Andy Kaufman Revealed!

by Bob Zmuda

“It was all that crazy shit he did in his act …”

  “No, it was simply because his career was over …”

  “His career wasn’t over. He still had a high Q rating …”

  “That was his act. He himself told Letterman his career was over …”

  “Okay, then what killed Andy Kaufman?”

  “Nothing. He’s still alive.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He told people he was going to fake his death …”

  “So? You think he paid off everyone at Cedars-Sinai?”

  “Why not? He was rich. Besides, he was a master of that kind of thing.”

  Had anyone read page 128 of The Tony Clifton Story, the screenplay that disappeared into obscurity at the behest of Universal Pictures, the fuel on the fires of speculation would have exploded. For on page 128, written by Andy five years before Andy died, Tony Clifton dies. Of lung cancer. At Cedars-Sinai Hospital. Coincidence? Perhaps.

  It has been speculated that Andy Kaufman managed to pull off one last hoax, certainly the biggest of his life, with the man upstairs in collusion. Insane as it sounded, I clung to anything, despite having seen Andy wither away before my eyes. If Andy’s death had been a scam, then it made Houdini’s greatest illusions look like the coin behind the ear. When Andy died, so did I. For almost a year I spiraled down and down into a whirlpool of ever-deepening despair. I sought refuge with drugs, alcohol, prostitutes, and every other vice that could take me away and dull my mind as it overloaded on the pain of such loss.

  One morning, a year after Andy’s funeral, the phone rang at seven and jarred me from a deep sleep. I fumbled the phone off the cradle. “What?”

  “You sons of bitches!” said a familiar voice on the other end. “I knew it! I knew it!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about!”

  “Believe me, I haven’t a clue.”

  “Have you seen Variety?“

  “How could I have seen Variety? It’s seven A.M.“

  “Well, get your ass out of bed and go down to the newsstand and get a copy — now!”

  “This better be good,” I warned.

  “Good? It’s unbelievable!”

  I hung up, jumped into my pants and shoes, and drove to a 7-Eleven not far from my house. I knew they carried Daily Variety, so I found that morning’s issue and groggily flipped through it. Then I saw it, a full-page ad:

  TONY CLIFTON LIVE

  May 16th

  The Comedy Store

  (All proceeds to go to the American Cancer Society)

  May 16, 1985, was the one-year anniversary of Andy’s death. At the bottom of the ad, in small letters, it said, “produced by Bob Zmuda.” A small smile formed, the first to come to my face in a year. It was something I had never expected to experience again. I bought a few copies and drove home.

  The news spread like wildfire among the Hollywood community: could it be true? The show sold out quickly, and on the night of the event the place was packed with entertainment-industry execs, producers, artists, comedians, fans, and friends. Five network camera crews set up positions, as well as most of L.A.’s major media. A lot of celebrities came out to see it with their own eyes: Whoopi Goldberg, Rodney Dangerfield, and Eddie Murphy were present, and Dan Aykroyd, Elayne Boosler, Steve Martin, Richard Pryor, and Robin Williams all lent their names to the program. Sitting in a corner was a struggling unknown comic named Jim Carrey.

  Eight comics donated their time to the cause, but it was Tony Clifton whom the audience had come to see. Tony was scheduled to close the show, and when the eight other acts came and went, and no Tony showed, the crowd got restless, feeling they might have been had Was he going to show? You know who.

  The clock ticked away and there was no sign of Tony. Just when people thought they’d truly been had — typically, the last minute before the audience got up and left — the announcer spoke: “Ladies and gentlemen, in his first public appearance in over a year, please welcome …”

  All eyes were glued to witness the stage entrance of a ghost, but instead a movie screen descended and a projector started up with clips of Tony on Dinah!, the Miss Piggy special, Merv Griffin, and finally David Letterman. Though it wasn’t Tony live like everyone had hoped, they were still caught up in the nostalgia. When Tony began singing “I Will Survive” from Dave’s show, they all smiled …

  First I was afraid, I was putrified …

  Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side.

