by Carl Reiner
It was a night to remember.
I daresay that this momentous event might never have been chronicled, had I not fled to the kitchen to keep from dying of laughter.
CHAPTER THIRTY
D. D. Eisenhower, M. Twain, H. Holbrook, and Me
If you guessed that the D.D. in the title stood for Dwight David, the M. for Mark, the H. for Hal, and the Me for Me, you have guessed correctly.
In an earlier chapter, I mentioned that at various and sundry events, I was often invited to perform as a master of ceremonies, but none of those sundry events could hold a candle to the elaborate dinner party and show I hosted in Washington, DC, to celebrate President Dwight David Eisenhower’s seventy-fifth birthday. The party was held in the Grand Ballroom of the White House, and the show featured the Lennon Sisters, Rudy Cardenas, the world’s greatest juggler, and Hal Holbrook, performing his transcendent recreation of Mark Twain.
I was more than a little nervous during dinner and more than very nervous while awaiting my cue to step to the mike and make my opening remarks. The cue would come from Merriman Smith, President Eisenhower’s press secretary and one of Washington’s most knowledgeable and trusted journalists. It was from Mr. Smith I learned that President Eisenhower’s dinner guests were Mexico’s head of state, El Presidente Manuel Alvarez Mateos, and El Presidents’s wife.
Over the loudspeaker came a well-modulated voice announcing my name and crediting me with being one of the stars of Your Show of Shows and the creator of The Dick Van Dyke Show.
I opened my turn by launching into a speech where I explained the Soviet Union’s view on the current disagreements between our two great nations—which I delivered in Russian double talk.
On Your Show of Shows, Sid Caesar’s brilliant double-talking in foreign languages was the basis of our movie satires. Audiences enjoyed hearing someone spouting a raft of Russian-, Italian-, or French-sounding gibberish and following it with some mundane English words or phrases.
The guests at the head table were laughing, or at least smiling, while our president was deep in conversation with his Mexican counterpart. At one point, I noticed President Eisenhower beckoning Merriman Smith to join them.
Sometime later, in the Green Room, I learned from the press secretary that President Lopez Mateos had told Eisenhower that he did not understand Russian and asked what I was saying. Our president said that he did not understand Russian either. Merriman Smith then explained that I was a comedian and talking Russian double-talk. Having no idea what double-talk was, El Presidente was totally taken aback. He saw most everybody in the room laughing and assumed that most Americans understood this Russian double-talk. He was duly impressed.
After accepting some appreciative applause, I introduced the lovely and popular Lennon sisters, whom the audience loved, and then Rudy Cardenas, who juggled his way to an ovation.
My introduction of Hal Holbrook was effusive and completely sincere. I ask your indulgence for a paragraph or two, as I explain why I felt so strongly about Mr. Holbrook—and still do.
In 1957, when our son, Robbie, was ten and our daughter, Annie, was eight, their mother and I bought tickets to Mark Twain Tonight, a live theater performance starring Hal Holbrook.
It was a magical evening that began the moment we stepped into the lobby of New York’s century-old Manhattan Theater. The walls of the quaint playhouse were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, and the threadbare carpeting was crying to be replaced. The distinct but not unpleasant mustiness in the air transported me back in time—and that was only the beginning of the time transportation that I experienced that night.
From the time I read A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, I had been an annoyingly vocal fan of Mark Twain. I was then a young chap of thirty-eight and a cast member of Your Show of Shows. A copy of the book was in a bookcase on one of our sets, and I picked it up and read it. As a kid, I had read a modified version of it and had also seen a fairly insipid film adaptation that starred Bing Crosby.
I was amazed to discover what a magnificent work it was. I was completely overwhelmed by Twain’s ability to entertain me as he enlightened me about how humans, governments, and societies behaved and evolved since the Middle Ages.
Most of my confreres had read and enjoyed this classic, and my proselytizing for them to read it again made me a giant pain in the ass.
Being gifted with a complete set of Twain’s work that sported his autograph on the title page of Innocents Abroad—and having been awarded the Mark Twain Prize for Humor in 1960 has quieted me down some.
When the Manhattan Theater’s house lights dimmed and Mark Twain walked out onto a cozy living room set, I was rapt. Every actor attempts to inhabit the character he or she portrays, but that evening, Hal Holbrook did not inhabit Mark Twain; he became Mark Twain. The longer he was on stage, and the more he spoke, the more I believed that Mark Twain had returned from the beyond just to do one more performance—for us.
Backstage, after our show, Merriman Smith informed us that President Eisenhower was on his way to visit with the cast. I could not wait to call my brother, Charlie. During the war, Charlie had fought in eleven major battles, some under General Eisenhower’s direct command.
When the president arrived backstage, the Lennon Sisters, Rudy Cardenas, I, and Hal Holbrook were lined up in that order. A smiling, very appreciative president bent down and shook hands with each Lennon sister as he complimented them. He then told Rudy Cardenas how impressed he was with his juggling, then turned to me, smiled, and said some kind words that I barely heard. I was too busy thinking, I am shaking hands with our president— Five-Star General Dwight D. Eisenhower—one of the greatest military leaders of all time!
