There was the time (March 16, 1957) at the Colonial Theater when key talent of Caesar’s Hour assembled for the Emmy Awards presentation, which was being televised by NBC. Sid Caesar, Nanette Fabray, Carl Reiner, and new cast regular Pat Carroll had won Emmy Awards for their work on Caesar’s Hour. Sid’s writing team was nominated in the Comedy Writing category. That year they were convinced they’d win the coveted prize. However, the victors proved to be Nat Hiken and his writing staff from The Phil Silvers Show. While the others from Caesar’s Hour politely applauded their rivals’ triumph, Mel could not contain his anger at this cruel slight. He jumped up on the dinner table and began ranting loudly, “Nietzsche was right! There is no God! There is no God!” Brooks’s outrage did not abate on the taxi ride home with his wife. He asked Florence to borrow the manicure scissors she carried in her purse, and he began shredding his expensive tuxedo.
When they were first married, the Brookses lived in a walk-up apartment building on Manhattan’s West 68th Street. Later, they moved to 33 West 70th Street, then to an apartment at 1056 Fifth Avenue, and then on to 125 East 72nd Street. Many of these relocations reflected Mel’s escalating income as well as the salaries Florence earned as a dancer. Then they started a family (which led to Florence’s abandoning her show business career) and required more room. The couple’s first child, Stefanie, was born at New York’s Lying-in Hospital on February 21, 1956. Their second child, Nicholas, “Nicky”—named after the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol—was born on December 12, 1957. Their third child, Edward, would be born on May 24, 1959.
Meanwhile, in the spring of 1957, unthinkable news spread about the Caesar’s Hour headquarters. NBC was thinking of canceling the show, unless the increasingly intractable star would listen to (their) reasonings.
Mel Brooks and the others involved with Caesar’s Hour all wondered the same thing: “What now?” For many of the troupe, such as Brooks, who had family responsibilities, the thought of suddenly being jobless was particularly frightening—especially if, like Mel, one did not have a large nest egg tucked away safely. Brooks wondered if he would ever find financial security in the roller-coaster ways of his chosen profession.
15
Unraveling
There were two me’s. There was a glib, slick conscious me and a deep, brooding, disturbed unconscious me without a voice.
–Mel Brooks, 1996
When the American commercial TV industry was in its infancy in the late 1940s, it occurred to very few people that a popular personality who appeared on the airwaves too frequently could actually wear out his welcome with home viewers. Yet such a seeming impossibility did happen to Milton Berle with his weekly variety series, which ended its run in June 1956. He had been on the airwaves constantly since 1948 and, in the process, had become old hat to home viewers, who became enthusiastic fans of new programming.
Sid Caesar suffered the same ignoble career fate as “Uncle Miltie,” an unfortunate situation exacerbated by other issues. For one thing, at the end of the 1955–1956 season, his weekly program lost the valuable services of Nanette Fabray who recently had requested a substantial pay raise. Rather than meet her financial demands, Caesar chose to go with a new leading lady. The assignment went to song-and-dance movie actress Janet Blair, a pleasant but bland talent who had once appeared with Sid on the big screen (in 1946’s Tars and Spars). Sadly, the give-and-take between Caesar and Blair in front of the cameras proved to be less than inspired, and that had sorely damaged the show’s energy level. Another debilitating factor in the 1956–1957 season was that NBC had switched Caesar’s Hour from its Monday-night berth to Saturday evening in the nine to ten time slot. Now the program had to compete with the already very popular The Lawrence Welk Show on ABC-TV. As the year progressed, bandleader Welk and his Champagne Music captured an increasingly bigger chunk of the Saturday night audience ratings. Meanwhile, the overhead at Caesar’s weekly hour kept escalating and now had reached more than $225,000 per episode.
