by Bob Zmuda
Soon, he caught the eye of a young director named Tom Shadyac. Shadyac was looking for the lead of a film he was about to direct, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. They risked everything on Jim’s scene-stealing, over-the-top, broad physical comedy, which no one was doing at the time and didn’t want to. The gamble paid off and Ace Ventura was a monster hit, with half of America quoting Jim’s lines from the movie, such as, “Allllll rightteeee then!” He followed it up with other films (such as Dumb and Dumber, Liar Liar, The Truman Show, and my favorite, The Cable Guy, produced by Judd Apatow) and now he had his heart set on playing Kaufman.
Jim was still a struggling comic at the Store when Andy and I would come in and test new material on the audiences. Comics would sit in the back of the room, mouth agape in awe of Kaufman’s antics that left audiences either loving him or hating him. Either way made no difference to Andy. He was operating from a whole other gearbox. Carrey would later say, “The comics would watch Kaufman and say, ‘Just make a statue of the guy already. He’s a god!’” The chance to play his comedy hero would be a dream come true. Somewhat spookily, added to that, he had the same birthday as Andy, January 17. He was going to play Kaufman come hell or high water, and now he was calling me.
B: Hello?
J: Hi, Bob, it’s Jim Carrey.
B: Jim. How are you?
J: Fantastic. You probably can guess why I’m calling you. I made the audition tape and before I embarrass myself and show it to Milos, I wondered if you could come and take a look at it.
B: I’d be happy to. [I wasn’t happy at all about wanting to see it.] When?
J: How about right now?
B: NOW!?!
J: Yeah, if that’s OK.
B: Yeah, sure. What’s your address?
On my way out to Brentwood, I kept saying to myself, “No matter how good it is, don’t say anything that he could take to the bank”—i.e., don’t say, “That’s great.” Say something like, “Very interesting.” Remember, I didn’t want him. I wanted Nic Cage for the role.
Jim’s house in Brentwood is fab-u-lous! Although modest by movie-star standards, Jim’s digs made my humble home in Burbank look like a hovel. Jim greeted me at the front door. We walked through his house out into a back yard that had one of the best swimming pools I’ve ever seen, designed out of natural rock. It had a waterfall pool on a top level that also served as a Jacuzzi that cascaded into the main pool. Off the pool was a pool house that housed a bar and various arcade games.
He led me into another building that was his own movie theater. Jim’s costumes from all his films (Ace Ventura, The Mask, The Riddler from Batman Forever, The Cable Guy) lined the walls, sealed behind Plexiglas. The room was designed to impress and it did. Besides hiring a projectionist just for me, he had a fully stocked concession stand with everything your tummy could desire: candy bars, popcorn, soda, ice cream, etc. Jim said, “Bob, excuse me, but I have about ten minutes of phone calls to finish up. Then I’ll be back with my audition tape. Help yourself.”
He pointed to the candy counter and left. As soon as he was out of sight, I greedily started filling my pockets with SweeTarts, M&Ms, licorice, Nestlé Crunch, Butterfingers—you name it. I figured I might as well stock up—I’d never hear from Jim Carrey after today. I was going with Nic Cage.
With pockets bulging with goodies, I nestled into my cozy theater chair, my buttered popcorn and Coke overflowing onto the thick-carpeted floor, waiting for Jim to return with the “audition tape.” Jim had playing on the large screen old clips of Andy on Taxi and SNL. I stared at the real Andy Kaufman and thought how surreal this whole experience was and wondered if Andy was going to forget his thirty-year deadline, cut it short, and show up at the premiere. For all I knew, perhaps Andy was already sequestered away somewhere on Jim’s palatial estate.
Ten minutes later, as promised, Jim walked back in, carrying a small brown paper bag. He stood next to me and said, “And now for my audition tape.” Next, he reached inside the bag, fishing around for something. A puzzled look came upon his face, as if it was lost. And then he violently tore the bag open and started laughing like a mad man. It was empty. His laughter grew, to me, more sinister and in the dark theater, with only him and me, I got creeped out. I thought, “Who’s to say a movie star couldn’t also be a serial killer?” Then in a grand gesture, he pointed to the movie screen. The old clip was of Andy playing the congas on SNL, and he said, “So, what do you think of my audition tape?” At first, I hadn’t a clue what he meant. And then it hit me: Oh my God, that wasn’t an old clip of Andy on SNL. It was Jim. I had been watching the clip from SNL for five minutes and just assumed it was Andy. Instead, it was Jim, and he nailed it.