When the president moved to the end of the receiving line where Hal Holbrook stood, I saw his demeanor change. Our president behaved toward Mark Twain’s impersonator as all of us had behaved toward him, deferentially. I saw President Eisenhower actually defer to Mark Twain—such was the power of Hal Holbrook’s transformed appearance and transcendental performance.
One thing that gives me a great deal of satisfaction is being able to recommend something to friends that I know would bring them pleasure. Back then, everyone who took my advice and went to see Mark Twain Tonight thanked me—some profusely.
When Mark Twain Tonight came to Los Angeles, I of course recommended the show to Dick and the members of The Dick Van Dyke Show. They all went to see it and did what all perceptive people do, raved about Hal Holbrook and his reincarnation of America’s greatest wit.
At Desilu, the studio where we filmed The Dick Van Dyke Show, Andy Griffith also shot The Andy Griffith Show. I knew that Andy, who was a gifted monologist, would get a big kick of Holbrook’s performance and recommended that he see it. Andy said that he would love to but had no time to go to the theater. I insisted that he owed it to himself not to miss this once-in-a-lifetime event.
Andy was adamant, as was I. We actually got into what I knew it would be—a deadlocked argument, so I just handed him fifty dollars and said, “Andy, you can use this money to buy tickets and have a great time, or you can keep the money and feel guilty—your choice!”
To brook any further discussion, I turned and walked away.
If you guessed that Andy used my money to secure tickets to the show and thanked me profusely for forcing him to have “one helluva fine night,” you would have guessed right.
If you guessed that he repaid me for the tickets, you’d be two for two.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Guilt by Association with Myself
Rose and Livia
Tonight, as I walked around the block, I had a most disquieting thought. I may very well not be the wonderful person everyone thinks I am. By everyone, I mean the hundreds of thousands of people who have told me so. Perhaps I am being too hard on myself, but to learn the truth—to discover w
hether or not this self-guilt I felt today was justified—I have decided to put myself on trial. To ensure that I get a fair trial, I will act not only as the defendant in this courtroom case but as my own defense counsel, the prosecuting attorney, and as the presiding judge. I will also assume the roles of eleven members of the impartial jury, leaving one seat for the reader to fill. I trust that after weighing the facts, every intelligent and literate jurist will vote his or her conscience and find for the defense. And so…
“I, Judge Reiner, with three raps on the space bar of my keyboard, bring this open-minded court to order! Prosecutor Reiner, we are ready to hear your opening statement.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Gentlemen and gentlemen of the jury, this will not be a difficult case for you to adjudicate. It involves a grandparent who, by committing an unconscionable act of extreme hedonism, has abdicated his right to be called a loving, caring Grandpa. For the benefit of that quizzical-faced member of the jury, the word ‘hedonism’ means ‘selfishness.’”
“Thank you Mr. Reiner. Now, sir, as the defense counsel, you may proceed with your opening statement.”
“Thank you, Judge Reiner. Gentlemen and gentlemen of the jury, my beloved client, Mr. Reiner, is ninety years old. He has already lived two-thirds of his projected life, which means that he has less than thirty short years left to enjoy the pleasures that our wonderful civilization has to offer. I ask you to keep that in mind when you listen to the how the prosecutor wishes our self-effacing client to spend, nay squander, four precious hours of his waning existence.”
“Mr. Reiner, the court is ready for you to call your fist witness for the defense.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I call to the stand the esteemed twelve-time Emmy winner, the recipient of the Mark Twain Prize for Humor in 1999 and co-Grammy winner for The 2000 Year Old Man recording with his good friend, Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner!”
“Order, order in the court! I warn you, if I have to pound my gavel one more time to silence you, I will clear the courtroom. I have zero tolerance for such outbreaks of cheering and applause—however deserved they were. Proceed, Mr. Reiner.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I could not agree more. Now, Mr. Reiner, would you like to tell the jury in your own words, or words that you and I agreed might be more persuasive, your side of the story?”
“I would like to tell our side of the story. This Saturday, I had planned to join two friends, whose initials are R.C. and S.C.—I don’t want to drag innocent, well-intentioned people into my personal messes—but we were going to attend the screening of two films at the Motion Picture Academy, and between the showings, we would dine at a new gourmet restaurant that R.C. and S.C. (Ron and Sheila Clark) had discovered. Your Honor, I love nothing better than good movies and gourmet food, and I was primed to say yes until I checked my calendar and saw that on that same day, I had penciled in an invitation from my son, Lucas, and his wife, Maud, to attend a musicale at their home, where I would see and hear my two darling granddaughters, Livia and Rosie, play the harp and cello, respectively.