  Then I spent so many nights thinking

  How you did me wrong …

  But I grew strong

  I learned how to get along

  And now I’m back …

  Suddenly the announcer screamed, “Mr. Tony Clifton!!” and the projector stopped. The screen quickly ascended to reveal none other than Tony Clifton in the flesh. Microphone in hand, he stepped forward and, with hardly a loss of the beat, continued — as a live band kicked in — where the on-screen Tony had left off …

  From outer space

  I just walked in to find you here

  With that strange look upon your face …

  Strange look was right. The audience was dumbstruck. In the back of the house, Lynne shrieked and fainted. Tony strutted the stage as the band followed his lead …

  Were you the one who tried to hurt me with good-bye?

  Did you think I’d crumble?

  Did you think I’d lay down and die?

  Oh, not I

  I will survive

  As long as I know how to love

  I’ll simply stay alive

  I got all my love to give

  I’ve got all my life to live

  I will survive … I will survive …

  I will survive!!!

  As the song closed, the crowd leapt to its feet, giving Tony a standing ovation. It was so un-Tony, such wildly unqualified acceptance. But people were just delirious to have him back. Reporters scrambled out of the club to file their story before the others, and people went crazy that Tony Clifton had done the impossible and had returned. As I surveyed the wondrous scene, my eyes welled with tears, and I lifted a shaking hand to take a draw on my cigarette. No, I hadn’t taken up smoking in my depression, it was just a prop — Tony’s prop. I was Tony.

  You see, a few weeks before that show, I heard another voice, the same one that had spoken to me in San Diego and persuaded me to toss off my apron and quit my cook’s job. But this time it had a different message: “Bring back Tony. “That was not an easily answered request — Andy’s death had kicked the life out of me, too. To go in front of the entire Hollywood community as Tony was, at best, terrifying for me. Particularly when I knew whom they’d really be looking for. Also, I was in bad shape, having been lost in the bottom of a bottle for almost a year. But the voice was firm and I went back to some advice Andy had once given me, “Get over your fear and just go for it.” He’d been right, inspiring me then to become Tony Clifton, and he was right again. Perhaps that is Andy’s greatest legacy to us all: Failing is okay … not trying isn’t.

  Another extraordinary thing happened the night Tony wowed Hollywood. Sitting in that audience was the other half of “Albrecht & Zmuda, Comedy from A to Z,” my old friend Chris Albrecht. Chris approached me after the place cleared and asked if I had any ideas for shows, He was certainly looking for them, given he’d become one of the head cheeses at HBO.

  I reminded Chris that “Tony Clifton Live” was a benefit for the American Cancer Society and that it was the first time anyone had ever brought together so many comedians to perform strictly for charity. Chris got where I was going, and “Tony Clifton Live” became the prototype for “Comic Relief.” About a year later, HBO carried our first telecast of Comic Relief, hosted by Billy Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg, and Robin Williams. It raised nearly four million dollars. Promising the funds were to help soften the scourge on America’s homeless men, women, and children, I reflected on the parallel b
etween those unfortunate folks and another homeless individual named Foreign Man, who carried all his worldly possessions in a little suitcase.

  Since that first production, coproducers John Moffitt, Pat Tourk Lee, and I have mounted seven more Comic Relief shows, raising more than fifty million dollars that has been distributed to Comic Relief project sites in twenty-three major cities to provide greatly needed medical care to more than 150,000 citizens who do not even have the minimal necessity of a home. Every major comedian in the United States has appeared on Comic Relief, and it is considered the single biggest comedy event in the world. I am proud of all the people who have generously contributed their time and talents to make it work. I would not have founded Comic Relief had Andy not pushed me to take on Tony Clifton and then left me the costume. That act not only saved many people but also saved me as well.