Get this: He had his buddy, director Judd Apatow, shoot the scene. They rented a studio and matched up the SNL set to a T. Jim had even taken conga lessons four times a week for three weeks just to learn how to play them for the “audition tape.” He hadn’t even been given the role yet. That’s Jim Carrey. When he wants something, he goes for it full steam. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe he had bamboozled me and in such a Kaufmanesque style. I must admit my eyes moistened as I watched my best friend come alive through the talent of Jim Carrey. I told him right then and there, “As far as I’m concerned, you got the role.” A broad smile appeared on his face. He knew he had it anyway. I would find out later Jim’s like that. He knows what he wants, goes for it, and gets it every time. He’s the second-most driven person I’ve ever encountered in my life, the first being Andy, of course.
I didn’t hang around for long now that he had sold me on his performance. I refilled my pockets with goodies and left. He was ready for stage two. As soon as I drove off the property, he must have had four deliverymen on motorcycles with audition tapes in hand peel out and scatter in all directions:
1.To Milos, staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel
2.To Ron Meyer and Stacey Snider, executives at Universal Studios
3.To Michael Shamberg and Stacey Sher at Jersey Films
4.To Danny DeVito’s house in Malibu
By the time I got back to my shithole in Burbank, there were already three messages on my machine from irritated executives who lambasted me for telling Jim he had the role. He had obviously called them. Ten minutes later (after they too had viewed the tape), they all called back and apologized: “Of course he has the role.” He was Andy Kaufman. Fuck Nic Cage. I never called him back. I was as bad as DeVito was about returning phone calls.
Now here’s the punch of all punches: A year later, when the film was shot, edited, and presented, I was at the opening-night premiere. There was a grand party afterwards, and as I was consuming my alcoholic beverage of choice at the bar, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Lo and behold, it was Nicolas Cage. Before I had a chance to tense up—after all, I’d stopped returning his calls—he immediately put me at ease and said, “Bob, it’s OK. I couldn’t have done what Jim did. He was fucking great.” We shared more than a few cocktails, and as it turned out he and Jim had been close friends for years. Then I asked him, “Nic, why didn’t you make that audition tape?” “Oh yes, the audition tape. Well, the reason I didn’t make the audition tape was because my good buddy, Jim Carrey, told me, ‘Guys in our position shouldn’t make audition tapes.’” Then he broke into uproarious laughter. I just shook my head and smiled: Jim Carrey. I rest my case.
Now that Jim was cast, Universal left it to me to choose who should play me, although I did consider their suggestions. On the top of the list were Philip Seymour Hoffman and Paul Giamatti.
One Saturday night, I received this bizarre phone call from Milos at 3:00 a.m., telling me he had found the perfect person to play me: GARTH BROOKS! I was in shock. “Garth Brooks, the country western singer? Milos, he isn’t even an actor.” Milos informed me that Garth had hosted SNL that evening. Milos watched it and said the guy was terrific. Come Monday, I got a tape of the show and sure enough, Garth held his own with the Not Ready For Prime Time Players. And “Bob Zmuda played by
Garth Brooks” sounded crazy enough to work. If not, at least I might get laid in Oklahoma.
