by Carl Reiner
All of the cast members who accepted Jerry’s invitation had no idea that we were privy to be at the birth of one of our nation’s all-time great comedy acts. What Jerry and Dean did that night, I could not begin to put into words. You must trust me, and even though Mel Brooks claims that I am given to overpraising movies, performances, and pastrami sandwiches, had Mel been there, he would say that I reported it accurately. The following day, everyone who was at the club the night could not stop talking about how they had died laughing at an act that featured a high-pitched, nasal-voiced, skinny, rubber-bodied comic who was part human and part monkey, who told no jokes or stories that were relatable or quotable.
The only thing we could tell people was, “If you want to bust a gut laughing, catch these two guys at the Latin Quarter!”
In a relatively short time, millions of people worldwide had the opportunity to “catch” Jerry and Dean doing their thing on stage, on television, and in motion pictures. For decades, Jerry Lewis has been deeply involved as a fundraiser and tireless spokesman for the Muscular Dystrophy Association.
More than twenty years flew by after Jerry and I had that first encounter in Boston. Our second meeting came when the two of us had offices at Paramount Pictures. I was getting ready to direct my first film based on an adaptation of my first novel, Enter Laughing. Joe Stein had adapted it for Broadway, and he and I adapted it for the screen and had signed on to co-produce the project.
Jerry had read of our film script and called to offer himself as a candidate for the lead, which was that of a seventeen-year-old Bronx delivery boy who aspires to be an actor—a lightly fictionalized version of my young life.
Jerry would have been absolutely perfect for the part, had we made the picture seventeen years earlier when Jerry was seventeen. Joe and I were flattered that Jerry Lewis, a major film star, was interested in doing our low-budget film, and we met with him at his office to thank him for his interest.
At this time, Jerry was about thirty-four years old, and we pointed this out to him. He countered with the fact that he would have no trouble “acting seventeen.” We agreed he could act seventeen, but “looking seventeen” was too big a stretch, especially for the audience, who knew him and his history so well.
Alan Arkin played the role on Broadway and won a Tony Award. He also expressed interest in doing the film role, but as he was thirty-two, we remained steadfast about our need to find a younger Jerry Lewis or Alan Arkin for the part.
It was a most pleasant meeting, so pleasant that Jerry was inspired to ask Joe and me and our wives if we would like to join him and his wife, Patty, for dinner at their home that evening. We checked, and both our wives were happy to accept Jerry’s invitation. It was about four thirty in the afternoon when we made plans for this eight o’clock dinner. I tell you this because time plays an interesting role in this little pastiche.
At eight o’clock, Joe, Sadie, Estelle, and I were welcomed into the Lewises’ beautiful Bel Air home, and after wine and hors d’oeuvres in the den, we retired to their exquisitely decorated dining room and there partook of a delicious dinner and some fine vintage wines. After a choice of desserts and a cup of good coffee, Jerry invited us to accompany him to his screening room. He had a smile on his face that suggested we were in for some sort of treat. What might it be? A rough cut of his new film or a print of his favorite old film…or what? I had no idea and, I daresay, neither would you. Whatever you are guessing, you are wrong!
The first thing Jerry did when we entered the screening room was to assign seats for us. He made a point of asking us to sit on the large, upholstered couch below the projection booth. He escorted Sadie Stein to the left end of the couch, invited Joe to sit next to her, and then ushered Estelle to Joe’s left and me at the end next to Estelle.
Jerry started out of the room but stopped after checking his watch. He excused himself and opened a door to a small closet on the right wall of the screening room.
The closet was filled with equipment, which we quickly learned was a satellite transmitter for the FM radio station that Jerry owned and operated—which he proceed to do. He hit some toggle switches, turned some dials, clicked on a standing microphone, and instructed some technician to stand by. He waited a moment, broadcast an announcement of some upcoming event, and then clicked off the mike.
I was aware that he was trying to impress us, and he succeeded. I was impressed that he was capable of doing things that I could not.
