And Here's the Kicker: Conversations with 21 Top Humor Writers on Their Craft

by Mike Sacks

  Bill

  Overall look: Bill's pretty much a mess. But not a sloppy guy. His family isn't very well off but his mother tries to dress him nice. The result is a lot of clothes from the irregulars bin. He looks like a guy who leaves the house neat but immediately becomes unkempt. Bill is so unaware of his clothes that you get the feeling he doesn't care what he wears.

  Shirts: Plaid cowboy shirts, sweater vests (Bill tries to take his fashion cues off of Neal but it's always off a bit), brightly printed button up shirts, pullover shirts that no one else would buy (different color swatches sown together, weird patterns patchworked into solid colors, stuff from the irregular bin)

  Pants: Off brand jeans, rumpled khakis, occasionally vertically-striped pants

  Shoes: Orthopedic black dress shoes (not jokey looking — just sensible looking shoes), suede gym shoes (Tom Wolf brand see Paul Feig for explanation)

  Coat: A beat-up, hand-me-down football/baseball jacket with the name of the school on it

  WHAT THEY DRIVE

  The Freaks: Chevy Novas, Ford Pintos, Chevy Camaros, Pontiac Trans Ams, Chevy Malibu (if you were lucky and could find one), souped up Dodge Darts

  The Geeks: Plymouth Furys, any and all station wagons, old Corvairs, AMC Pacers (their moms' cars), Dodge Darts, Dodge Dusters, an occasional VW bug

  The Teachers: Chevy Monte Carlos, Mercury Cougars, Opels, station wagons, AMC Spirits, Ford Thunderbirds (not the cool old ones, but the really boring looking mid-70s ones), Dodge Coronets, an occasional old Cadillac

  Notes: Almost every car is rusty. The road salt every winter makes most cars rust out all along the bottom of the doors and fenders. Most of the students cars are rusted right through, creating holes along the bottom.

  The freaks cars are usually souped up. This means that there's lots of added on gauges stuck to the dash boards, wide slick tires, the backs of the cars have been raised to be more dragster-like, and all their cars rumble loudly when they idle. A lot of them have large whip antennas sticking up, sometimes several.

  Most of the geeks drive their parents' cars. Hence, it usually looks like a grandma convention is in town when the geeks start pulling into the parking lot. Boxes of Kleenex are in most back windows and Union 76 balls are on top of a lot of antennas….

  Irving Brecher

  “Time wounds all heels.”

  — Groucho Marx, Go West

  The Marx Brothers apparently never subscribed to the philosophy that “too many cooks spoil the broth” — as least when it came to screenplays. The brothers often employed anywhere from five to eight different writers for a movie. And that should come as no surprise: a Marx Brothers comedy featured such seemingly disparate elements as Groucho's intricate wordplay, Harpo's high-energy physical shtick, and plenty of musical interludes, both amusing and sincere.

  In the Marx Brothers' twenty years of starring in movies, only one of their screenwriters ever worked alone and received sole credit — Irving Brecher.

  Brecher likes to say that Groucho Marx was initially dubious of his gag-writing abilities. But over the course of two movies, At the Circus (1939) and Go West (1940), Groucho quickly changed his mind and began referring to Brecher as “the Wicked Wit of the West.” Brecher crafted some of the Marx Brothers' most hilarious moments, comic feasts for the eyes and the mind. Some of his jokes were outlandish, such as the famous scene in Go West in which the brothers tear apart a moving train to provide it with enough fuel to keep running. And then there were the more subtle gags, slipped in as rewards for audience members who paid close attention.

  Based on his work with the Marx Brothers alone, Brecher would go down in history as one of the greatest screenwriters of Hollywood's heyday. But this poor kid from New York, born in Manhattan in 1914, went on to achieve much more — creating shows for radio and television, writing award-winning movie musicals, and becoming one of the forefathers of the television situation-comedy in 1949 with The Life of Riley. Over the course of his career, Brecher has written for no less than Jack Benny, George Burns, Jackie Gleason, and Ernie Kovacs.

