Lady Parts

by Andrea Martin

  Edith was my go-to character for SCTV. When we were short on material, I’d get into my leopard outfit, stand in front of the camera, and spout off whatever came into my mind, on whatever subject was given to me. Not that everything that came out of my mouth was brilliantly funny, by any means, but audiences seemed to like Edith because she said what they wanted to say but couldn’t. The ’70s was a much more innocent time, and outrageously outspoken, off-colour comediennes were not as prevalent as they are today. Back then there was the trailblazing and incomparable Phyllis Diller, and her distant cousin, Mrs. Prickley.

  Edith Prickley wasn’t created during SCTV, however; she was created while I was performing with Second City in Toronto in 1977, at the Old Firehall theatre on Adelaide Street. And it is my darling and genius friend, Catherine O’Hara, to whom I credit Mrs. Prickley’s birth.

  The format of Second City has always been the same since its inception in Chicago in the ’50s: a scripted segment is performed nightly, after which the improvisation begins—sketches based on audience suggestions. One evening, someone suggested we improvise a parent-teacher conference. The cast was backstage in the tiny shared dressing room, where we’d gather after the scripted segment was finished to wait for that night’s list of suggestions. It was a grungy space in which males and females disrobed at the same time, and the air was permeated with the odour of stale cigarette smoke and booze. I was the only member of the cast who didn’t smoke, and every night after the show I’d go home and shower for what seemed like hours to get the smell of smoke off my body and out of my hair. Irish coffee was the drink of choice backstage among the cast at Second City: hot coffee with Irish whiskey, topped with whipped cream and served in glass mugs. I don’t know why that stands out in my memory, but it does. It’s so vivid, my mental picture of Catherine, Eugene Levy, Dave Thomas, and especially Joe Flaherty and John Candy, standing by their cubicles, laughing and smoking and sipping hot toddies out of those dainty glass mugs.

  Then we’d receive the list of audience suggestions, and the frenzy would begin. While the audience took an intermission, we had twenty minutes to decide which ideas we’d use for the second part of the show. Costumes and wigs and hats and props would be strewn about the room, everyone yelling out ideas and pulling clothes from the racks for scenes we were about to improvise for characters we were about to create.

  Improv for me was both electrifying and terrifying. How I survived those nightly improvs is a total mystery. I really felt like a fish out of water. My performing experience before joining Second City had been scripted plays and musical theatre. But I loved the cast, and the excitement and challenge of being on stage nightly without a net outweighed my fear. And I was never ever bored. Improv kept me sharp and petrified. In the ’70s, Second City was the only improvisational comedy institution around. Now improv is the fad. There’s Upright Citizens Brigade, Chicago City Limits, The Groundlings, and, of course, Second City, which continues to produce some of the most gifted and successful comedians today. Tina Fey, Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolph, Will Ferrell, Amy Poehler, Jane Lynch, Melissa McCarthy, Steve Carell, and Stephen Colbert are just some of the new wave of talented folks who got their start in improv. As I wrote that, I realized that my version of “new wave” comedians are people in their forties and fifties. So allow Whistler’s mother to continue.

  Improvisational companies have become an invaluable training ground for so many successful comedians. Improv is as important a tool for an actor today as the methods of Stella Adler and Lee Strasberg were for actors beginning in the ’50s. I have no doubt that the experience I received at Second City has had a lasting impact on my career. It taught me to stay present. There is no time for second-guessing when you improvise. You have to think on your feet, and if you are organically funny, it is the perfect vehicle in which to give voice to your comedic talent.

  Which brings me, finally, again, to backstage at the Firehall Theatre and the creation of Edith Prickley.

  The costumes on the dressing-room racks consisted of items we had either brought from our own homes or purchased cheaply at what was then known as Crippled Civilians, a used clothing store. Could there be a more politically incorrect name now? Crippled Civilians used to be on Jarvis Street, right around the corner from the Old Firehall theatre. It was a bargain basement of eclectic discarded outfits: oversized and shapeless wool overcoats, ’50s party dresses, ratty bathrobes, ornately decorated and coloured sweaters—items that inspired the wackiest of characters in the wackiest of scenes. Also on the rack backstage was the ’50s faux leopard jacket and hat that had belonged to Catherine O’Hara’s mom.