Jerry dashed from his radio station to his projection booth, where I imagined he had a projectionist and a feature film ready to roll, and I was half right. The projectionist was Jerry, but he had no feature film to show—just a very special Jerry Lewis short subject.
Suddenly, projected on the screen was a giant-sized Jerry Lewis, wearing what he wore when Joe and I visited him that afternoon. Jerry’s image now looked down at the couch where Sadie, Joe, Estelle, and I sat, and he said, “Hi, folks! Patty and I want to welcome you to our home!”
Then, turning his head and eyes to the right, he said, “Welcome, Estelle. So happy you could come!”
He then looked directly at me from the screen and said, “Welcome, Carl. Glad Estelle brought you.”
He then turned to where Joe sat and, said, “Hiya, Joe. Hope you enjoyed the free dinner.”
Then he looked at Sadie and said, “Sadie! Good you came. My wife, Patty, has a little present for you—and for Estelle.”
Patty and an assistant marched into the room, each carrying an elegant set of candlestick holders. Jerry Lewis’s image then looked to the right and said, as Patty handed Estelle the candlesticks, “Estelle, accept this little gift from Patty and me—they are not cheap!”
Jerry’s image then turned to Sadie, who was receiving her gift from their assistant. “Sadie, sorry candles are not included!” Jerry said, “Hope they fit with your decor!”
He then smiled and said to us all, “Folks, don’t be strange! Anytime you’re in the neighborhood, drop in!”
How had Jerry done it? It was four thirty in the afternoon when he invited Joe and me to dine with him at eight. In the ensuing four hours, Jerry had quietly commandeered a studio’s soundstage, arranged for light and sound crews to shoot him on widescreen film, had that film processed by a lab, and then had it delivered to his home in time for its world premiere!
For the record, I am sorry to say that the Steins and the Reiners did not get the opportunity to “drop in” on the Lewises, but we did appreciate and display the beautiful candlesticks we received from them on that memorable night.
ICON #5
Shecky Greene
Shecky Greene is unique. I think I can say with impunity that, in his day, and his “day” is still current, there was no comedian who has more talent or can be more gut-bustingly funny than Shecky Greene. I do not remember ever laughing as long and hard at any comic as I did when I saw him perform in the lounge at a Las Vegas hotel. For an hour or more, I watched him do a hilarious routine about newspaper critics in general, and about one in particular, a “Ben Asshole,” who I assumed he had invented to epitomize the worst of the breed. The more venom Shecky spewed, the more the audience howled. He played the audience like the musical virtuoso he was. At one point during his harangue, Shecky picked up his bass fiddle, strummed it like a guitar, and with a surprisingly legitimate operatic voice, sang a song that skewered his target.
I had never met Shecky, but I went backstage to congratulate him on his performance. He was perspiring and did not seem to be happy to see me. I told him how original I thought his material was and how natural and organic his act seemed. He shook his head and angrily informed me that he was not doing his act. He said that he was too damned mad to do his act because of this “Ben Asshole, the fucking shithead critic” on the local paper who had given him a rotten review for his opening-night performance. Shecky continued to rant at the “no-ta
lent bastard” and never allowed me to tell him how my sides ached from the laughter he provoked.
At his suggestion, I came back to the lounge the following night and watched him do his regular act, which garnered the same reaction from a convulsed audience as did his extemporaneous diatribe on the hapless newsman.
As of now, Shecky Greene has an open-ended contract with the Las Vegas Sands for fifty-two weeks a year, where he performs two shows a night, seven days a week.
To digress for a moment: A few days ago, I told my beloved manager/nephew-in-law about the chapter I was writing about Shecky Greene, and a day or so later, George said that he had met Shecky and told him about the chapter I was doing on comedy icons. He said that Shecky was happy to hear that I had placed him in the same category as Jack Benny, Georgie Jessel, and George Burns. I am not so sure he will feel quite as happy when he reads the following story, concerning his behavior as a guest on The Dick Van Dyke Show.