  The first to recognize Brecher's innate talents was Milton Berle, who hired the 19-year-old to write gags for his stand-up act. Berle eventually moved Brecher out to Hollywood to write for his long-running radio show, Gillette's Community Sing. After “punching up” the screenplays for New Faces of 1937 (1937) and The Wizard of Oz (1939), Brecher was recruited by MGM, which kept him busy for much of the forties, penning not only his two Marx Brother movies but a string of comedies such as Shadow of the Thin Man (1941), Best Foot Forward (1943), and Ziegfeld Follies (1946). By far his most successful effort, however, was the 1944 blockbuster Meet Me in St. Louis, a nostalgic take on the 1904 World's Fair, seen through a Technicolor prism, and starring a 22-year-old Judy Garland. The film was so well-received that it led to Brecher's first and only Oscar nomination (Best Writing, Screenplay).

  Although a trailblazer in the movie industry, Brecher had his biggest impact on the small screen. The Life of Riley, which Brecher originally created as a radio show, was so popular during its seven-year run (1944–51) that NBC hired him to retool the series for television. It starred William Bendix as Chester A. Riley, a hapless working stiff and family man. From 1953 to 1958, The Life of Riley became one of NBC's biggest hits and a template for half-hour TV comedies for generations to come. You can see its influence on practically almost every subsequent TV show, particularly in sitcoms featuring working- class families who live in the city, each with a lovable lummox of a father-husband-best friend.

  Your first major writing gig was for Milton Berle in the thirties. How did that come about?

  I was an usher at the Little Carnegie Playhouse on 57th Street in New York. That was one of only two art houses in the city at that time — this was 1933. I was nineteen then; I'm now ninety-four. We would screen movies from Germany and France, and that's really what made the theater exclusive. Actually, we had many anti-Semites as customers, some of whom were actual Nazis.

  At this time, I was working six-and-a-half days a week for $18. Occasionally, I would send a funny one-liner to the newspaper columnists Walter Winchell and Ed Sullivan. When they would print one, I'd get a big kick out of it.

  I was taking tickets at the movie theater one day and a reviewer from Variety came in. His name was Wolfe Kaufman — “Wolfe” with an “e.” He knew me because he came to every movie that premiered. He said, “I heard a couple of your jokes last night. I saw Bob Hope at the Loew's [Paradise] Theatre and he used a couple of your lines.”

  I said, “No kidding. Really?” I was a little naïve. “They laughed like hell,” he said. “Listen, schmuck, people get paid for doing that type of writing. Why don't you take out an ad in Variety? Maybe you'll make some money.” I said, “Gee, that's a good idea. How much is an ad?” He said, “$15 an inch,” which was really much more than I could afford. He knew this, so he told me, “Just write up an ad, and I'll give you one inch of space. You can pay me back when you can.”

  I was very appreciative — but kind of bewildered. Later, when I was on my lunch break, I wrote an ad that read, “Positively Berle-Proof Gags. So Bad That Not Even Milton Would Steal Them. The House That Joke Built.” Berle was known to steal jokes, so I was playing off that. I also published the phone number of the theater — which I still remember, by the way.

  I can't even remember my number from a few years ago.

  Circle 71294. I have a remarkable memory. It's weird.

  When the theater closed that night, I walked down to the Variety office, which was in the Times Square area, and I dropped off the ad with the right person.

  The next week the mail arrived, and I quickly looked for my ad in the weekly Variety. I was thrilled! A few hours later, the theater's phone rang. I said, “Little Carnegie Playhouse.” A voice said, “Irv Breecher?” He pronounced it “Bree cher.” That was not the way my name is pronounced, so I figured it was my friend Lee, who always liked to fuck around on the phone. I said, �
�Lee, I'm busy,” and I hung up.

  The phone immediately rang again. I picked it up and said, “Little Carnegie Playhouse.” I then heard, “No son of a bitch hangs up on Milton Berle!” I thought, Maybe this is for real? Berle said, “Are you the guy that took out the ad?” I said, “Yes, sir.” He said, “If you're so smart, bring over some material, and be at the Capitol Theatre tonight at eleven. Go backstage. You'll be sent up to my room. Bring something funny.”

