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

by Mike Sacks

  In doing research for this interview, I read older issues of those magazines and found many of the articles to be incredibly funny and entertaining.

  We tried to keep to a high standard, within the limits of our pathetic budget. Some awfully good writers passed through the company. The adventure magazines had huge circulations and were mostly geared to blue-collar types, war veterans, young men — up to one million, with no paid subscribers. But their popularity faded when World War II vets grew older and more explicit magazines became readily available. The only reader I've ever actually met in person is my brother-in-law.

  Were these types of magazines called “armpit slicks”?

  Only by the competition. They were also called “jockstrap magazines.”

  Believe it or not, there was a lot of status involved. True magazine considered itself the Oxford University Press of the group and sniffed at us. We, in turn, sniffed at magazines we felt were shoddier than ours. There was a lot of sniffing going on.

  We published a variety of story types. People being nibbled to death by animals was one type: “I Battled a Giant Otter.” There was no explanation as to why these stories fascinated readers for many years.

  “Scratch the surface” stories were also a favorite. These were tales about a sleepy little town where citizens innocently go about their business — girls eating ice cream, boys delivering newspapers — but “scratch the surface” of one of these towns and you'd find a sin pit, a cauldron of vice and general naughtiness.

  The revenge theme was popular, as well — a soldier treated poorly in a prison camp, who would set out to track down his abuser when the war ended. And stories about G.I.'s stranded on Pacific islands were a hit among veterans — especially if the islands were populated by nymphos. “G.I. King of Nympho Island” was one title, I recall.*

  Sounds convincing. Did any of this happen in real life?

  Mr. Goodman always asked the same question when we showed him a story: “Is it true?” My answer was, “Sort of.” He'd take a puff of a thin cigar and walk off, apparently satisfied. He was a decent, but frightening man.

  Walter Kaylin, a favorite contributor, did a hugely popular story about a G.I. who is stranded on an island and becomes its ruler. He is carried about on the shoulders of a little man who has washed ashore with him. There wasn't a nymphoon the island, but it worked.

  Who, by and large, wrote for these magazines?

  Gifted, half-broken people — and I was one of them — who didn't qualify for jobs at Time Life. I don't think of them as being hired, so much as having washed ashore at the company. In terms of ability, I would match them against anyone who worked in publishing at the time. We just didn't look like the cover models for GQ.

  Walter Wager was a contributor, and he went on to write more than twenty-five suspense novels, including, under a pseudonym, the I Spy series. He had a prosthetic hand that he would unscrew and toss on my desk when he delivered a new story. Ernest Tidyman worked for the company; he wrote the Shaft books and the first two movies. Also, the screenplay for The French Connection.

  In the early sixties, I was editing Swank when Leicester Hemingway — pronounced “Lester” — came barreling into my office. He was Ernest's brother, and he looked more like Ernest than Ernest himself. He actually called Ernest “Ernesto.” He was bluff and cheerful and handsome in the Clark Gable mold. He had gotten off a fishing boat that very day and wanted me to publish one of his stories. How could I say no? This was as close as I'd ever get to the master.

  He left. I read the story. The first line was “Hi, ho, me hearties.” It was totally out of sync with what we were doing, and it was unreadable. So, I was in the position of having to turn down Ernest Hemingway's brother.

  A few years later, I went to a party given by George Plimpton, and I met Mary Hemingway, the last of Ernest's four wives. I told her that I'd had the nicest meeting with Leicester. “What a wonderful man he is.”

  “That swine!” she said. “How dare you mention his name in my presence!”

  Apparently, this highly decent man was considered the black sheep of the family — at least by Mary. And that's really saying something.

  How many stories did you have to purchase for all of your magazines in a typical month?

  Fifty or sixty.

  Per month?

  Yes. I was an incredibly fast reader — a human scanner. My train commute to work took more than two hours each way, a total of close to five hours. I got a lot of work done on that train — much more than I do now with a whole day free and clear. I wrote most of Stern on that train.

