by Bob Zmuda
Honestly, what did the family think? Universal had cast Jim Carrey. Were they somehow going to shrink him down to playing an eight-year-old for three-quarters of the film so Stanley could tell his side of the story? The Kaufman family hadn’t a clue as to how the film business worked. George Shapiro should have explained it to them. Maybe he tried. He was a pro and knew to keep his mouth shut. This was the big dogs spending big bucks. Stanley Kaufman didn’t have a chance, because Stanley didn’t have a clue what Andy was all about. He thought he did, but he didn’t. In fact, I doubt any member of the Kaufman clan had ever taken the time out to explore the early 20th century Dada movement, to which Andy’s work was constantly being compared. Of course the Kaufmans would hate the film—they were portrayed as bozos. I wouldn’t like the film either if I were them. Who wants to be portrayed as idiots? And yet the screenwriters got it right. Andy pranked his family continually. Like it or not, that’s how Andy himself cast them in relationship to his career.
***
Lynne
Andy never once talked about his “real” childhood. He would only talk about putting on shows for the imaginary camera in the wall. He did say that his parents sent him to a psychiatrist at a very young age because he seemed unhappy. But he would never tell me why he was so unhappy. He’d just say, “I don’t know, I would just stare out the window and they thought something was wrong with me.” When he was a teenager, he started drinking and taking drugs. He claimed that if he had not discovered Transcendental Meditation, he probably would have died. Why so unhappy as a teenager? He would never say. I now realize that Stanley must have made his life miserable as a child. His sweet mother, Janice, always seemed like a frightened little bird; it didn’t occur to me at the time that it was probably because Stanley was such a brute. Andy always treated his family like it was a sitcom. When we visited he would revert to a false Long Island accent, call his parents “Mommy” and “Daddy” and act like life with his family was one long Leave it to Beaver episode. All make-believe and fun. Never serious; harsh words were never spoken. I wonder now if this was to cover up bad memories of an unhappy childhood. Perhaps this was the core of Andy’s entire career; making the world a “happy place” where Howdy Doody was real, Santa Claus could actually fly in on his sleigh, and a grown man could tinker at the piano singing children’s songs and become famous for it. When Andy and Bob created Tony Clifton, was Andy perhaps impersonating his father Stanley?
Lynne’s insight into the origin of Clifton may be spot on. I know a lot of the brutality Clifton displays when I play him comes from my own father.
Another valuable insight into Stanley Kaufman’s “explosive personality” may be war-related PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). According to Dr. Joseph Troiani, an expert in the field, “Those who have been in combat [Stanley Kaufman was awarded three Purple Hearts for injuries he sustained in World War II] have a tendency for aggressive and violent behavior once they return home stateside.” Unfortunately, the Veterans Administration did not take PTSD seriously until after the Vietnam War. Poor Stanley, a bona fide war hero, suffered in silence and couldn’t help inflicting his torments on his children and wife. I’m a big believer in a “sins of the father” psychology. Could Andy’s own aggressive behavior played out on national television be a direct link to the trauma Stanley experienced in northern France? Could Tony Clifton’s unruly behavior actually be PTSD left over from World War II?
Lynne’s comment that “Andy never talked about his past” is also insightful. I found that to be true when he nonchalantly mentioned one day he had a daughter who he’d never met. I was dumbfounded. Years after his supposed death, his daughter, Maria, surfaced. It seemed that Andy at sixteen knocked her mother up in high school. He was prepared to marry her when the Kaufmans and the girl’s parents interceded and said the teenagers were too young to get married. It was decided the child would be put up for adoption. Once an adult, Maria tracked down her biological mom, who told her that her father was the late Andy Kaufman. Kaufman had never mentioned another word about it to me, and I knew I’d better not ask.
***
Andy and I prided ourselves on being able to manipulate the media. In fact, Kaufman is equally recognized for the routines he pulled offstage as on. Therefore, I must admit I was quite impressed with the Universal Studios publicity department when they announced that the press campaign for our film would be twofold. First they would do the traditional press, but more important, because of the subject matter, namely Andy Kaufman, they wanted also to mount a non-traditional press campaign; i.e., guerrilla tactics, which of course was right up my alley. Still, it was Universal Studios, so I was at first skeptical as to how guerrilla they were willing to go.