  I got the newspapers — at the time there were half a dozen of them — and I wrote some topical gags. I had about ten or twelve by the time I was finished. With great trepidation, which I can't even describe, I walked to the Capitol Theatre and entered the backstage. I had never been backstage at any theater, let alone a theater this big. I walked up the stairs to a room with a star on it. I knocked on the door, and a naked man opened it. I knew it was Berle immediately. I had already heard that he had the biggest cock in show business.

  A firsthand account! So, the rumors were true?

  Have you ever seen a salami chub? Yes, they were true. They were more than true. Anyway, I said, “Mr. Berle, you wanted me to bring some jokes —”

  “— Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “Whatcha got?”

  I handed him my gags, and he told me to wait a minute. He closed the door, and I just stood there. I can't tell you what I was feeling — but it was mainly terror and worry. Also, fear of failure. I was really petrified.

  About five minutes later, he opened the door again. Now he's wearing a bathrobe, and he said, “Some of these jokes are pretty good, so I'll tell you what. You know where the Park Central hotel is? It's six blocks away. Run there, and go up to an office on the second floor where my agent works. He'll give you a check. Then come back, because we're going to work all night.”

  I ran to the hotel, and his agent handed me a check. I looked at it. It was more money than I'd ever seen in my life: $50. When I returned, Berle and I worked practically all night. I would write a joke, and if he liked it, he'd tell me to write it down. If he didn't like it, he would just say no.

  We had worked up a monologue by around six the next morning. The first performance was going to be at 11 A.M. I remember sitting in the auditorium, waiting to hear my jokes. It was like a nightmare. Beyond scary. I was filled with strange tensions, all of which immediately vanished once Berle took the stage. He was dynamite! Just an incredible performer! He came out and practically attacked the audience. The monologue went over very well, and when he got to my lines, he received tremendous laughs.

  And I remember thinking, I'm gonna be rich!

  When the show was over, I walked up the stairs to Berle's room, and I'm about to knock on the door, when I hear a voice of a man — not Berle — screaming, “Listen, you bastard! If you use any of that material again, you're out of here! You'll never work in this theater again!”

  Berle was imploring this guy, “Please, please! I got some laughs. What's wrong with the jokes — “

  “— Shut up!” the guy screamed. “You heard me! Never again!” The door opens and L. K. Sidney, the manager of the theater, and later a very successful Broadway producer, walks out. His son, by the way, was George Sidney, who later became a movie director [Annie Get Your Gun, Bye Bye Birdie, Viva Las Vegas] and a friend of mine. I timidly walk in and ask, “What's happening?”

  Berle said, “That son of a bitch of a manager! He doesn't want me to ever use a few of our jokes again. Can you believe it?”

  What were the jokes the manager wasn't happy with?

  There were two jokes in particular. Now, remember, this was 1933. The first joke had to do with the economic situation back then — a lot of banks were closing — and it also had to do with the actress Marlene Dietrich, who was really one of the first women to wear pants. The joke went something like, “People around the country are really desperate for money, and they can't do anything about it. In fact, when the banks closed in California, Marlene Dietrich was caught with her pants down.” This got a belly laugh.

  The other joke had to do with the former mayor of New York, Jimmy Walker. He was a womanizer, and there was a strong rumor that he had a mistress named Betty Compton. Everybody knew about this, but he wouldn't divorce his wife, because he was a Catholic. He was investigated by Congress, and during his testimony he said, “I can match my private life with any man's.” That quote was published in many newspapers, and it became famous.

  So Berle's joke went: “You see what's happening with Jimmy Walker. They put him on the stand, and he told them, ‘I can match my private wife with any man's.’” Again, the audience screamed.

  Those jokes seem pretty tame. Were they considered too blue in 1933?

  It was a different time. They were considered off-color. Few performers even said “damn” until Gable finally did it in 1939, you know.

  So what made you think you could get away with them?

  I didn't even think about it, really. I just thought they were funny. I didn't know any better.

  The next day, I quit my job at the movie theater. I mistakenly figured that Berle would need new material as he performed from one city to the next. I didn't realize he used the same jokes over and over and over again. But Berle, to his credit, mentioned my name to a couple of third-rate vaudevillians, and I started selling gags, at $5 to $10 apiece.

