It's Good to Be the King: The Seriously Funny Life of Mel Brooks (16 page)

Once Brooks was aboard this modest new show, he was approached by his friend Lee Adams, a lyricist and writer. Adams was then unemployed, and Brooks—in a mood of largesse since he was now ensconced in a new industry job—suggested that Adams work for free on the new show in the capacity of an assistant writer. Mel explained that this would undoubtedly lead to Lee’s being placed on staff at a likely $100 weekly salary. (It is also likely that Brooks decided it would make good sense to have loyal friends aboard the project.) Adams followed through with his benefactor’s proposition, and Brooks liked the ideas Stewart presented. The newcomer happily anticipated soon becoming a paid part of the team, a transition he hoped would occur at the upcoming Friday staff meeting.

That day Adams waited for Brooks to emerge from the conference. When Mel did, he looked exceedingly glum. Lee quickly grasped the situation and said to his pal, “Look, you tried. I really appreciate it, Mel. Maybe sometime …” Brooks waved his hands and said, “You don’t know what happened.” Lee replied, “Sure I do. You pitched me for the job and they said no.” Mel shook his head and said with a sardonic grin, “Not exactly. Before I got to that, I was fired.”

•     •     •

While Brooks was dealing with a rash of show business defeats, Sid Caesar was contemplating his own uncertain professional future. Not being an active part of the television scene was anathema to the toppled comedy king, and he pondered his next career step. His solution was to approach Imogene Coca (then completing a summer stage tour of the comedy
Janus
) and suggest they reunite on air. She loved the idea, and soon Sid’s representatives were approaching the various networks for a production deal. NBC and CBS passed on the idea, but the less prestigious ABC offered the duo a half-hour weekly program to begin in early 1958. Caesar swallowed his pride at being forced to accept a 30-minute time slot (which he felt was far too short in which to properly present sketches). Coca followed suit and also signed for the new series.

Sid quickly assembled a writing staff drawn from the ranks of his past creative teams—all of whom were anxious to re-create the magic of
Your Show of Shows
and, equally important, to keep afloat in the increasingly perilous waters of show business. The hired scribes were Mel Tolkin, Neil Simon, Mel Brooks, Mike Stewart, and Danny Simon (plus Larry Gelbart for the opening episode). It seemed like old times (especially with Carl Reiner aboard as the program’s second banana). Helena Rubinstein Cosmetics agreed to sponsor the relatively well-budgeted offering, which bowed on January 26, 1958. The media hyped the premiere as the “major comeback” of these two small-screen legends.
Variety
reported, “Even though the opening show was way off, lacking much of the brilliance and wit of some previous excursions, it wasn’t too important to a Caesar-Coca fan.”

Initially, the program did sufficiently well in the audience ratings, buoyed by curious viewers who wished to share in the nostalgia of Sid and Imogene working together again. However, the reunion soon lost its novelty to home audiences, and the series fell prey in the rating wars to its competitors in the Sunday 9
P.M.
time slot: CBS’s
General Electric Theater
(an anthology drama showcase) and NBC’s
The Dinah Shore Show
(a musical/variety entry). As a result,
Sid Caesar Invites You
went off the air on May 25, 1958, after a mere four-month run.

At this juncture, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) network approached Caesar and Coca and lured them to London to repeat much of their material from
Sid Caesar Invites You
for home viewers in the United Kingdom. The new edition of
Sid Caesar Invites You
debuted abroad on July 23, 1958. As had happened back in the United States, initial good ratings quickly tapered off, and the half-hour program departed the BBC lineup that September after only a 13-program run.

It was now clear to most everyone—except to the substance-abusing Sid Caesar, who vainly remained in denial—that his reign as a major prime-time TV star was over.

•     •     •

Distressing as it was for Mel Brooks to watch the gifted Sid Caesar thrust aside by the TV industry and the viewing public, Brooks was preoccupied with his own mounting number of career crises. For over a decade he had allowed his show business ambitions to be funneled through the talented Caesar, his great protector and pal. While Brooks had gained many benefits from his professional and personal association with the gifted Caesar, it had also stymied his growth as an entertainment talent.