  As the cast frantically brainstormed about the parent-teacher conference sketch, it was decided that Catherine would be the teacher and the rest of us would act as the obnoxious, unruly parents. We all started grabbing clothes and pinning up or slicking back our hair, and finding props to define our characters. Catherine combed her hair in a demure French twist and put on a skirt and cropped cardigan to complete the teacher look. The guys pulled glasses and suits and ties from the racks. I grabbed the leopard jacket and hat, put on a pair of rhinestone glasses I found on the costume-jewellery shelf, and smeared bright red lipstick on my mouth. We all then waited backstage to make our entrances one by one.

  We improvised the scene on that cold night in 1977, and the audience loved it. In Second City, if an improvised scene went well, we continued to do it as an improv for a few months and, if was funny enough, it was then fully scripted and became one of the scenes in the next main show. Here’s the scene:

  “Teacher”

  As the lights come up on the stage, Catherine, as the teacher, is writing on an imaginary chalkboard. Dave Thomas enters.

  DAVE: Is this fourth grade?

  CATHERINE: Yes, I’m Mrs. Meighan, the fourth-grade teacher. And you are …?

  DAVE: Bob Clarke.

  CATHERINE: Oh, Tommy’s father?

  DAVE: Right.

  CATHERINE: Thank you for coming to the meeting, Mr. Clarke.

  DAVE: Is this some of their artwork?

  CATHERINE: Yes, this is the children’s artwork. That’s Tommy’s piece right there, the blank sheet of paper. I understand it meant something to him, so I put it up. Do you know what it is?

  DAVE: It’s a pictorial representation of the order of his mother’s mind.

  Eugene Levy enters.

  CATHERINE: I’m Mrs. Meighen, and you are …?

  EUGENE: I’m Wayne’s father.

  CATHERINE: You’re Mr. Klugie?

  EUGENE: Yeah. How did you know?

  CATHERINE: You said Wayne, Wayne Klugie.

  EUGENE: Well, that’s why you are the teacher!

  CATHERINE: Thank you for coming to the meeting.

  EUGENE: Well, I wanted to meet you ‘cause Wayne has told me so much about you.

  CATHERINE: Uh-oh.

  EUGENE: Yes, he says you’re the prettiest teacher in the whole wide world.

  CATHERINE: He does?

  EUGENE: Yes. And you know something? He was right! You are the prettiest teacher in the whole wide world.

  CATHERINE: Oh, go on!

  EUGENE: All right. (He goes to exit.)

  CATHERINE: No! I didn’t mean leave. Thank you for coming.

  EUGENE: So! This is where the little critters do their learning, huh?

  CATHERINE: Yes. This is where Wayne spends his days. Would you like to sit where he sits? He sits right here at the head of the class, right by me.

  EUGENE: Oh wow! How about that! My Wayne right at the head of the class.

  CATHERINE: Well, he sits there.

  Andrea enters.

  CATHERINE: I’m Mrs. Meighen, and you are …?

  ANDREA: I’m Sebastian’s mother.

  CATHERINE: Oh, Mrs. Prickley.

  ANDREA: That’s right, dear, Edith Prickley.

  Edith’s the name, Sebastian’s the game.

  CATHERINE: It’s nice to meet you.

  ANDREA: Nice to
meet you too, dear … You must be Slag Ass. That’s what Sebastian says the kids all call you. No worries. You know how kids are … always saying it like it is. Pahaaaaaa!!!!!

  CATHERINE: It is so important for parents to be involved in their children’s schooling, and overseeing their homework is one of the best ways to do that. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Prickley?

  ANDREA: Absolutely, dear, I always help Sebastian with his homework. I say the family that plays together stays together. I do his homework, Sebastian pours the drinks! Pahaaaaaa!!!!! No, I’m kidding! I’d like to help Sebastian with his homework but I just don’t have the time, dear. I’ve got my hands full with the hubby. Boy does he keep my hands full. Pahaaaaaa!!!!! (Mimes juggling balls.)

  The scene continues as the parents become more unruly and the teacher becomes more frustrated. It culminates with Catherine yelling at the parents.

