by Bob Zmuda
Now, here’s what really happened.
First, you must understand one thing: no matter how insane you are, no one but no one ever freaks out on national television without prior network approval. The reason is simple: do it and you will be blacklisted from television forever, no matter what kind of “artist” you are. Remember the name of the actor who uttered the word “fuck” on SNL? Exactly my point.
But that does not mean everyone need know what you’re doing. Andy believed very strongly that the actors and crew should not know because their genuine reactions were what would make his little psychodrama completely believable. John Moffitt, Pat Tourk Lee, and Jack Burns all did terrific jobs of carrying out Andy’s wishes and selling their anger to the rest of the cast, the crew, and, ultimately, the audience. John later confided that he had told Maryedith Burrell because she likely would have lost her cool. He was also concerned that if she were not let in on the secret she would not trust any of them in the future. Only recently, my good friend Michael Richards let me in on a secret: he’d been told the day before the incident and kept it quiet all those years. He did so because there were still many people who believed it was a real conflict, although there were those who didn’t, and Michael didn’t want to prove the naysayers right. His realistic reaction (fooling me as well) is a testament to his exceptional acting skills and his devotion to the Kaufman mystique. As for Jack Burns, the producer who rushed in to break up the fight that he only succeeded in fueling, he too did a wonderful job of acting. In Man on the Moon you can relive this incident in all its glory, with yours truly playing Jack’s role.
Was Andy really disapproving of drug humor? Absolutely not. But because his devotion to TM was well known, and given TMers’ disdain for drugs and alcohol, it was a natural plot point to allow Kaufman to find fault.
After we sat back and surveyed the “damage” done by our staged brawl, we became concerned that the public might begin to think Andy was literally insane, so we drew the line. At the time, it seemed every politician or entertainer who got caught doing something bad would suddenly announce they were born again, and the nation would always accept a loose nut or bad apple who’d turned to Jesus. That Andy was a Jew was all the better.
Thus we continued with our overall game plan: Andy as the good guy, then the bad guy, then the good guy again. Just like pro wrestling.Cathy Sullivan was actually from The Lawrence Welk Show and was relatively innocent to all the scheming behind the scenes. We decided Andy would really marry her on the show —just like when Tiny Tim and Miss Vicky got hitched on Carson’s show, the only difference being we would cast Cathy as Andy’s bride-to-be. That Andy didn’t really have a relationship with Cathy, and in fact hardly knew her, didn’t matter, as he was prepared to have her sign a prenuptial agreement and then have the marriage annulled immediately after the ceremony.
At the last minute, Cathy either wised up or got cold feet and backed out — I heard some of her Lawrence Welk crew talked her out of it. Andy just shrugged it off because he’d accomplished his goal: satisfy his responsibility to save Fridays while maintaining his artistic integrity. It was the ‘80s and the new phrase “win-win” was in vogue.
11
Tony and Me
Andy was traveling at the speed of life. It’s amazing stuff.
ROBIN WILLIAMS
We decided we needed to get Tony out in public and stir up some ink on him. The Improv seemed like the natural place to begin. One night Tony made an unexpected appearance, and though he was warmly received, halfway through his act the crowd began shouting “Andy! Andy!” Furious, he stormed off the stage, and we left. It was bad enough that Foreign Man had been “bought out” and repackaged as Latka, and that both were automatically related to Andy, but now Tony Clifton was suffering the same fate.
Andy was pissed because fame was beginning to get in the way of having fun. It was similar to what happened to Allen Funt, the creator of Candid Camera. Before his show became an institution, Funt would go out and participate in the stunts himself, but his massive exposure eventually ruined his anonymity. The same was happening with Andy.
As we drove home to Andy’s we decided a new strategy was in order, one that would once again turn the tables on the audiences.
“What if Clifton and I appear simultaneously?” he offered.
“Get somebody to play Clifton?”
“Exactly. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Tony’s on stage, they’re thinking it’s me, and I show up.”