Now Mel was cut loose from his regular work ties to Sid and had the scary task of largely fending for himself. True, there were occasional TV network specials that Caesar undertook in 1959 and 1960 for which Brooks and Mel Tolkin teamed with Sydney Zelenka to write the sketches. For a few of these small-screen offerings in the late 1950s, a young Woody Allen was brought aboard as a junior member of Caesar’s writing staff. Years later, this gave rise to a widespread misconception that Allen had been part of the stellar writing crew that had contributed so admirably to Sid’s Your Show
of Shows
and
Caesar’s Hour.

Moreover, the brief collaboration of Brooks and Allen with others on Caesar’s specials gave the media a convenient springboard to compare and contrast the success and talent of these two men. It reached a point at which, seemingly, neither individual could be judged on his own merits. Rather, the press—and increasingly the public—assumed that both writers were creatively linked beyond the facts that both were Jewish, grew up in Brooklyn, boasted the outsider’s comedic slant on life, and had worked for Sid Caesar. By the late 1970s, Mel had grown weary of the endless comparisons being made between him and Woody. It prompted Brooks to make his own statement about the so-called similarities between him and his “counterpart” Said a peevish Mel, “He [Woody Allen] feels that his art is his life. And more power to him. The difference is that if someone wants to call my movies art or crap, I don’t mind.”

•     •     •

During this transitional career period, Brooks’s income, which had risen to nearly $5,000 a week on
Caesar’s Hour
, had tumbled precipitously. This abrupt economic free fall—and the accompanying negative effect on his self-confidence—played havoc with Mel’s already shaky marriage. Temperamentally ill-prepared for being a husband, the still emotionally immature Mel had even less understanding of how to be a model parent to his three young children.

The escalating domestic stress in this difficult period led Mel and Florence to undergo several trial separations. Then the unhappy couple split on a more permanent basis. By now Mel could no longer afford his expensive therapy sessions, and he felt truly alone in the world. As various aspects of his life seemed to be falling apart, he tried to mask his growing panic by being more of a bon vivant and zany nut. His desperate masquerade may have fooled some people, but in moments of selfhonesty, he knew his fluctuating run of luck had finally petered out. Try as he might to ignore facing the reality of his depressing situation, years of therapy had made avoidance of self-examination less and less viable. During these recurrent somber periods of self-reflection, personal insight made clear the stark truth that he could no longer depend on others to kick-start his flagging career or to reorder his muddled personal life. The only person who could redeem Brooks was Mel himself.

16
A Wacky Man for the Millenniums

More than anybody, it was Sid [Caesar]. He was from another planet. I am the funniest man America has ever produced and I wasn’t a comic. I wouldn’t go onstage for nine years, because there was a greater talent out there, an outlet that satisfied me and my talent for writing. When he left he almost
forced
me on stage. The amount that was demanded of Sid ... I don’t know why it didn’t kill him.

–Mel Brooks, 1982

Often, in the entertainment industry—as in other arenas—successful ventures are the result of a sequence of fortuitous events. Naturally, without a solid foundation of creativity, individual chance incidents might never lead to a great artistic and/or commercial triumph.

•     •     •

During the 1948–1949 run of the Broadway revue
Inside U.S.
A, actor Carl Reiner shared a dressing room with fellow cast member Louis Nye. Reiner described, “To entertain ourselves, I used to play the part of an interviewer, asking questions and breaking up over the brilliant answers he came up with. I am by nature an interviewer, an aural learner. Whenever I hear somebody say something funny or informative, I immediately start asking questions to get more laughs or more information. It started as a comedy routine when Louis and I were in the Army and did a bit built around the rolling of a field pack.”

By 1951, the versatile Carl Reiner was a regular on
Your Show of Shows
and had become friendly with Mel Brooks, who had recently bulldozed his way into becoming an official member of the program’s writing staff. Both of these Jewish men came from humble backgrounds and both adored the world of show business. They also shared an antic sense of humor that could veer into the raunchy, a thirst for knowledge on a wide range of topics, and, most of all, an unquenchable inner urge to always be “on.” With this voracious craving to be in the limelight, they thrived on entertaining others—as well as themselves—whether at work, a business meal, or a social function.