  My best move at this job was to hire Mario Puzo, later the author of The Godfather. The candidates for the writing job got winnowed down to Puzo and Arthur Kretchmer, who later became the decades-long editorial director of Playboy. I knew how good Kretchmer was, but I needed someone who could write tons of stories from Day One, so I hired Puzo in 1960 at the princely salary of $l50 a week. But there was an opportunity to dash off as many freelance stories as he wanted, thereby boosting his income considerably. He referred to this experience as his first “straight” job. When I called him at home to deliver the news, he kept saying in disbelief, “You mean it? You really mean it?”

  Was Puzo capable of writing humor?

  He was concerned about it. Now and then, at the height of his fame and prominence and commercial success, he would look off wistfully and ask, “How come Hollywood never calls me for comedy?”

  There is some grisly humor in The Godfather. As for setting out consciously to write a funny book — I'm not sure. At the magazines, one of the perks as editor was that I got to choose the cartoons. Mario insisted he could have done a better job of it, but I never allowed him to try. It was the only disagreement we ever had.

  What sort of stories would Puzo write for you?

  You name it — war, women, desert islands, a few mini-Godfathers. At one point we ran out of World War II battles; how many times can you storm Anzio, Italy? So we had to make a few battles up. Puzo wrote one story, about a mythical battle, that drew piles of mail telling him he had misidentified a tank tread — but no one questioned the fictional battle itself.

  There has never been a more natural storyteller. I suppose it was mildly sadistic of me, but I would show him an illustration for a thirty-thousand-word story that had to be written that night. He'd get a little green around the gills, but he'd show up the next morning with the story in hand — a little choppy, but essentially wonderful. He wrote, literally, millions of words for the magazines. I became a hero to him when I faced down the publisher and got him $750 for a story — a hitherto unheard-of figure.

  Do you think this experience later helped when he wrote The Godfather?

  He claimed that it did. If you look at his first novel, The Dark Arena [1955], you'll see that the ability is there, but there is little in the way of forward motion. He said more than once that he began to learn about the elements of storytelling and narrative at our company.

  I can't resist telling you this: In l963, Mario approached me and somewhat sheepishly said he was moonlighting on a novel, and he wanted to try out the title. He said, “I want to call it The Godfather. What do you think?”

  I told him that it didn't do much for me. “Sounds domestic. Who cares? If I were you, I'd take another shot at it.”

  A look of steel came over his face. He walked off without saying a word. He was usually mild-mannered, but the look was terrifying. Years later, he always denied being “connected,” but anyone who saw that look would have to wonder. The thing is, I was right about the title. It would have been a poor choice for any book other than The Godfather.

  In the mid-sixties, after the sale of the book, I heard him on the phone to his publisher, asking for more money. They said, “Mario, we just gave you $200,000.” He said, “Two-hundred grand doesn't last forever.”

  Wonderful man — perhaps not the most intelligent person I've known, but surely the wisest. On one occasion, h
e saved my life.

  How so?

  I became friendly with the mobster “Crazy” Joe Gallo when he was released from prison in l971. The actor Jerry Orbach, who starred in one of my plays, Scuba Duba, was also a pal of Joey's.

  Joey had a lot of writer friends, but there were about fifty contracts out on his life. His “family” would hold weekly Sunday-night parties at the Orbach's town house in Chelsea. I attended a few of these soirees, and I noticed that every twenty minutes or so Joey would go over to the window, pull back the drapes a bit, and peer outside.

  I told Mario that I was attending these parties, and that I wanted to bring my wife and sons along. The food was great — Cuban cigars, everything quite lavish. The actor Ben Gazzara usually showed up, as did Neil Simon, Edsel Ford, who was Henry's son, and a great many luminaries. Mario considered what I told him and said, “What you are doing is not intelligent.” And that was it. I was invited to join Joey and a group at Umbertos Clam House the very night he was gunned down. Mario played a part in my saying I had a previous engagement.