  In 1992, on May 16, the eighth anniversary of Andy’s passing, we held Comic Relief V and dedicated it to Andy as a tribute to the man who made it all possible, who was the catalyst for its creation. I placed a camera backstage to record all the comedians’ reminiscences about Andy. Later, when I watched the tape, which had thoughts and anecdotes from Robin Williams, Jay Leno, Richard Lewis, Richard Belzer, Rita Rudner, and Garry Shandling, to mention a few, I was astonished at how many cited (with uncharacteristic seriousness) Andy Kaufman as one of their major influences.

  I was so struck by the tape that I showed it to George Shapiro and Howard West (who were producing Seinfeld at the time), and we took it to NBC. There we showed the tape to Rick Ludwin, the executive in charge of specials for the network. We promised we could get more stars who would be happy to talk about Andy and the impact he had on them. Rick was intrigued, but I could see he didn’t want to insult us. “It’s been ten years,” he said. “I don’t know if kids today would remember him.”

  I jumped in. “R.E.M. has a song called ‘Man on the Moon,’ it’s a big hit right now, and it’s about Andy.” Rick finally agreed, and we shot “A Comedy Salute to Andy Kaufman.” It aired in 1995. The telecast was a critical success and, on top of that, garnered an Emmy nomination. Kaufman was back.

  One night not long after the special aired, Danny De Vito, whose Jersey Films had a deal with Universal, struck up a conversation with Milos Forman at a party. Having not worked together since One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, they kicked around the notion of presenting to Universal a biography of Andy. When the word got out, immediately every big-name actor wanted the role — Nicolas Cage, Kevin Spacey, Ed Norton, and Sean Penn, among others. Eventually, Jim Carrey got the role. Interestingly, Jim and Andy’s birthdays are on the same day, January 17.

  Principal photography on Man on the Moon was completed the day before Thanksgiving, 1998. I am proud to say I served as co-executive producer of the film, along with George Shapiro and Howard West, with Lynne Margulies serving as a consultant — a full circle for us all. The film is due for release late in 1999.

  Epilogue

  Andy’s biggest fear was not that he would die, but that he would not be remembered. Given the perspective of time, I now know that did not happen, that Andy’s name and work are remembered, and fondly. The things that he did will persist, on these pages and in the memories of those he touched.

  To this day, I still suffer the loss of my best friend. All the movies and books about Andy will never fill the void. His life was a testament to those kindred artists who push the limits higher and higher through their art. If you get only one thing out of this book, I hope it is this: don’t take your friends for granted. For whatever reason, they have decided to share their lives with you, so cherish them. I’m proud Andy was my friend, my best friend.

  Finally, I’ve often been asked, “Had Andy lived, what would he be doing?”

  The answer is obvious: I truly believe he would have faked his death.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank a number of individuals without whose support this book would not have been possible:

  First and foremost, my friend and book publicist, Jodee Blanco, whose inexhaustible devotion to this project knew no bounds. I owe you lunch and dinner at Mooses.

  Frank Weiman of the Literary Group, for bringing me to the attention of Michael Pietsch, editor in chief of Little, Brown, who took a chance on this previously unpublished author. Michael, along with senior editor Judy Clain, Beth Davey, Claire Ellis, and Sandy Bontemps, all made me feel right at home. Also, Michael Kaye, for designing the book’s jacket.

  Wordsmith Matt Hansen, my cowriter, whose easy manner and laughter encouraged me to remember incidents that I had previously forgotten.

  My lawyer and friend, Roger Sherman, who, along with Peter del Vecchio and Kim Schwartz, dotted the i‘s and crossed all the t‘s.

  Most important, Mike Miller, as he is the only living soul who can make out my writing, even when I can’t read it myself.

  Also my family, my mom, dad, and my two sisters, Carol and Marilyn.

  My beautiful wife, Ranko, for her patience and funny dances. And my dog, Woody, who watches over us.

  And finally, my friend Jim Carrey, who brought Andy back among the living and in so doing, brought me along with him.