NBC tried to reason with Caesar that he must adapt his offering to meet TV audiences’ fickle interests, and especially find some way to freshen the program’s overly familiar format. Caesar did not take kindly to such suggestions from on high. He believed he was too potent a force for the network to contend with, especially since he possessed a longterm NBC contract. Caught up in his hubris, Sid ignored management’s insistence that he trim the show permanently into a half-hour presentation. As an alternative, it was recommended that Caesar’s Hour be repositioned in the 1957–1958 season to an every other week or every few weeks schedule (or better yet, have Sid concentrate on a succession of occasional specials). When Caesar (struggling with his swelling substance abuse) continued to balk at the options put forth on the bargaining table, NBC took unilateral action: the network canceled his show, and it went off the air on May 25, 1957.
• • •
During Sid Caesar’s fall from TV grace, Mel Brooks realized anew that, somehow, he must expand his show business work options so he would not be fully tied to Sid’s purse strings. Thus, he readily accepted an offer to help smooth out the book (i.e., the story line and dialogue) of an upcoming Broadway show, Shinbone Alley.
The property was based on the late Don Marquis’s well-liked tales about archy (a cynical cockroach) and mehitabel (a randy alley cat). In 1953, composer George Kleinsinger and lyricist Joe Darion (who went on to write the lyrics to the huge Broadway hit Man of La Mancha) adapted the popular stories for an album. The Columbia Records release featured narration by David Wayne, with vocals by Eddie Bracken and Carol Channing. This, in turn, led to a December 6, 1954, concert presentation of the adaptation at Manhattan’s Town Hall by Thomas Sherman and the Little Orchestra Society. Among those who attended that Monday evening performance was stage producer Peter Lawrence. He was intrigued by the concert’s subject matter and acquired an option on the offbeat property. He believed that the material could be turned into a captivating musical. In the coming months, Lawrence raised $220,000 to fund the Broadway-bound venture, which was first known as Back Alley Opera and then was retitled Shinbone Alley.
Initially, filmmaker/actor Orson Welles was touted as likely to direct the vehicle, which was to costar Eartha Kitt and Eddie Bracken (with Chita Rivera and Tom Poston assigned as understudies). But Welles dropped out of the enterprise, and actor/director Norman Lloyd took over. When Joe Darion (responsible for both the show’s libretto and the song lyrics) was unable to resolve the script’s plot-heavy second act, Brooks was hired to work out the kinks in the story line.
Shinbone Alley was scheduled to open on April 13, 1957, at the Broadway Theater, without benefit of an out-of-town tryout. A week before it was to bow, Norman Lloyd left the project, telling the New York Times that he was departing because of “a great difference of opinion regarding the approach to the show” between him, producer Peter Lawrence, and the writers. Thereafter, Peter Lawrence unofficially took over the directing chores on the troubled production (which featured the fine choreography of Jacques D’Amboise, Allegra Kent, and a sturdy ensemble).
Shinbone Alley managed to open on schedule, but the critics were not impressed—especially by the quality of the show’s book. Brooks Atkinson (of the New York Times) wrote, “Not much of the humorous comment on human nature is left in the libretto of Shinbone Alley. A librettist would have to be the equivalent of Don Marquis to bring it into the theatre. What Mr. Darion and Mr. Brooks have done on their own account is not a satisfactory substitute. Taking the line of least resistance on the musical stage, they have portrayed archy as being in love with mehitabel … this is hard to accept. A cat and a cockroach do not make attractive lovers.” The other New York critics were in agreement. Tom Donnelly (of the New York World-Telegram and The Sun) missed the presence of “a coherent narrative,” while John McClain (of the New York Joumal-American) pointed out that there were “long lapses when the story falters.” One of the few champions of the book was Robert Coleman (of the New York Mirror), who thoug
ht the coauthors had done an “amazing job in adapting the esoteric essays of Don Marquis.” Most of the reviewers devoted their attention to praising the talents of the captivating Eartha Kitt.
Shinbone Alley closed after a meager 49-performance run. Looking back, Brooks analyzed, “It should have been at a little off-Broadway theater,” but instead it opened at a big venue and “was lost on that stage.” (In 1970, the property was adapted into archy and mehitabel, a two-hour PBS-TV special headlining Tammy Grimes and Eddie Bracken. The next year, the stage vehicle became an animated cartoon feature released by Allied Artists Pictures. The low-budget entry utilized the voices of Carol Channing, Eddie Bracken, John Carradine, and others. It quickly came and left theatrical distribution.)