  CATHERINE: I called you here because I thought we could have a dignified conversation about your children’s problems, but now I realize that’s impossible, you are your children’s problems. And should never waste the teacher’s time. Repeat after me, I should not waste the teacher’s time. ALL: I should not waste the teacher’s time.

  CATHERINE: Again.

  ALL: I should not waste the teacher’s time.

  CATHERINE: Mrs. Prickley, a hundred times on the board.

  ANDREA: Me?

  CATHERINE: Yes! Now!

  ANDREA: I should not waste the teacher’s time … Lights slowly fade out.

  It was at that moment, on stage at the Old Firehall, that Edith Prickley was born. The posture, the voice, the intonation, the laugh, the volume, the name Edith all came together the minute I entered the scene and Catherine christened me Mrs. Prickley. When, while writing this book, I called Catherine to make sure I had the details correct, she reminded me that for a few weeks after that first time we performed “Teacher,” she came up with a different name to introduce me, but the name Edith Prickley was so perfect, it stayed. And so did Mrs. Prickley’s indefatigable laugh, Pahaaaaaa!!!!!

  I have held on to Mrs. Prickley’s leopard hat and jacket, and to her glasses, all these years. I still wear the costume when I perform the character at various benefits and in my one-woman shows. In 2008, Marty, Dave, Eugene, Joe, Catherine, and I performed “Teacher” at a Toronto fundraiser for the alumni of Second City. We were all on stage together. I looked around at my friends and was awestruck. We were still making each other laugh some thirty years later. I felt honoured and deeply moved to be there with them. During the show, and specifically in the scene “Teacher,” we were kids again. No time had passed since 1977, when our careers were just beginning and the roots of SCTV were taking hold.

  SCTV’s Fiftieth Anniversary Benefit for the alumni fund.

  From left to right: Catherine, Harold, Eugene, Marty, Joe, me, and Dave.

  I have done everything in this house, including polishing eight butter knives that I have not used in twenty years, to avoid writing this chapter on SCTV. Everything. I have tried to make friends with the animals in my yard, which include a mongoose, two geese, two ducks, and two swans. No animal will have anything to do with me. They know I’m stalling, and they are not willing to enable me one minute more.

  So, after I finish gathering and sorting every loose nail in my tool chest, I will open up my SCTV file, entitled “What Do You Think of This?,” and try to write about those seven years that changed my life, that formed my career, that made it impossible to ever take direction from anyone on any subsequent TV show I did after SCTV went off the air in 1984. I will try to write about those glorious years with my talented friends, eight of the most gifted comic minds that have ever graced this planet: John Candy, Harold Ramis, Joe Flaherty, Martin Short, Dave Thomas, Eugene Levy, Rick Moranis, Catherine O’Hara—and if I can accomplish just one-eighth of what we accomplished on TV with this book, I will be happy.

  Patty Hearst was a nineteen-year-old socialite and heir to the William Randolph Hearst fortune when she was captured by the Symbionese Liberation Party, blindfolded, and allegedly locked in a closet for two months. When she was finally let out, she held up a bank and wrote letters to her family, calling them Communist pigs. Psychologists rushed to her defence and blamed her transformation on brainwashing, or the more fancy term, the Stockholm Syndrome. Her life was no longer about her; it was about the Symbionese Liberation Party and her fellow members.

  Although I did not brandish a rifle and rob a bank, my life for my seven years with SCTV was not about me; it was about the nine of us. We were all blindfolded from the rest of the world and locked in a time capsule of collaboration and creative freedom. When you’re in the zone, you’re in your own time—in fact, you’re beyond time. I was beyond time for seven years. Conjuring up the memories feels like a violation. I’m reluctant to revisit them. I don’t want our experiences, which are sacred to me, to be exposed and misinterpreted. I want to protect the memories. Luckily because of the age I am, I can’t remember specifics, but I can recall in broad strokes my devotion to my talented friends. And yet, as I write this chapter, I feel lost, because there was nothing singular about those years. Everything about SCTV was the group. Where are my buddies, my fellow members? How I wish they were just down the hall, and I were back in our old writing offices in Toronto or Edmonton. I could meander my way into anyone’s office, start brainstorming, pace around the room, laugh, collaborate, and laugh some more. By the end, something would have been written. And it would have been funny. How would we have measured that? From each other’s laughter. Our written scenes would then be passed along a conveyor belt of creativity.