It was the third year of the show, and we had invited Shecky to guest as an acerbic, Don Rickles-type of insult comedian. It had been written for Don Rickles, who had agreed to do the part, but a last-minute conflict with his recurring role on McHale’s Navy left us one player short. Shecky immediately came to my mind as being a perfect replacement. He was happy to get the call, and after two days of rehearsal, it was clear to everyone that he would be terrific. The night before dress rehearsal, and a day before shooting the show in front of a live audience, a distraught Shecky called me at home. His voice was cracking as he told me that when he came home from work that day, he could not get into his house.
“She locked me out,” Shecky wept. “My wife changed the locks on all the doors.”
It seemed that Shecky and his wife were having marital problems, and she picked this day to tell him she wanted a divorce. He sounded awful and actually moaned when he said that there was no way he could possibly make it to work the following day. He started to apologize profusely, and I told him that his was a real-life crisis, which takes precedence over a theatrical one, which I said we could handle a lot more easily than he can his. I wished him well and went about finding someone to replace Shecky.
At a local theater, attending a performance of The Billy Barnes Revue, I became aware of a two talented performers, one a young comic actress, Ann Morgan Guilbert, who later became a regular on The Dick Van Dyke Show and the other a versatile comedian named Lenny Weinrib. I contacted Lenny immediately, found him available, and within hours, he was hired to replace Shecky.
Lenny had one day to learn the part, which he did without breaking a sweat. He not only saved the day, but he gave a wonderful performance.
The episode was telecast five weeks after it had been shot, and that night, the first call I received was from Shecky Greene. I was happy to hear from him and started to ask him about his wife and how he was coping, when he stopped me by saying, “Carl, I watched your show last night.”
For a brief moment, I thought he was going to comment on how well the show turned out, but before I could ask him what he thought of it, he said, “And that actor you hired to take my place…?”
“Yes, Lenny Weinrib.”
“Yeah, Lenny Weinrib— he used my line, you know!”
“Your line?” I asked, not knowing what he meant. “Shecky, he just said the lines in the script that were written for his part.”
“Yes and also a line from my act—that I threw in.”
“Which line is that, Shecky?”
“Where I told about being introduced at a nightclub and hearing people in the audience say, ‘Who? Who did he say?’ I wrote that line.”
I was taken aback but asked, “How long have you been doing that line?”
“At least a year—or more!”
“Shecky,” I said, taking a breath, “in Honolulu Bowl, during the war, about twenty years ago, a young soldier was waiting in the wings to perform his act for five thousand servicemen, and after being introduced, he walked out on stage and said, ‘Fellers, I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to stand in the wings and hear my name being announced over the loudspeaker, and when I walk out on stage to hear so many of you murmur, Who? Who’s he?’”
“Was that soldier you?” Shecky asked.
“Yes, Shecky.”
To Shecky’s credit, he shot back, “Can I use your line?”
And I told him that I bequeath it to him in perpetuity.
I will never understand how a great comic mind who can invent whole routines on the spot would ever be concerned about someone appropriating one of his minor jokes. I started this piece by saying that “Shecky is unique”—and I don’t think I misspoke.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jolson Hugs Jessel as Jessel Mugs Jolson
As I thought about the chapter I had written about Georgie Jessel, I was struck by the fact that I had another encounter with him, and it took place twenty years after he had presented me with a photo of Lana Turner and ushered me out of his office. Our second meeting was a short one, and it occurred on a night when I was hosting an annual awards dinner. I am a bit hazy about which guild it was, but I think it was the Writers Guild. I clearly remember, though, that Georgie Jessel performed his famous act as Professor Labamacher and had the audience rocking with laughter. I also recall Al Jolson being in that audience, and after much urging, agreeing to come on stage and congratulate his old vaudeville buddy, Georgie.