“Yeah, okay, I like it, but who?” I wondered.
Andy looked over at me. “Oh, no!” I protested. “Forget it! No way.”
From the moment I saw Clifton, I’d been doing his accent and mannerisms, and as we developed material as well as a persona for him, I had worked on getting him down. It was the quickest way for me to write a character: just become that character. I admittedly did a damn good Clifton, and many of the lines Andy uttered as Tony were my invention. I knew he was right about who should be the other Clifton, but I was scared.
Andy’s voice was calm but firm. “Why not? It makes complete sense. You’ve got Tony down perfectly, his voice, the mannerisms. You are Tony.”
It was a huge compliment from the man who was very proprietary about his characters, but Andy had given me, as his writer and best friend, a membership in a club so exclusive it had but one member, me. He trusted me completely, but knew I had to overcome one problem, a problem that was so foreign to Andy I didn’t think he could possibly understand.
“You’re afraid,” he said quietly. “That’s natural. We can work on that.”
As the other half of “Albrecht & Zmuda, Comedy from A to Z,” when we sucked I could blame Albrecht, and vice versa. And appearing on the SNL wrestling sketches, or at colleges in a background role, or even onstage at the Park West in a mask, well, that was a whole lot different from taking the stage all alone, figuratively naked, with no one to play off of. And on top of that, this character was not only front and center, he was one of the most balls-to-the-walls entertainers to stalk a stage, a guy who seized an audience by the throat and made them scream uncle! Tony Clifton was no shrinking violet. I didn’t know how I could walk on stage and do what Andy did.
“You don’t have a fearful bone in your body,” I said. “Doing Clifton is …”
“Doing Clifton is no different in front of me or onstage,” he said firmly. “It’s all in your head. You know the character, right?”
“Yeah …”
“Well, we just have to convince you there’s nothing to be afraid of. Would Tony he afraid?”
I laughed at the thought of Tony Clifton being afraid of anything. “No.”
“Okay, then you will become Tony. Just like I do.”
I pictured Andy Kaufman, the nonsmoking vegetarian, consuming steaks and chain-smoking as the polar-reversed Tony Clifton and worried about my own commitment to the character. Could I go there?
“I told you,” he said, “when I was a little kid doing those shows? I was really scared, terrified even. I practiced in my basement for years before I could go in front of anybody, and then when I did, it was the neighbor kids, always younger than me. I never let the adults in because I was afraid they’d judge me.”
We pulled up to his house and went inside. He continued. “What I’ve never told you, or anyone else for that matter, is that I’m still afraid. But that’s why I meditate. So I won’t be scared.”
He had a meditation clause in all his contracts, allowing him time to release his tensions before going onstage or onto a set — it was de rigueur if you wanted to hire Andy Kaufman. He never told me it was because he was afraid — I figured he might now be telling me that to make me feel better. “You? Afraid?” I laughed. “That’ll be the day.”
“No, it’s true. When I discovered transcendental meditation I learned to make those fears go away, to see they were nothing. And once I let go of that, that fear of being judged? Then I was safe.”
“I think you’r
e just saying that.”
“No,” he insisted, “I get scared, too, I just don’t let anyone know it, you included. And when I do get scared, the meditation takes it away. Once I focus, I can do anything. So can you.”
Andy was persuasive not only in his words but also in his eyes and his body language, which told me to be calm, everything would be fine. I believed him because he was by nature a scrupulously honest man and I trusted he wasn’t saying those things just to get me to play Tony Clifton. There was an unspoken agreement between us to push each other not only to improve creatively but also to grow personally. We needed someone in our lives to whom we looked for guidance at times, someone whose opinion or judgment we held above even our own — we played that role for each Other.
After some hours of his quiet persistence and counseling I Started warming up to the idea of becoming Clifton. With Andy’s help I began to visualize myself on stage, singing, smoking, strutting, and, best of all, berating unsuspecting audience members. I came to see it as a wonderful opportunity, with the payoff being the looks on the faces of everyone in the house when they began screaming to Tony for Andy … and got him! I visualized the shock wave as Andy entered from the darkness at the edge of the stage and stood side by side with Tony, and that clinched it.