The show’s failure, and Mel’s association with the misguided production, exacerbated Brooks’s growing doubts about the viability of his show business future. It was hard for him not to become panic-stricken. Brooks’s usual optimism was sorely tested by this professional failure.
• • •
With Sid Caesar off the air and Shinbone Alley a flop, Mel Brooks had to really scramble for new work in the summer of 1957. Grabbing at proverbial straws, he signed on as a producer/writer for The Polly Bergen Show, which debuted on NBC-TV on September 21, 1957. One of the other writers on this 30-minute musical variety series for the singer/actor was Michael Stewart, another Caesar’s Hour veteran.
Once Brooks was aboard this modest new show, he was approached by his friend Lee Adams, a lyricist and writer. Adams was then unemployed, and Brooks—in a mood of largesse since he was now ensconced in a new industry job—suggested that Adams work for free on the new show in the capacity of an assistant writer. Mel explained that this would undoubtedly lead to Lee’s being placed on staff at a likely $100 weekly salary. (It is also likely that Brooks decided it would make good sense to have loyal friends aboard the project.) Adams followed through with his benefactor’s proposition, and Brooks liked the ideas Stewart presented. The newcomer happily anticipated soon becoming a paid part of the team, a transition he hoped would occur at the upcoming Friday staff meeting.
That day Adams waited for Brooks to emerge from the conference. When Mel did, he looked exceedingly glum. Lee quickly grasped the situation and said to his pal, “Look, you tried. I really appreciate it, Mel. Maybe sometime …” Brooks waved his hands and said, “You don’t know what happened.” Lee replied, “Sure I do. You pitched me for the job and they said no.” Mel shook his head and said with a sardonic grin, “Not exactly. Before I got to that, I was fired.”
• • •
While Brooks was dealing with a rash of show business defeats, Sid Caesar was contemplating his own uncertain professional future. Not being an active part of the television scene was anathema to the toppled comedy king, and he pondered his next career step. His solution was to approach Imogene Coca (then completing a summer stage tour of the comedy Janus) and suggest they reunite on air. She loved the idea, and soon Sid’s representatives were approaching the various networks for a production deal. NBC and CBS passed on the idea, but the less prestigious ABC offered the duo a half-hour weekly program to begin in early 1958. Caesar swallowed his pride at being forced to accept a 30-minute time slot (which he felt was far too short in which to properly present sketches). Coca followed suit and also signed for the new series.
Sid quickly assembled a writing staff drawn from the ranks of his past creative teams—all of whom were anxious to re-create the magic of Your Show of Shows and, equally important, to keep afloat in the increasingly perilous waters of show business. The hired scribes were Mel Tolkin, Neil Simon, Mel Brooks, Mike Stewart, and Danny Simon (plus Larry Gelbart for the opening episode). It seemed like old times (especially with Carl Reiner aboard as the program’s second banana). Helena Rubinstein Cosmetics agreed to sponsor the relatively well-budgeted offering, which bowed on January 26, 1958. The media hyped the premiere as the “major comeback” of these two small-screen legends. Variety reported, “Even though the opening show was way off, lacking much of the brilliance and wit of some previous excursions, it wasn’t too important to a Caesar-Coca fan.”
Initially, the program did sufficiently well in the audience ratings, buoyed by curious viewers who wished to share in the nostalgia of Sid and Imogene working together again. However, the reunion soon lost its novelty to home audiences, and the series fell prey in the rating wars to its competitors in the Sunday 9 P.M. time slot: CBS’s General Electric Theater (an anthology drama showcase) and NBC’s The Dinah Shore Show (a musical/variety entry). As a result, Sid Caesar Invites You went off the air on May 25, 1958, after a mere four-month run.
At this juncture, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) network approached Caesar and Coca and lured them to London to repeat much of their material from Sid Caesar Invites You for home viewers in the United Kingdom. The new edition of Sid Caesar Invites You debuted abroad on July 23, 1958. As had happened back in the United States, initial good ratings quickly tapered off, and the half-hour program departed the BBC lineup that September after only a 13-program run.