  This was just before vaudeville disappeared.

  It was in the process of disappearing.

  But it disappeared quickly after you began to write for it, correct?

  Yes, that's right. Radio made it easy for people to stay at home. Motion pictures were taking some of the vaudevillians away, too. One of those movies was The Jazz Singer [1927], which was a huge hit. A few years later, by 1933, when I first started working, vaudeville was already fading. The theaters were becoming picture houses — it was vaudeville with a movie. It was no longer straight vaudeville.

  Were you a fan of the Marx Brothers before you began writing for them in the late 1930s?

  It's a very funny thing. When I was a kid, years before I ever met them, I would dress as Groucho, with a burned-cork mustache and big eyeglasses and a rubber cigar. My cadence and voice were already exactly like his. It was no effort for me to imitate Groucho — none at all. I would make my friends laugh with my Groucho routines and monologues.

  What in particular did you like about him?

  I liked the fact that Groucho was anti-establishment. All of the Marx Brothers were nihilistic — they destroyed the powerful, those in charge, the big shots. They were iconoclasts. They pricked the big balloons, and I had always done the same thing.

  Up to that point, I had seen Charlie Chaplin, and I loved the way he attacked the so-called Establishment. But the jokes, obviously, did not involve dialogue. There was nothing to quote. There was nothing to repeat for your friends.

  I had seen other comedians in the movies — but I never saw a comedian flip lines for the sake of amusing themselves more than Groucho did. He told jokes just to satisfy himself. He was a huge influence for other comedians. [1930s comic actress] Carole Lombard began to throw her lines like Groucho, as did Rosalind Russell [His Girl Friday, Auntie Mame]. A lot of performers picked up on Groucho's style.

  Groucho would also look directly at the camera — and at the audience. I don't know if this started with Groucho, but I had never seen it before. And I loved it. I later had Groucho do the same thing in the two films I wrote for him.

  How did you get the job writing for the Marx Brothers?

  By 1938, I was under contract at MGM, and I received a call from Mervyn Le Roy, a producer [and director] for the studio. He told me, “You're going to write a movie for the Marx Brothers.” This would have been At the Circus, which came out in 1939.

  I was shocked. I just couldn't believe it. I was going to meet the performer I imitated and loved! Incredible. The next day I went to LeRoy's office on the MGM lot, and you can only imagine how excited I was. Terrified, really. I couldn't be lieve I was seeing the
real Groucho. Just couldn't believe it. And there he was, standing in the office. A screen image come to life!

  LeRoy said, “Groucho, this is Irv Brecher. He's going to work on your next movie. He's a very funny writer.”

  “Hello, Mr. Marx,” I said, trying to be polite. Groucho said, “‘Hello, Mr. Marx?’ Is that supposed to be funny?” I said, “No, sir, but I heard you say it once in a movie.” Groucho just stared at me. Finally, he said, “I'm going to take you to lunch.”

  For whatever reason, he liked me, and we quickly became friends.

  Groucho had a reputation for not being easy to befriend.

  He was not easy to be with — that's true. He was a very withdrawn person; he was not outgoing. He was a bit of a curmudgeon. He was basically an unhappy guy. He went through two or three failed marriages, and he didn't have too many friends. But he did like me and my writing, even from that first meeting. He became a big champion of mine, and I was always very grateful for that.

  Groucho told interviewers that if he had a choice, he would rather be a writer than an actor. So why did he need screenwriters? Was he not capable of writing a film script by himself?

  I don't think Groucho could have done it. He did have a wish to be an important writer, but he wasn't really capable of writing an entire movie script alone. I don't know if he ever tried to write a movie script, actually. He did co-write one play in the forties, called Time for Elizabeth, and it was terrible. Groucho made his living as an actor. He was paid to act, and that's what he focused his attention on.

  Groucho was very involved with the scripts and the details that went into making a movie. He was much more involved than the other two brothers.

  Harpo was creative, and he would suggest a joke or two — he would even occasionally get involved with the re-writing. But Harpo was only interested in his own shtick. We would have meetings in my office, where we would both go over certain jokes or scenes, and maybe add a little something here and a little something there.