“It would have been a difficult dilemma for me, had I not attended an orchestral and a choral concert two nights earlier and saw Livia play the violin and harp beautifully and, last night, at the Broad Studio, I heard Rose singing her heart out as a member of the National Children’s Chorus. If truth be told—and that’s what I am doing, Your Honor—had there been no flesh and blood involved, watching movies and eating good food would trump harp and cello concerts hands down! And to contradict what my learned counsel has told you earlier, I don’t think his projection is correct. I do not have thirty years of life left to spend—more like twenty-five, so I think I had better spend them judiciously and creatively. Here, Your Honor, is what I propose:
“I will see the films at the Academy on the night of the family concert, but the following night or any night of their choice, I will invite Maud, Lucas, and my granddaughters to choose a film they can’t wait to see and select food they can’t wait to eat.
“Further, if they so desire, I will go with them to view the movie of their choice and accompany them to dine on the food of their choosing—I do so swear!”
“Jury, on the evidence presented, I believe that there are but two verdicts you can render: ‘not guilty’ or ‘not that guilty.’”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Georgetown Revisited or Mining Death for Laughs
In chapter twenty-five, “Father Walsh: Jesuit/Private Reiner: Non-Jesuit,” I gave myself the opportunity of reliving a vivid, sixty-eight-year-old wartime memory. In that piece, I described how by opening my big mouth, I had made myself vulnerable to censure and re-assignment from the comfort of a dormitory at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, to a leaky tent in some muddy battlefield.
Last night—and it was precisely last night—I had the opportunity to recreate a performance from my distant past that I held to be my best ever. Well, I daresay that I not only recreated it, but since I am the only living witness to both events, I think I can say, unequivocally, that I topped it.
The event was held in the auditorium of the Paley Center for the Arts, which, if I drive, is located three minutes from my home, and if I walk, fifteen minutes away. The auspices were GEMA, the Georgetown Entertainment and Media Alliance, who, for whatever reason which I did not choose to question, decided that a symposium that chronicles my days at Georgetown University as a student at their School for Foreign Service was worthy of spending the time, money, and effort to bring to pass.
From all reports—by my daughter, Annie; my manager/nephew-in-law, Georgie; friends Sheila and Ron Clark; nephew Richard Reiner; and my friend, Mel, it was more than worth the effort. I concur.
Before my portion of the event at the Paley Center, the GEMA chairman, Richard L. Battista, and other university dignitaries made some opening remarks and then screened a six-minute clip of some fairly entertaining highlights of my career, which included my days with Sid Caesar, my questioning the 2000 Year Old Man, Mel Brooks, and my wild dancing on legs that moved faster and sillier than any sane dancer would want.
For more than an hour, the distinguished critic and editor of TV Guide, Matt Roush and I sat on stage and, respectively and respectfully, asked and answered questions about my days at Georgetown.
I was inspired to write this addendum to the chapter on Georgetown when I realized that I still had the ability to conjure up the voices and the words uttered by my old Jesuit professors and their dean, Father Edmond A. Walsh. This was a situation that I had never before encountered or even contemplated. What was bizarre and ultimately heartening was the reaction I received for my efforts to give voice to those old wartime ghosts. When asked afterward how I remembered those voices and words from the distant past, I said there is nothing that sears itself into one’s memory more indelibly than traumatic events—happy traumas provoked by seeing priests almost fall out of a balcony laughing at your antics or frightening traumas that scare the shit out of you!
Even while I was getting laughs back in 1943, I was sure that someone who was not laughing would pluck me out of stately Gaston Hall and drop me behind enemy lines in a European battlefield.
Happily, it turned out that Father Walsh, concerned about the possibility of my further mocking the faculty, had benignly suggested that I produce no more holiday entertainments—and I didn’t. That is, until a few days ago, when I again got big laughs by resurrecting Father Walsh’s sixty-eight-year-old lecture about “Capturing the Heartland.”
Had Dean Edmund A. Walsh known of the pleasure his words engendered from this distinguished assemblage of modern-day Georgetown scholars, I have a feeling he might have been pleased—well, not pleased enough to smile, but perhaps pleased that we are keeping his memory alive.
I, for one, am beholden to Father Walsh and am happy to have had him in my life.
At one point during the Paley Center event, I
found myself thinking of my wife and doing what I have been notorious for doing all my performing life: adhering to the premise, “On the mind, on the tongue!”
My mind flashed back to the week my wife passed away, and my tongue related the following story.
The front doorbell rang, and our dear housekeeper, Arlene Brown, signed for a package that was being delivered. Ordering things from catalogues was something Estelle loved doing, and Arlene was aware of that. She sighed and remarked, “Looks like another package for Estelle.”
I looked at the label and said, “It’s not for Estelle, it is Estelle!”
Estelle and I had agreed that when the time came, we would be cremated. After she passed away, I called the Neptune Society, whose brochure happened to arrive in the mail that week. When I realized that the Neptune Society would scatter her ashes in the ocean, I had second thoughts about a sea burial and asked for her remains to be delivered to our home. Estelle would get seasick at the thought of getting into a rowboat or catamaran—even in mildly choppy waters. After watching her many bouts of world-class retching, I was not about to condemn her ashes to an eternity of nausea. That cardboard box is now sitting on a stool in her bedroom, next to the microphone and amp she used when rehearsing for her supper-club performances. I covered the box with one of the small, colorful tablecloths she used when entertaining guests in her room.