Messages were sent back and forth between Garth’s people and Milos. Did Garth understand that besides playing me, he also had to play Tony Clifton, Andy Kaufman’s alter ego, just as I had done for Andy over the years? Brooks understood. In fact, he wanted the role so badly, I was told he canceled one of his sold-out concerts on a Saturday to fly to LA and have dinner with Milos. Much to Milos’s surprise, he walked into the restaurant dressed like and doing a spot-on impression of Tony Clifton. Milos loved it and wanted to give him the role, but at the last minute, Brooks’s agency had a change of heart and decided against it. Brooks, not to let the experience of playing Tony fall by the wayside without some payday, a year later summoned up his own alter ego by the name of “Chris Gaines” and released an album in that name, giving himself a goatee and a whole other look. The album didn’t do so well, but I did get a kick when a reviewer from Rolling Stone said, “It looks like Garth lifted the alter-ego idea from Andy Kaufman’s Tony Clifton.” Little did the reviewer know that he’d hit it right on the head, even though he never knew about Garth’s doing Clifton for Milos. For a while, I considered Philip Seymour Hoffman. I went to the video store and rented Boogie Nights. I was in for a real shocker when in the film, Philip Seymour Hoffman tried to kiss Mark Wahlberg. I thought to myself, “Jesus Christ. I don’t want some gay guy playing me,” and nixed Hoffman immediately. Years later, I was in the American Airlines lounge at Heathrow Airport and I spotted Philip making out with one of the hottest young chicks I’d ever seen. They were really going at it, and I thought to myself what a dummy I was. He wasn’t gay. What he was was just one hell of an actor. I was quite saddened years later when I heard that Philip had died of a heroin overdose.
Eventually, with Lynne’s help, I chose Paul Giamatti, a great guy just like myself. Besides, like they say, Brad Pitt wasn’t available.
When I hired Paul to play me, I made him promise to do one thing. “What’s that?” he asked. I said, “Play me more intelligent than I really am.” He laughed and said, “Oh … that won’t be a problem.”
I drove Paul nuts on the set, overanalyzing every little motivation and gesture. One day, Milos yelled at me in front of everybody, “ZMUDA! Leave Zmuda alone!”
Meanwhile, Lynne was spending time with Courtney Love, who played her. Lynne told me, “I felt so sorry for her about all the conspiracy theories that she had killed Kurt Cobain. Shit, I felt horrible being treated badly by the Kaufmans, and here she had people saying she had killed her husband. Horrible.”
Once Lynne and I realized that Jim was going to approach the role of Kaufman in a “method acting,” Kaufmanesque kind of way—i.e., he would become Andy or Tony Clifton for the entire shoot, never breaking character—we realized this had to be captured on tape. So Lynne, Universal Studios, Jim’s production company (Pit Bull), and I agreed that we would all partner up and shoot a documentary of Jim’s journey into “channeling Kaufman.”
Since Jim the star wanted it, Lynne as cameraman and I had free rein to shoot anywhere and at anytime, much to the discomfort of Milos and the rest of the crew. Seldom did the camera leave Lynne’s shoulder, and after a while, she became a fly on the wall and almost disappeared, offering us the opportunity to document some pretty bizarre happenings. Jim arrived at the studio every day in character, stayed in character all day, and went home in character. In fact, Milos Forman didn’t meet Jim until principal photography was over eighty days later.
Jim had researched Andy, who himself would always stay in character. In fact, when Andy would become Tony, he did so for three or four days. Bill Knoedelseder, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times, who spent much time interviewing Andy and Tony, believed that “Tony Clifton was a controlled multi-personality disorder; i.e., Andy suffered from multi-personality disorder. And since he was in show business, always looking to present the absurd, it was natural that he would present Tony to his audience.” Andy kept a pink Cadillac convertible in his garage and drove it only when he was Clifton. Andy also was a strict vegetarian who didn’t drink or smoke. Tony was just the opposite, a chain smoker who was always slugging from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He’d eat steaks rare and run around town with hookers on his arm. Jim’s Clifton mirrored Kaufman’s in this regard … except for the hookers part. When you’re Jim Carrey, you don’t need to pay for it.