  Let's talk about the chracters that you tend to create: They are often very likable, even when they shouldn't be. One character, Harry Towns, who's been featured in numerous short stories and in two novels, is a failed screenwriter and father. He's a drug addict who snorts coke the very day his mother dies. He sleeps with hookers. He takes his son to Las Vegas and basically forgets about him. And yet, in the end, Harry Town remains very funny and likable.

  The late Bill Styron paid me a compliment that I treasure. He said, “All of your work has great humanity.” Maybe he said that to all of his contemporaries, but he seemed to mean it. I tried to make Harry, for all of his flaws, screamingly and hurtfully honest, and that may have provided some of whatever appeal he has. I'm a little smarter than Harry; he's a bit more reckless than I am.

  I have about a dozen voices that I could write — my Candide voice, the Noël Coward voice — but I keep coming back to Harry.

  Your characters also tend to be quite lonely, but your life seems like it was anything but.

  I'm not sure what other lives are like — but one of my favorite words is “adventure.” With that said, for a Jewish guy an adventure can be a visit to a strange delicatessen. I have plenty of friends, acquaintances, family, but much of the time I enjoy my own company. Most of writing is thinking, and you can't do much of it in a crowd. Whenever I ducked out on a dinner with “the guys,” Mario would defend me by saying, “Bruce is a loner.”

  Let's talk about Hollywood.

  Must we?

  For someone who has a good amount of experience as a screenwriter — you've worked on numerous screenplays over the years, including Stir Crazy and Splash — you seem to have a healthy attitude toward the film industry.

  I don't know of anyone who ever had more fun out there than I did. The work was not especially appealing, but I did have a great time. In fact, I would get offended when I was interrupted on the tennis court and asked to do some work. I thought Hollywood was supposed to be about room service and pretty girls, orange juice and champagne. When I was tapped on the shoulder and asked to write a few scenes, I was slightly offended.

  I did my work in Hollywood with professionalism and never took any money I hadn't earned. But I could never tap into the same source I did when I wrote my books and stories — or plays, for that matter. Perhaps if I'd had some hunger to make movies at an earlier time I could have learned the camera, studied the machinery of moviemaking, and it would have been different. But for me, the gods at the time were Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Faulkner; there were girls in the Village who wouldn't sleep with you if you had anything to do with movies:“You'd actually sell your book to the movies?” This was spoken with horror.

  Also, screenwriting is the only form I know of in which the work is being shot down, so to speak, as you write it. It's always going to be, “Fine, now call in the next hack.” If someone were to submit the shooting script of All About Eve — updated, of course — it would be considered a first draft — and a parade of writers would be called in to improve it.

  There's an old-fashioned phrase — “pride of authorship” — that I never felt on the West Coast. I'm sure Woody Allen feels it, and maybe only a few others. Still, for a time, I was delighted as a screenwriter to be a well-paid busboy. And, oh, those good times!

  Anything you care to tell me about?

  I played tennis on a court alongside Anthony Quinn. Back then, I was actually told that I resembled him. He kept glancing over at me. We both had shaky backhands.

  I collided with Steve McQueen in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A hair dryer fell out of my suitcase. Needless to say, it was embarrassing to have Mc Queen know that I used one.

  And I spent one summer as a “sidekick” of Warren Beatty's. My main function was to console his army of rejected girlfriends.

  How did you even know Warren Beatty?

  He loved Stern, and he was convinced he could play the central role in the film. I had to explain, patiently, that it was a bit of a reach. He was no schlub, and he was way too handsome.

  We would go to the clubs in L.A., including a place called the Candy Store. I never saw anyone who could bowl over women the way he could. He was a sweet, charming man — gorgeous, of course — and he made you feel that you were the only one in the world that he cared about. I don't mean to be a tease, but there were a few episodes I'd be uncomfortable mentioning — especially now that he's a family man with all those kids. Maybe if we have a drink sometime.

