remember the incident and make everything right.” True to their prediction, in the coming days, Brooks approached Morris, apologized for the episode, and returned all the taken items. Time passed and the occurrence was all but forgotten by Howie.

  Many months thereafter, Morris and Brooks were enjoying a lunch break from the Your Show of Shows grind by renting a rowboat in Central Park. They ate their sandwiches and chatted about the day’s events. Their boat was passing under a little bridge and Howie was lost in thought when all of a sudden he saw this crazy look pass over Mel’s face. Before Morris could react to that strange stare, Brooks barked, “Give me everything you have or I’ll kill you!” The “assailant” didn’t look like he was kidding and the “victim” complied. Then Howie was ordered to get out of the boat and wade ashore. He did. Days later, Mel apologized to Howie and returned his possessions.

  Such was life with the aberrant Mel Brooks, who rarely could resist indulging his antic sense of humor. Seemingly, he had little compunction about using anyone in his purview as a prop for his outlandish gambits. These larks usually were (subconsciously) constructed to make himself the center of attention.

  • • •

  Brooks’s bond with Sid Caesar was far more complicated than the one Mel had with Howie Morris. Thanks to the Admiral Broadway Revue and Your Show of Shows, Caesar had achieved fame, power, and wealth. Being from a very humble background, he had great difficulty in accepting the fact that he earned in a week far more than his father (who died in 1946) had ever earned even in a good year. Somehow, Sid felt unworthy of his success, and he became increasingly guilt-ridden over his good fortune. Despite the soothing efforts of Sid’s wife, Florence, the joy of their three children, and the emotional support Caesar received from his ever-present brother, Dave, and others in his inner circle, the star was a deeply troubled man. He would become so keyed up at work from the pressure of turning out a good show each week that when he came home at night, he found it almost impossible to unwind, and turned to several cocktails to calm himself down. By the time the exhausted man finally dragged himself to bed, he still could not easily fall asleep. He would lie there thinking about how to improve the coming week’s skits, about how many people relied on his success for their daily livelihood, and about what might happen if he failed creatively and let down the network, the cast, and home viewers. Caesar’s insomnia prompted him to start taking an escalating number of sleeping pills each night, which had an increasingly adverse effect, especially in conjunction with the growing amount of liquor he consumed daily. This led, in turn, to a routine of his taking stimulants in the morning to counter the grogginess of the prior night’s lack of proper sleep and his injudicious use of pills and booze. The vicious circle escalated (and would continue for years until Caesar received successful substance abuse treatment).

  Compounding Sid’s major addictions was the mixture of his lifelong shyness, extreme moodiness, and a volatile temper. When the powerfully built Caesar erupted in sudden anger, he literally did not know his own strength, and anything could occur during these violent explosions. Sometimes Mel was an observer of such events, other times he acted as a court jester to pacify the rampaging star. On different occasions, he became the instigator of Sid’s outburst (as with the infamous Chicago episode in 1951 during which Caesar dangled the bothersome Brooks out of an 18-story hotel window.)

  One time, Caesar and Brooks drove down to Greenwich Village to see a club performance by entertainer Zero Mostel. They rode in Sid’s new Buick, a luxury car of which the comedian was extremely proud. Sid parked on the street, carefully leaving plenty of space in front of and behind his auto. As they were crossing the street to enter the venue, Caesar noticed a man parking his car very close to his precious Buick. After a few moments watching the man maneuver into the space and brushing against his vehicle, Caesar stormed over to the man, explained that he was bumping against his new car, and asked him to desist. The man not only refused the request but grew sarcastic. Almost instantaneously, Sid boiled over, reached into the window of the offender’s car, and attempted to pull the individual through the small opening. Thankfully, Mel rushed over and bit Sid on the arm, which caused Caesar to let go of his victim.

  On another occasion, during a writers’ room conference, Brooks suggested an anecdotal joke he had just developed and thought was a real winner. The premise concerned a snake who wanted to be freed from its cage because it couldn’t stand to be imprisoned with others of its own kind. Sid did not find the joke funny, but Mel remained unrelenting in his insistence that it was a great bit and must be used. Later, Caesar and Brooks went out together for lunch. En route, bold Mel again brought up the subject of the snake joke. Once more, Sid vetoed using it on the show. Brooks grew increasingly belligerent in his reckless determination that this item must make it on air. He became completely caught up in getting his way and was, by now, punctuating his insistence by jabbing his index finger at the almighty Caesar.

  In typical fashion, the star stood glaring at his pip-squeak adversary, who was carrying on frantically, oblivious that he had riled the much bigger man. Caesar could have easily pulverized this pest. Instead, he said very softly, “Shall I spare you?” Now attuned to his peril, Brooks replied, “Oh, yes, please, sire.” This led Sid to say, “I’ll let you live.” (And he meant it!) Mel smiled ruefully and quickly changed the subject. Later, Caesar informed Brooks that if the noisome joke meant so much to Mel, it would be
used in the broadcast.

  On several occasions in the Your Show of Shows writers’ room, the mercurial Sid would become enraged by the slightest thing that went wrong with his day. Sometimes, Caesar would vent his displeasure by slamming his fist through a wall. Other times, he might release his mounting tension by grabbing a heavy metal desk and lifting it one-handed into the air and then letting it fall back to the floor. At such tense moments, the clown of the group Mel Brooks would often come to the rescue by doing something particularly goofy to deflate his boss’s boiling rage. For example, he might jump up onto Sid’s back and ride him like a horse, all the while yelling, “Down boy, down!” Then Caesar would break into a grin and everyone knew they could get back to work.

  Despite these (harrowing) antics, Mel remained a firm admirer of Sid Caesar’s and considered him a good friend. (Some observers have suggested that in many ways Brooks subconsciously regarded the older Caesar as a father figure.) As time passed and Brooks became more established on Your Show of Shows and within the entertainment industry, the perimeters of his complex ties to Caesar shifted. One can read a lot into the situation that occurred one day when Sid, towering over Mel, laid his hefty hand on Brooks’s head and said to the others in attendance, “This is mine” Nonplussed, Brooks reached over and grabbed Caesar’s wallet from the star’s pocket and said pointedly, “This is mine!”