I was flabbergasted when one day I was summoned to Universal’s “Black Tower” to meet with the head of the publicity department. His name was Marc Shmuger. I entered his office, cordially shook hands, and sat down. He said, “This conversation never took place. Bob, our research shows us [waving his hand toward a stack of field reports and journals] that there is a strong possibility that hard-core Kaufman zealots might turn on this film, for no other reason than we’re a major motion-picture company wanting to make a ‘commercial’ film of their anti-hero. They don’t trust us. We need to become the ‘good guys’ by first of all becoming the ‘bad guys.’ So here’s what we’re going to do with your help. We are going to set up a phony website with imaginary die-hard Kaufman fans. They will attack our own film. They will attack you.”
“Me?” I said.
“Yes, for this site to be believable to Kaufman fans, and so they won’t suspect it’s us, we need you to be our sacrificial lamb. Our website will paint you as a sellout for agreeing to produce commercial slop. We’ll say that we heard the script is godawful and an insult to Andy’s memory.”
I swallowed hard, still baffled. “I’m a sellout?” Marc said, “Well, just at first, of course. Once they believe the site’s for real, we’ll slowly turn everything around. Show them the script, which of course they’ll love because we’ll be telling them how great it is.” All I could repeat was, “I’m a sellout?” Marc said, “Of course we’ll soon turn that around too. In a few weeks, they’ll love you again and everyone associated with the film.”
I looked around his office, walls hung with posters of successful Universal films. All I could utter was my best impression of Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind when he said, “Who are you people?” Marc laughed. I then said, “Why would I possibly want to be your sacrificial lamb? What if the whole thing backfires? What do I get out of it?” Marc said, “Good question. You get what you and Andy always wanted: a career for Tony Clifton.” My ears perked up and I said, “Go on. I’m listening.”
“Jimmy Miller [Carrey’s manager] told us that Jim’s schedule doesn’t allow him to do much promotion for the film. So we figure, Who’s the next best thing? TONY CLIFTON.” He then undraped an easel. Under it was a large poster board with a heading that read, “Tony Clifton Publicity Campaign.” Underneath were bullet points indicating photo shoots, TV appearances, a TV pilot, a national tour, etc. Andy and I dreamed of getting Tony out there in a major way, and now here it was laid out in front of me by the head of publicity of a major studio, and bankrolled on top of that. Someone pinch me! Marc said, “What do you say? Will you be our sacrificial lamb?” I immediately started to “Baaaa …” I left his office flying on a cloud, but also thinking, “I’ll never believe anything I ever read or see on the news again. Big Brother’s for real.”
Immediately, they lined up a major photo shoot with one of the top Hollywood photographers, Wayne Williams. In the photos were two hot babes. One was porn star Chasey Lain. Seeing that I was in the Clifton disguise and this was a shoot for Man on the Moon, she assumed, like Hugh Hefner, that underneath all the prosthetics I was wearing, I must be Jim Carrey in disguise. I didn’t let her think otherwise. During one of the breaks, I took her into one of the back rooms, where she
was more than eager to give it up. Wayne Williams’s photos were to run in all the major publications: Variety, Hollywood Reporter, Entertainment Weekly, etc. Full-page color.
Next we shot an entire pilot for a series. It was called Judge Tony. I came up with the idea of a Judge Judy-like show, but in this case (no pun intended) the judge would be fake but the litigants would be real and wouldn’t know Tony was fake, and he would be like the worst judge in the world. The show’s producer hung out at an LA courthouse in front of the small-claims court, and real people with real cases were selected. We wanted cases that were clear-cut as to who was right and who was wrong. Of course Judge Tony always called it wrong. The litigants were told that they would be paid for appearing on TV. Monies would be awarded to the winner of the case, and they could also still go back to small-claims court. The producers rented a real-looking courtroom in Culver City.