Carl’s innate curiosity and his knack for improvisation made him admirably suited to play the inquisitive roving reporter on “The Professor” sketches performed on
Your Show of Shows
. In these memorable routines he volleyed questions at the bumbling expert (performed by Sid Caesar), typically a pompous eccentric from abroad. It was Brooks who provided much of the material for these classic TV question-and-answer comedy skits.

One day, Reiner, a regular attendee at the writers’ meetings, stormed into the smoke-filled think tank headquarters. He was deeply perturbed. The night before he’d seen an episode of a news-style TV program which utilized re-creations of important world events and the key people involved to provide viewers with a sense of “being there.” This particular segment dealt with the escalating cold war and had the host overhearing in a bathroom Russian leader Joseph Stalin predicting the likelihood of a nuclear war between the East and West. Carl was enraged at such irresponsible TV journalism. In his fuming state, he suddenly turned to Mel, who was seated nearby. Reiner thrust an imaginary microphone in Brooks’s direction. Out of nowhere, Carl inquired of Mel, “I understand you were at the Crucifixion?”

Caught off guard, Brooks thought for a few split seconds, then launched into a humorous reply as if he were a nearly 2,000-year-old man. “Christ,” he responded, “was a thin lad, always wore sandals. Hung around with 12 other guys.” The others in the writers’ room were amused. The favorable response to the verbal give-and-take gambit led to repeats of the routine, usually featuring new questions and fresh answers. Soon the team was doing their shtick for friends at parties. (Occasionally, when Reiner was unavailable, Brooks would do the “act” with Mel Tolkin, the head writer of
Your Show of Shows,
substituting. Once in a while, Brooks would even venture to do a solo performance. According to Tolkin, one evening at a gathering when Reiner was not there, Brooks did a monologue, but could not come up with a good payoff line to finish his routine. He finally broke off in midsentence and walked out of the room. The guests waited, but Brooks failed to reappear. Tolkin went in search of him. It developed that Brooks had departed the scene in self-disgust. He had left a scribbled note on a table, “A Jew cries for help!”)

In his performance guise, Mel’s Methuselah-like alter ego came across as an all-knowing—albeit eccentric—elderly sage who had observed literally everything in the continuum of world history (including the time cavemen first discovered that they were different from women). Over many centuries, this “wise” person had encountered nearly every famous person known to mankind, including Joan of Arc (once his girlfriend) and the legendary Robin Hood, who “stole from everybody and kept everything.” This self-impressed old soul was eager to share his colorful opinions on what’s what in the world, from the start of time to the present day … and beyond. He gladly offered his (amusing) thoughts to the roving reporter on how music first developed, and excitedly expounded on the many delights of nectarines: “Half a peach, half a plum. It’s a hell of a fruit!”

From the start, Mel employed a rather heavy Jewish accent for his eccentric, funny old man. He said later that he had based the opinionated but lovable character on his uncle Sol, the type of man who asked, “Why do we need these big, six-story buildings? God never intended people to live so far from the street. Why do we have to be above two floors from the street?” … According to Brooks, Sol “was crazy, he was wild. I loved his energy. The 2000 Year Old Man is a purveyor of these same large truths—I don’t wanna call them lies. He mocks the things that we all are to become, just as I see my kids making fun of me and my ways. But someday they’re gonna end up with their own kids mocking them.… I never forgot his voice. That sound meant a great deal to me—safety, protection, strength, that loud, vigorous voice with the Jewish accent. When I redid it, when I listened to the tapes the first time, it was amazing, it was incredible. I went right back to being 6 years old with my mother’s family.”

Brooks also acknowledged another reason he gave his character such an ethnic, old-country voice. “It’s easier to hide behind accents. Once you’re playing a character you have more mobility, more freedom. I suppose it’s also cowardice on my part. I can say anything I want, and then if people question me, I say, ‘Don’t blame me. Blame the old Jew. He’s crazy.’” Another time, in 1966, when talking to
Playboy
magazine, Mel told interviewer Larry Siegel of his by-then famous alter ego: “It’s not a Jewish accent. It’s an
American
-Jewish accent. And in 50 years it will disappear. I think it’ll be a great loss.” Brooks emphasized, “Unless Jews do Jews accurately, I consider the whole thing to be in questionable taste.”