It was now clear to most everyone—except to the substance-abusing Sid Caesar, who vainly remained in denial—that his reign as a major prime-time TV star was over.
• • •
Distressing as it was for Mel Brooks to watch the gifted Sid Caesar thrust aside by the TV industry and the viewing public, Brooks was preoccupied with his own mounting number of career crises. For over a decade he had allowed his show business ambitions to be funneled through the talented Caesar, his great protector and pal. While Brooks had gained many benefits from his professional and personal association with the gifted Caesar, it had also stymied his growth as an entertainment talent.
Now Mel was cut loose from his regular work ties to Sid and had the scary task of largely fending for himself. True, there were occasional TV network specials that Caesar undertook in 1959 and 1960 for which Brooks and Mel Tolkin teamed with Sydney Zelenka to write the sketches. For a few of these small-screen offerings in the late 1950s, a young Woody Allen was brought aboard as a junior member of Caesar’s writing staff. Years later, this gave rise to a widespread misconception that Allen had been part of the stellar writing crew that had contributed so admirably to Sid’s Your Show of Shows and Caesar’s Hour.
Moreover, the brief collaboration of Brooks and Allen with others on Caesar’s specials gave the media a convenient springboard to compare and contrast the success and talent of these two men. It reached a point at which, seemingly, neither individual could be judged on his own merits. Rather, the press—and increasingly the public—assumed that both writers were creatively linked beyond the facts that both were Jewish, grew up in Brooklyn, boasted the outsider’s comedic slant on life, and had worked for Sid Caesar. By the late 1970s, Mel had grown weary of the endless comparisons being made between him and Woody. It prompted Brooks to make his own statement about the so-called similarities between him and his “counterpart” Said a peevish Mel, “He [Woody Allen] feels that his art is his life. And more power to him. The difference is that if someone wants to call my movies art or crap, I don’t mind.”
• • •
During this transitional career period, Brooks’s income, which had risen to nearly $5,000 a week on Caesar’s Hour, had tumbled precipitously. This abrupt economic free fall—and the accompanying negative effect on his self-confidence—played havoc with Mel’s already shaky marriage. Temperamentally ill-prepared for being a husband, the still emotionally immature Mel had even less understanding of how to be a model parent to his three young children.
The escalating domestic stress in this difficult period led Mel and Florence to undergo several trial separations. Then the unhappy couple split on a more permanent basis. By now Mel could no longer afford his expensive therapy sessions, and he felt truly alone in the world. As various aspects of his life seemed to be falling apart, he tried to mask his growing panic by being more of a bon vivant and zany
nut. His desperate masquerade may have fooled some people, but in moments of selfhonesty, he knew his fluctuating run of luck had finally petered out. Try as he might to ignore facing the reality of his depressing situation, years of therapy had made avoidance of self-examination less and less viable. During these recurrent somber periods of self-reflection, personal insight made clear the stark truth that he could no longer depend on others to kick-start his flagging career or to reorder his muddled personal life. The only person who could redeem Brooks was Mel himself.
16
A Wacky Man for the Millenniums
More than anybody, it was Sid [Caesar]. He was from another planet. I am the funniest man America has ever produced and I wasn’t a comic. I wouldn’t go onstage for nine years, because there was a greater talent out there, an outlet that satisfied me and my talent for writing. When he left he almost forced me on stage. The amount that was demanded of Sid ... I don’t know why it didn’t kill him.
–Mel Brooks, 1982
Often, in the entertainment industry—as in other arenas—successful ventures are the result of a sequence of fortuitous events. Naturally, without a solid foundation of creativity, individual chance incidents might never lead to a great artistic and/or commercial triumph.
• • •
During the 1948–1949 run of the Broadway revue Inside U.S.A, actor Carl Reiner shared a dressing room with fellow cast member Louis Nye. Reiner described, “To entertain ourselves, I used to play the part of an interviewer, asking questions and breaking up over the brilliant answers he came up with. I am by nature an interviewer, an aural learner. Whenever I hear somebody say something funny or informative, I immediately start asking questions to get more laughs or more information. It started as a comedy routine when Louis and I were in the Army and did a bit built around the rolling of a field pack.”
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