Clifton was outrageous. In one case, a large, middle-aged Russian woman who had only received her citizenship six months before was threatened with deportation when she couldn’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance, as Clifton demanded—proof enough to Judge Tony that she was a “commie bastard.” The woman ran out to her car in tears. Luckily, one of the producers was able to calm her down before she pulled away, letting her know it was a put-on. The pilot was hysterically funny, some of Clifton’s best work.
The studio was also supportive of Clifton’s putting a band together and going out on tour across the U.S. in conjunction with the release of the film. I called my old friend Billy Swan to be musical director. Billy had a hit in 1974 with the song “I Can Help.” He also was a musician in Kris Kristofferson’s band and a close friend of his. Andy and I met Billy and Kris when we did a political whistle-stop tour for Gov. Jerry Brown’s election. That tour was insane. Kristofferson was a matinee film idol at the time, and women would follow our tour bus up and down the coast of California, with Kristofferson inside. When we pulled into some roadside motel at night, the women would sit parked in their cars waiting for Kris to step out on his balcony. When he did, they all suddenly left their vehicles and stood next to them, so Kristofferson could get a look at the goods. Every night, he’d summon one or two up to his room. Andy would be jealous and sexually frustrated as all hell watching Kris’s behavior and complain, “That dorky Latka character sends the wrong message to women. I wish I never had invented him. I should have brought along a hooker or two.” Andy would stay up half the night flipping through the yellow pages under “Escort Services” looking for some “companionship.”
Anyway, I called up Billy, and he assembled a top-notch band of well-known studio musicians from Memphis. Tony flew down there, and he had a great time rehearsing. Eventually, we even cut a few songs at Sun Records and recorded in the same room that Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis did—the bathroom. No joke. At Sun Records, the most acoustically balanced room in the whole place is this tight, one-seat crapper. And all the greats recorded many a hit while sitting on it. Tony could now add his name to a long list of recording stars who had done the same.
When the band and Tony were ready, Billy booked Clifton at a well-known nightspot. I was in heaven. Here I was, a co-executive producer on a big-budget film starring a major actor. Paul Giamatti is playing me in the film. Tony Clifton’s career is just about to launch. He has his own band, has just recorded at Sun Records, and tonight is playing at one of Memphis’s hottest clubs. Too good to be true … And it was.
It started with a frantic call from Lynne to my hotel room just a couple hours before Tony was to go onstage. She was nearly in tears. “Lynne, what’s wrong?” I asked. “Dr. Zmudee, you’re not going to like it. I just got off the phone with Jim. I’ve never heard him like this before. He was yelling, demanding your phone number at the hotel.” “Why?” I asked. Lynne answered, “Because he doesn’t want you to do Clifton!” “What?!?” I said. “That’s absurd.” Lynne, herself distraught, said she had to get off the line because Jim would be calling me momentarily. She hung up, feeling really bad for me, knowing my dream had come to a screeching halt.
No sooner did I hang up than my phone rang again. I took a deep breath and picked it up, believing it to be Jim. It wasn’t. It was Marc Shmuger, Universal’s chief of publicity. His news was worse than Lynne’s. Marc elaborated, telling me that Jim had flipped out and killed the entire Tony Clifton campaign—magazine ads, Judge Tony, the record, the live tour … EVERYTHING. Marc ended by saying, “I’m really sorry, Bob. I know how much this meant to you. But Jim’s an eight-hundred-pound gorilla. My hands are tied.” And PUFF! Just like that, it was over. The Lord God giveth, and the Lord God taketh away. The Lord God was Jim Carrey.
By the time Jim called, I was pretty despondent. I just couldn’t believe it. I thought he was my friend. The voice on the other end of the phone, which was screaming in my ear, almost didn’t resemble Jim, as I had never seen or heard this side of him before. He started to cut me a new asshole. He told me that I “was fucking everything up.” My having my Clifton out there was going to be confusing to the public when the movie came out. Obviously he wanted to be the new image of Clifton in the public mind, especially if this film was a hit. Who knew if he’d be offered another film playing Tony? (Remember, Universal still owned the rights to The Tony Clifton Story, which was sitting in the Universal vault gathering dust.)