  I'll take you up on that offer and release the details in Volume Two. Were you happy with the first version of The Heartbreak Kid, which was released in l972? It was based on your l966 story for Esquire, “A Change of Plan,” which can be found in The Collected Short Fiction of Bruce Jay Friedman.

  I thought the first version was wonderful. I'm permitted to say that because I didn't write the screenplay — Neil Simon did. It actually sounded like something I might have written. Simon said that in writing it, he pretended he was me — although we'd never met.

  What did you think of the 2007 remake, starring Ben Stiller?

  I thought the first part — the revelation about the wife — was hysterically funny. The rest, for me, tapered off a bit. They had a tough act to follow, so all things considered….

  By the way, I read a story that I just have to assume is not true: that actress Natalie Wood worked as your secretary. Was this before she became famous?

  No, afterward. It was either my first or second trip to Hollywood, and I needed a secretary. Or the very least, it was assumed I needed one.

  The producer Ray Stark [The Sunshine Boys, Smokey and the Bandit] said, “I'll find you a good one, don't worry.” I went over to his beach house and there, sitting by the pool, was Natalie Wood. Stark said, “Here is your new secretary.”

  As a joke?

  I said, “That's very amusing, Ray. But this is Natalie Wood, from Splendor in the Grass, every boy's fantasy.”

  She looked up and said, “No, I really am your secretary.”

  She was between marriages to Robert Wagner and seemed dispirited. I don't think she was being offered major roles, and a shrink might have suggested that she try something different. This is self-serving, but I'd seen her at a party the night before and we had maybe exchanged glances. Who knows, maybe she liked me. What's the lyric — I can dream, can't I? In any case, she was my secretary for about a week.

  Each morning, I'd pick her up in Malibu and drive her back to the Beverly Hills Hotel, all the while thinking, I'm sitting here with Natalie fucking Wood — and she's my secretary. It was difficult staying on the highway.

  Can you imagine a Hollywood actress doing that these days?

  Unlikely.

  Another story that I'd like verified: Were you once the one-armed push-up champ at Elaine's, the Upper East Side New York restaurant that's a gathering place for writers?

  Yes.

  How many did you do?<
br />
  Who knows? I was probably too loaded to count.

  Were you surrounded by a crowd of famous authors, cheering you on?

  Not really. But we would have various athletic contests, generally beginning at four in the morning. There were sprints down Second Avenue, for example. It got more macho as the evening progressed.

  I remember [the film director and screenwriter] James Toback trying to perform some push-ups and running out of steam. The restaurant's owner, Elaine Kaufman, said, “Put a broad under him.”

  You knew Terry Southern quite well, didn't you?

  We were good friends, particularly in his late years.

  Do you think Terry's contribution was important to Dr. Strangelove? Stanley Ku-brick claimed that Terry's role wasn't as significant as many people imagined.

  I would trust Terry's account in this area. He was always collaborating and getting into awful squabbles about credits. He was a generous man and easily taken advantage of — picked apart, really — by the wolves.

  How does a writer like Terry Southern age — where you always have to produce work that has the capacity to astonish?

  Some keep it up. Some fade. Others simply push on. Churchill once said, “If you're going through hell, keep going.” Terry had an especially tough time throughout the last decades. Had the culture changed? Was he out of sync? There is always that worry.

  It's a shame. He had the most unique voice of any writer I knew. He was a brave man in print, but vulnerable in life — no doubt a familiar story.

  I once leased an apartment in New York that had an S&M room. Terry saw the black walls, the mirrored ceiling, the whips and chains stored in the closet. A room that had his name on it. He said, “Grand Guy Bruce, would you mind terribly if I crashed in here for a bit?” I said fine. It was three in the morning.

  I then realized that painters were coming at around seven in the morning to ready the room for my young son Drew, who was moving in for awhile. They were going to re-paint the all-black walls.