  Wardrobe, headed by our darling Juul Haalmeyer and Trudy, his mom, designed elaborate costumes, sewing them from scratch; Makeup, led by the brilliant Bev Schectman and Christine Hart, researched and then drew and painted our faces like works of art; and Hair, designed by the incomparable Judi Cooper-Sealy, produced styles of stunning originality. All of these talented people collaborated closely with us and, in many cases, were responsible for creating the characters themselves. It wasn’t until Bev suggested I paint my teeth a blinding white, Juul found a red plaid Scottish skirt and a starched white blouse with a plaid tie, and Judi created a mousy brown wig that I realized who Yolanda DeVilbis was.

  She was the character on SCTV who recited the upcoming events in Melonville on her ten-minute weekly program, Melonville Calendar. Upon seeing my white teeth, Catherine threw out a suggestion that timid Yolanda have a stutter as she recites the upcoming uninteresting events:

  “This week at the Melonville Mixer, you can get three, free … free, three … three free fruit beverages. Orange … grape … and orange.”

  The writers, the actors, the crew, the director, the producers, the caterer, the janitor—anyone we asked, “What do you think of this?”—gave us their opinions. All of them were responsible for lifting our words off the page. Everyone supported each other and egged each other on. There was no one to squash our comedic impulses. We were kids in a playground, and comedy props and costumes were our toys. It was collaboration unlike anything I had ever experienced before or would after, and writing this chapter without the cast is as foreign to me as performing SCTV alone. And so I emailed my friends.

  Dear cast and writers of SCTV:

  I have been writing a book of essays for HarperCollins Canada for the last two years. I am near the end of the first draft and have yet to include SCTV. I am asking you if you would take a minute to email me what you think is worth remembering and what is worth forgetting about me during the show. I’m not asking you to do the writing; I just can’t remember details, which begs the question, why am I writing a book? Which begs the bigger question, who in their right mind would read it?

  Love and miss you all,

  Andrea

  Over the next week, I heard from Catherine:

  Oh dear. I’m a woman in my fifties, but I’d be oh so happy to attempt to reminisce with you. It will be like Libby and Sue Bopper.
On the bright side, I guess it means we’re not that old. If we were, we’d have that excellent long-term memory. I look forward to laughing with you.

  Mike Short, one of our writers and Marty’s brother, emailed me that he had hundreds of stories—“What about the nine thousand times you showed the fellas your tits?” Bob Dolman, one of our talented writers and also my husband at the time of SCTV, wrote, “I remember something.” And believe me, he did. I was so grateful to hear Bob’s recollections, as he had a bird’s-eye view of my time with SCTV. He saw me in and out of the TV studio, in and out of our bed, and in and out of the maternity ward twice as I gave birth to our sons during those seven years.

  As I was talking to each person, I realized we all remembered the smaller details differently but agreed on the larger picture: that we all trusted and looked out for each other.

  I never heard back from Joe Flaherty but didn’t expect to, he being the most eccentric person of the group. That’s not to say that Joe won’t appear just as I’m about to finish the book. And he’ll undoubtedly have the most wisdom and the funniest take on our years together. But for now, he’s probably using his frequent flyer miles to travel to countries all over the world, in no particular order and with no particular plan. He’s always been a fanatic for accruing sky miles. Joe was the cheerleader and ringleader on SCTV, and his quick mind and sarcastic humour motivated me to write some of my favourite pieces. Without Joe, the Evita parody “Indira” or the Annie parody, starring a thirty-year-old chain-smoking Andrea McArdle as nine-year-old Little Orphan Annie, would not have been written.

  Joe had the ability to take something earnest and, with the slightest twist, turn it into something hysterically funny. He also had the gift of saying what everybody was thinking but was afraid to say. In a brainstorming meeting once, our producer, Nancy Geller, whom we all loved, pitched an idea, and the room went quiet. After a minute, Joe blurted out, “Uh, that’s a really interesting and terrible idea, Nancy.” Everybody burst into tears and laughter because we were all thinking that the idea was horrible, but who had the nerve to say so? It was Joe who had the courage.