Arrogance or truth came out (you take your pick) when he lambasted me and then turned on Andy for not having nearly the career that he now had. “Bob, Andy’s career was never at the level of mine,” he said. “This picture is going to make him bigger. You too. Don’t screw it up.” He could feel my pain and softened just a little at the end. “Look, Dr. Zmudee,” he said. “Let’s get this film behind us, and later down the road, I’ll help you with Clifton.” All I could murmur was, “You promise?” “I promise,” he said, and then hung up.
I was totally devastated. Remember, I still loved the guy. So did Lynne. To us, he was Andy. Of course, not the real Andy, but the next best thing. Those eight years, two shows a night at The Comedy Store for free had left their mark. He’d paid his dues, and nothing and nobody was going to grab that brass ring out of his tightly clenched fist. There was little I could do. Still, I had my own history of paying my dues. Besides, I also had Tony Clifton in my corner, the real Tony Clifton. A month later, Clifton planned his revenge on the superstar, and his $20 million per pic didn’t mean squat.
Seeing that Jim’s management made it clear that his schedule would not allow much time for promotion, it was decided that his big PR commitment would be one day—but what a day it would be. It would be the largest promotional day, not only for Man on the Moon, but also for other studio films and their stars. It was called a press junket and was to be held at the famous Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills. The studios would rent out three floors of rooms for journalists, both domestic and foreign, lavishly treat them to drinks and fine foods, and then starting at 9:00 a.m., parade the stars from one journalist to another. Even Lynne and I were summoned in to talk to the press.
Of course the big event of the junket was the appearance of Jim Carrey, the highest-paid star in Hollywood. For such an auspicious occasion, they rented out the largest and most lavish banquet room in the hotel and filled it to the max with photographers, video operators, and journalists. While the journalists were seated in comfortable silk-back chairs with chandeliers hanging over their heads, Jim was seated alone up front at a long table loaded with microphones and tape recorders belonging to those gathered. As he diligently answered their questions, little did he know that Tony Clifton had snuck into the building and, à la Sirhan Sirhan, was taking the service elevator down to Jim’s floor. Though the studio had security at the entrance of the banquet room to keep uninvited guests out, there was no one guarding the service elevator that led directly into the kitchen and then into the interview room. Clifton was on a mission: “Fuck with my career, Carrey, I’m gonna fuck with yours!”
Soon, the elevator doo
rs opened and in entered the real Tony Clifton, the international singing sensation lounge lizard who Jim Carrey had tried to put an end to. Clifton was not happy and stormed right up the aisle to Jim. Jodee Blanco, my publicist, who knew this guerrilla attack was going to take place, nervously stood among the publicists from Universal to monitor their reaction. All of them turned white as Clifton started taunting Carrey in the most disrespectful way, yelling stuff like, “Academy Award wannabe,” and “If Universal was smart, they’d change the name of the film from Man on the Moon to Tony on the Moon; then people will come see it.” Clifton raged; Jim was dumbstruck. For the first time in his entire career, he didn’t know what to do or say. He might be the 800-pound gorilla, but Clifton is the 8,000-pound Kong. This was no match.
Tony had decided the great Jim Carrey was going down, and down he went, big-time. He couldn’t put two words together. Before he knew it, Clifton pulled out a can of black spray paint. He approached the luxurious French felt flowered wallpaper pattern behind him, shook the aerosol and started to spray in large black letters the words “Tony on the Moon” while yelling to the press that HE, not Carrey, should be nominated for his portrayal of himself in the film. While Clifton defaced the premises, the press nervously laughed along, thinking, “That wall’s going to cost a pretty penny.” Jim now realized he had to act. He murmured something about Clifton being a drunk, but his comeback fell flat and he knew it. Trapped and knowing there was no way to top Clifton, Jim did the dumbest thing: he let his frustration get the best of him and lashed out by taking his arm and sweeping it across the table, knocking ten to fifteen tape recorders of the press onto the floor in pieces. The top Universal press woman almost had a heart attack. Jim then ran from the scene, out of the room. It was bedlam.