“Okay, let’s do it. I’ll be Clifton,” I agreed, not sure what I was getting into but excited by the promise of the unknown.
Andy smiled slightly. “You’ll be good.”
As we sat up late and planned what we’d do with our new creation, I came to realize what Andy had just done. Though his motivation was certainly “the big put-on,” he also exhibited extraordinary generosity by gifting one of his signature characters to me. Though he and I had worked to hone Tony, Tony was, until that moment, Andy’s. Now we would share Tony. That would be no small thing for any entertainer, because brilliant creations such as Tony Clifton are almost always zealously guarded, like secrets of state or family recipes. But Andy made the bestowal of Tony Clifton seem less like a business decision than one friend handing down a treasured heirloom to another.
Like his contemporaries Robin Williams and Steve Martin, when away from the footlights Andy was quiet and reserved, almost shy. What were often interpreted as Andy’s offstage antics were merely a continuation of his act. To be alone with Andy and to be a member of his “club” was to spend time with a man whom some would consider boring. Andy himself felt he was boring when the mask came off, but he needed time to be “off” as opposed to “on,” which required a phenomenal output of energy. Andy saw what he did as a calling, and his life was devoted to his art. His sacrifice was that the time afforded him to be just Andy was limited.
To pull off the illusion of a consistent Tony Clifton being played by two people of different heights and body types, great preparations were taken. Though I had been modestly successful in creating Tony’s face with my limited knowledge of makeup, for the latest incarnation of Mr. Clifton I turned to the pros. Among those I interviewed were visual effects giants such as Rick Baker (King Kong), Stan Winston (who would go on to do the special effects for Aliens, The Terminator, Terminator 2, and Furassic Park), and Wally Westmore (Vertigo). After careful consideration, I chose Ken Chase. Not only was Ken a certified effects heavy-weight, but also I felt he could keep the secret of both Andy and me being Tony (a favor he has done me for the past fifteen years).
Ken made molds of our faces, hands, even teeth. The finished product had to fit us both and be consistent with the version of Tony that had been out there and that people were familiar with — no mean feat. Essentially, Tony’s exterior would be the same regardless of who wore it, but the inner fit would be adjusted for our physical peculiarities. For instance, the bridge of Andy’s nose was wider than mine, so I was fitted with a prosthetic piece. On the other hand, I was not as tall as Andy, therefore special lifts were devised to give me the trademark “towering Clifton” effect.
That Tony was a big son of a bitch merely enhanced his menace, and for that reason we made him slightly more heavyset than he had been. For consistency, there also was only one Clifton costume — if a button fell off, we’d still match. Our concern about the congruity of Tony’s likeness stemmed from the knowledge that a fair amount of video already existed, and with the advent of the first portable video cameras, more and more footage would be generated, thus giving skeptics more of Clifton to compare. We required that my Tony be indistinguishable from Andy’s.
Which brings me to another point of departure for our respective Tonys — we had diametrically differing goals as performers. Andy as Tony was a kamikaze pilot ready to die for the cause, so antagonizing an audience that they couldn’t help but hate and reject him. I was the pilot ready to fly the dangerous mission, but I sure as hell wanted to come home — I needed acceptance. I soon rationalized we could each play our Cliftons: on one night he’d get dragged off the stage, on another night he’d almost get dragged off.
You’d think we were testing a new spacesuit for NASA given the countless tests, run-throughs, and adjustments we made dialing in the new and improved Clifton. But finally we were done. And he was magnificent. I had been channeling Clifton in preparation for my first big moment in the spotlight, and when we tried him out on some people we knew, and they thought I was Andy, we knew we were ready. Now our goal was one of despicable subversion: not only fool the public, but perpetrate our sleight on the hand that fed us, the industry.