When we were shooting at Universal, Jim insisted that Lynne and I have lunch with him on the front porch of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho house. Jim would dress as Norman Bates’s mother, in granny dress and grey wig. Occasionally, when an unsuspecting Universal tram of tourists would drive by, Jim would jump out of his chair, pick up a real axe, and run after the tram, smashing into it, actually denting the hell out of the vehicle. The unsuspecting tourists thought it was just some minimum-wage actor Universal had hired to give them a scare. They were much more interested in the guy in the Frankenstein suit. Little did they know this was superstar Jim Carrey. Axe-wielding granny tore through those Universal tourist trams like Godzilla tore through Tokyo. I thought this was pretty rad, reminiscent of the golden days of Hollywood when stars could literally get away with murder and the powerful studios would mop it up. Carrey had balls as big as Kaufman’s. Lynne and I were really beginning to like this guy. He was a daredevil like Andy.
If Jim was the 800-pound gorilla, Courtney Love was the original bad girl of punk. Nobody could see her in the demure role of Lynne—nobody except Milos, who insisted on casting her. After all, Milos had just worked with her on his last film, The People vs. Larry Flynt, where she played the drugged-out wife, Althea Leasure Flynt (to Woody Harrelson’s Larry Flynt), who eventually ODs. She was spectacular in the role, and even received a Golden Globe nomination. But the word on the street was she was basically playing herself. In fact, the film company for Flynt wouldn’t insure her, believing she was going to show up on drugs, or, worse, not show up at all. Milos had to put up his own paycheck as collateral.
So the first day she showed up on the Man on the Moon set, nobody knew what to expect—especially Jim! It was lunchtime. We were out on location, the whole cast and crew gathered under a large tent. Someone had hired a four-piece mariachi band to go along with that afternoon’s Mexican cuisine. Lynne and I were sitting at a table with Jim when Courtney entered. It looked like she was just about to step into the shower. She wore no makeup whatsoever, but was still a pretty girl. She wore a white robe that was loosely tied. Immediately she began to dance and spin to the beat of the mariachis, every spin loosening the robe more and more, giving revealing peeks of a killer body. She had nothing on underneath and frankly didn’t care. More than a few of the crew put down their tacos and adjusted their chairs to get a better view of the action. She did not disappoint. She seductively worked the room. Someone yelled out, “Courtney Love, ladies and gentlemen!” and the room broke into spontaneous applause.
She eventually made her way over to Jim and held out her hand to join her. Jim, without missing a beat, suavely got up from his chair, grabbed her hand and pulled her to him. Next he flung her out where she gracefully spun a triplet, only to be once again retrieved by Jim. They both were flawless, and the now-audience responded with applause. Damn! Courtney knew how to make an entrance.
By now, the robe had totally opened itself up. Courtney’s breasts, though small, stood out perky and proud for all to see. Jim, not to be outdone by his leading lady, ripped off his shirt, much to the delight of the ladies. Courtney reciprocated by dancing ever more provocatively. Obviously this was becoming a test of wills as to who could be more outlandish. Jim wouldn’t be outdone. Just as the music was drawing to a close, he undid his belt, threw it into the crowd, unhooked his pants, unzipped his zipper in rhythm to the music, and—just as the backbeat hit—pulled down his pants. The place went wild. Jim won! As he should. After all, if Courtney was going to play Lynne to Jim’s Andy, she had to learn to step aside and let her man shine, which
she did. I realized right there and then, just like Jim did, she’d make a great Lynne. She could be subservient. Courtney Love knew how to act.
Things really got out of hand the day we shot the recreation of Clifton’s being thrown off the Paramount Pictures lot. Talk about a surreal experience. Here they had brought back the entire cast of Taxi (minus Tony Danza) and we recreated that legendary day. Jim, as Clifton, drove onto the lot drunk and started to ram into the side of the soundstage that housed the Taxi set. Mortar and bricks were flying all over the place. Anyone else would have been shot. But security was held back while Carrey, deep in character, kept throwing the car in reverse and smashing, smashing, smashing the structure, exorcising Kaufman’s spirit. That afternoon, Clifton on the set broke down in real tears between takes. DeVito and Carol Kane joined in. They openly wept for Andy. This was hallowed ground and the real Kaufman’s ghost permeated the reconstructed Taxi set and could be strongly felt—all brilliantly captured on tape by Lynne. At the end of the day, Clifton was carried into the limo dead drunk and totally spent. This was no longer a movie being shot; this was a full-fledged psychodrama, and we have the tapes to prove it.