I will return to their dramatic meeting after I review for you a short history of the landmark film, The Jazz Singer, which was heralded as the first “all talking picture.” The movie was based on a long-running Broadway play written by Samson Raphaelson, and it starred George Jessel. After Broadway, Jessel continued to perform the role on a nationwide tour. Georgie Jessel and The Jazz Singer were synonymous, and when Warner Brothers secured the rights to the film, it was a foregone conclusion that Jessel would be its star. The Warner Brothers were not all that certain that a filmed version of a stage musical would be successful, but they were sure that the newly designed cameras and the recording equipment would make it a very expensive production. They therefore offered Jessel a much lower salary than he was expecting, and he turned it down. He assumed that the Brothers Warner and his agent would negotiate and they would reach a reasonable compromise. Jessel knew that if he held firm, there were only two other performers in the industry who could possibly do the role, Eddie Cantor and Al Jolson, and he also knew that neither of them would ever dream of co-opting his role. And Jessel was proven right. He learned from Eddie Cantor that the Warner Brothers had offered him the role, and Eddie, true to form, thanked them for the offer and said that there was only one person who should play the part in the film, and that was Georgie Jessel.
George assumed that Jolson would be approached and he would react as Eddie did, and George was half right. The Warner Brothers did offer Jolson the role, but Jolson turned down neither the role nor the salary.
Everyone who had ever seen Jolson perform or had dealt with him personally was in agreement about two things: firstly, he was, hands down, the world’s greatest entertainer, and secondly, the world’s most hated, egotistical son of a bitch in all of show business.
Soon after Jessel learned of Jolson usurping his role as the Jazz Singer, George told Al that he would never forgive him for what he did and would never speak to him again for as long as he lived.
During the production of Oh, God!, I spoke with George Burns about Jolson, and he agreed that Al’s reputations as a great entertainer and as a bona fide rat-bastard were accurate. George had witnessed Jolson mercilessly berate fellow actors, stagehands, and underlings.
George Burns also related to me how, when he and his wife, Gracie Allen, were on the vaudeville circuit and happened to be playing in the same town as Jolson, they actually canceled a matinee performance so they might catch the great showman’s act—and he said they w
ere not disappointed.
Jolson’s signature gimmick was stepping through the curtain after doing a blockbuster show and shouting at the audience, “Where are y’all goin’? Sit down, folks, sit down! Ya ain’t heard nothin’ yet!”
In 1942, during the war, Jolson—who was then in his sixties—appeared in the Broadway musical Hold On to Your Hats. My brother, Charlie, who was on an army furlough, secured tickets for us. I will never forget the show and the standing ovation Jolson got at the curtain call and how, after the curtain was lowered for the last time, he re-emerged from the wings, dragging an easy chair to center stage. He banged on the metal-covered footlights with a cane and ordered the orchestra leader not let his musicians leave.
“These nice people,” he shouted, “want to hear Jolie sing a few more songs! Am I right, folks?”
The audience responded excitedly and Jolson launched into a medley of his all-time classic hits, among them, “Swanee,” “Toot Toot Tootsie,” and “Blue Skies.”
That night, he did something that was totally unexpected—at least by me. Before singing his signature songs, he decided he wanted to tell a story, and the following is what he shared with us.
“Folks,” he started, “before Jolie sings for you, I just gotta tell you something that happened to me a few weeks ago. I was sitting in my dressing room, putting on my makeup, when a li’l cockroach comes out from behind the mirror, walks up the wall and across the ceiling. Poor fella seemed to be struggling, and when he got right above me, he fell and landed on my makeup table. That little guy is laying on his back and trying to move his legs—he wants to roll over—but he can’t, and I saw why. When he hit my metal table, he broke one of his legs—he’s got six, you know—I felt sorry for the li’l feller. I could see he needed help, and I knew just what to do. When I was a Boy Scout, I learned that if someone broke a leg, you put it in a splint. And folks, that’s just what I did. I straightened out that cockroach’s skinny, little leg, and with a piece of straw that I got from a broom, I made a splint, and then with some white thread I got from the wardrobe lady, I tied his broken leg to that splint. He let me do it because I told him, “I am not here to squash you, li’l guy—I’m here to help you.”