Much of the credit for what happened next must go to George Shapiro. Putting his reputation on the line, he had the guts to book Clifton as Clifton, not as a manifestation of Andy Kaufman. Seeming to pull off the impossible, George secured contracts that called for Tony Clifton as a separate entity — making no mention of Andy — therefore technically allowing me to appear as the raffish International Singing Sensation. The clubs thought they were getting Andy in disguise, but George covered himself legally by insisting it was Tony Clifton, not Andy Kaufman. Everyone signed the contract as they winked accordingly, believing they were all in on the joke. It was a joke all right, but they sure as hell weren’t in on it.
George’s first miracle was getting Tony booked into the main room at Harrah’s Casino in Lake Tahoe. Though Harrah’s was forbidden to use Andy’s name relative to Clifton in the advertising, the press, under no such restrictions, seized on it and widely reported “Andy’s” appearance, much to our delight. The gig was for two weeks, so I suddenly had to create a slick Vegas-style show, with the requisite orchestra, charts, patter, and massive logistics. It was a little weird (and frightening) to know that this time it was I, not Kaufman, walking into the fire.
Another consideration was Clifton’s voice. Two weeks of two shows a night were going to play havoc on my throat, given the vocal gymnastics Clifton required of me. Also, Tahoe’s six-thousand-foot elevation worried me, as it was daunting even for experienced singers — a few minutes into the act and they’re panting from lack of air. That Andy’s voice was pitched slightly higher, more tenor than mine, and Clifton’s voice was nasal and somewhat pinched initially drained me even in short bursts. I hired a vocal coach and worked closely with him to be able to deliver Clifton over the long haul and at altitude without blowing out my throat.
My first trial run as Clifton came when Shapiro booked him on both Letterman and Merv Griffin to give Tony a push for his Tahoe show. Waiting in the wings of the Letterman show, I was nervous until I got the cue to go on and remembered Andy’s question — Would Tony be scared? — and suddenly I was Clifton. I went out and wowed ‘em. As we went to a commercial, Dave leaned over and whispered, “Andy, that makeup is so good, if I didn’t know you I’d swear it was someone else.” Years later, Dave’s longtime producer, Robert Morton, cornered me and asked about my appearances as Tony Clifton. Acknowledging that Clifton had been on Letterman three times, Morty asked, “How many times did you do the Letterman show as Tony?”
“Every time,” I replied.
“You mean you were doing
the show and Andy was home sleeping?” he asked.
“Yup.”
I had passed the Letterman test and was ready for Harrah’s. As Late Night was beamed out to the West Coast, Andy sat in his living room watching Tony Clifton pull the wool over the eyes of Dave and the nation, and he laughed till he cried. With makeup whiz Ken Chase sworn to secrecy, no one else but Andy, Shapiro/West, and I knew the truth.
As I was settling in at Harrah’s (after making excuses to management that Andy was on his way), a masquerading Andy flew in to Reno and got a room at a place nearby called the Hormsby House, in Carson City. I mean nearby to the whorehouses, not so much to Harrah’s. He was ten minutes from the physical pleasures we’d found two years before and thirty minutes from Harrah’s, and he would occasionally drive in — cloaked in heavy disguise — and enjoy the show. It was surreal, because probably everyone in the audience thought they were watching him, and he got a huge kick out of that fact. He also derived great pleasure from taunting me from time to time with shouts from the middle of the crowd, like, “We know you’re really Andy Kaufman. What do you think, we’re stupid?” At one point he heckled me so much that I had him removed by security. If he couldn’t be thrown out as Clifton, he had still managed to find a way.
A few times during the two weeks, he drove over and, as Andy Kaufman, did a walk-through of the Casino, glad-handing fans and saying hellos to various Harrah’s staff, thus establishing his presence. Then, when no one was looking, he’d head out the back door and back to the Mustang Ranch or the Hormsby House to order in “dinner,” usually three or four of his “professional” acquaintances. Once he realized I was going to be fine, he even flew back to L.A. a few times.