by Jerry Lewis
Three little (but really not so little) things happened along the way, things that made us more us. One night while we were playing Chicago, Dean took a look at my pompadour and said, “What do you do, get your hair cut from the inside?”
It was clearly time for a change.
A little-known fact is that Dean, whose dad was a barber in Steubenville, was a deft hand with the scissors himself. He told me about it that very night—then sat me down in the hotel room, put a sheet over me, took out the snippers he always carried to trim his own curly locks, and made my pompadour history. I was a little shocked when I saw the result—“Where’s the rest of me?” I said, stealing Ronnie Reagan’s line from King’s Row—but I understood the wisdom of Dean’s move in our very next show, when I suddenly found myself getting bigger laughs than I’d ever gotten before. With my crew cut, I looked much younger—which sure helps if you’re acting like a nine-year-old—and more monkeylike— which sure helps if you’re acting like a monkey. With one haircut, my partner had given my stage persona an unforgettable stamp: Nobody had ever mistaken either of us for the other before, but now? Impossible!
And one unintended side benefit: I suddenly looked two inches shorter! Another little-known fact is that (once my adolescent growth had topped out) Dean and I were the exact same height, six feet tall on the button. The fact is little-known because we didn’t play that way. If Dean was the older brother and I was the kid, it had to look like that on stage. The crew cut helped, and so did the fact that I went into a kind of crouch when I was standing next to him. But I decided to give nature a helping hand (and return the favor for the haircut). I took Dean’s show shoes to a shoemaker and had a quarter-inch added to the heels.
Suddenly, he was towering over me on stage. The effect was perfect.
But there was still something missing.
It came to me as we were about to open at the Chez Paree in Chicago—a place that would come to have a big part in our professional lives, and in Dean’s after we broke up. “We’ve got to work in tuxes,” I told my partner.
I might as well have told him we had to work naked. “Tuxes??” he said. “Why?”
Up to that point, we’d been performing in gray street suits with matching four-in-hand ties. We could have been borrowed from Florsheim and no one would have noticed. “Because,” I said, “if we don’t, then we’ll look like the act that opened in Atlantic City—two stumble-bums getting paid a load of cash. We’re getting a bundle, and we have to look like we deserve it. An audience can see anybody on the Bowery wearing a gray suit—and lying in the gutter, yet. But when a comic takes a fall in a thousand-dollar tux... that’s funny! Don’t ask me why, but I know what I’m talking about.”
I’d said the magic words: Dean knew I knew. When Mike Fritzel and Joey Jacobsen, Chez Paree’s owners and two great guys, heard what we had planned, they called us into their office. Joey said, “I’ve just made arrangements for both of you to be fitted for high-class tuxes made by Pucci on Michigan Boulevard—only the top-of-the-line tailor in the country!”
When the fittings were done, we were convinced that when these tuxes were finished, we were going to see work like we had never seen before. And since we were booked into the Chez Paree for twelve weeks, it was certain the great Pucci would take his time getting the tuxes made. Meanwhile, Dean and I continued to work in our gray street suits, at the same time reporting back to Pucci every week for further fittings.
This went on for seven weeks, and—not wanting to insult Mike and Joey, who were paying the $2,000-plus for each tux (big bucks in those days)—neither Dean nor I ever uttered a peep of protest. When we finally got the tuxes, we decided to wear them the same night.
We did, and we were awful.
Not only did our work feel stiff and strained, but we both felt like we were appearing at a funny farm and we were two of the inmates. The only good part was that everyone that saw us that night said, “Now the act has class.” So Mike and Joey were right! Gradually, we started to get comfortable—but not as comfortable as we would be when we eventually had our tuxes made by our tailor, Sy Devore, in Hollywood. When that happened, we really looked great, and we felt as strong as we looked.
From that night at Chez Paree, and not only for the rest of the ten years that we were together, but for the thirty years thereafter, Dean would never work without a tux. It became part of his persona, and he always looked smashing in it, as well. There were dates when my wardrobe didn’t show on time, and I would rather rent a cheap tux than work in a $1,500 suit. Dean and I both recognized that looking like big-time brought big-time.
That venue of venues I mentioned a moment ago was, of course, the Copa. The crème de la crème of nightclubs, the top spot in the country, and the big one that had eluded us so far. In early 1947, when Martin and Lewis were really starting to pick up momentum, the club’s bookers approached our agent, Abner Greshler (Dean had fired Lou Perry, and all his other agents and managers, by this time) and offered us $750 a week, less than half of what we were earning elsewhere by then. Abby turned them down flat—and we almost fired him. “It’s the Copa, for Chrissakes!” we yelled. “How could you do that?”
“You can’t sell yourselves short—it sets a bad precedent,” Greshler told us. “They’ll be back with a proper offer.”
He turned out to be right. After we’d finished our swing around the East and Chicago, establishing ourselves as the hot new act, our agent was able to book us at the Copacabana, starting in April 1948, at $2,500 a week.
We were in!
With the following large caveat: If we hit big, we’d be the toast of the town—of the town. But if we fucked up, we’d just be toast.
No pressure!
Like almost every important nightclub of the 1940s—all right, like every important nightclub of the 1940s—the Copacabana was owned by the Mob. In this case, the proprietor was New York boss Frank Costello, although for appearance’ sake he had a front man, Jules Podell, a former bootlegger with a prison record. Julie, a would-be tough guy with a raspy basso voice and a huge star-sapphire pinky ring, was not renowned for his tolerance or sensitivity. Once, when Sammy Davis Jr.’s act ran long, Podell yelled, “Get off my stage, nigger!”
The Copa was the summit. The epitome of glamour and unstuffy sophistication. The gorgeous, scantily clad Copa chorus line was legendary. As were the audiences packed with every boldface name in the gossip columns—along with all of New York’s top mobsters and their girlfriends on Saturday nights. (Those same mobsters would bring back their wives and children on Sunday!)
And Dean and I were petrified that opening night. Or, I should say, I was petrified. Dean was his usual serene self—and as always, the calmer he looked, the more certain I was that something was cooking. I didn’t want to think too hard about that, though. I desperately needed that cool of his to keep a lid on my own anxiety.
The Copa was so big-time—and, even after our big first year and a half, we were so fresh on the New York scene—that we weren’t even the top-billed act. That honor went to a Broadway singing star named Vivian Blaine, who’d conquered Manhattan, gone out to Hollywood to make movies for 20th Century Fox, then returned to the Big Apple in triumph. Vivian was a lovely and very talented actress and singer, a sweet and vivacious woman whose hair was a remarkable color that the creative publicity department at Fox called “cherry blonde.” She would go on to have a very successful career, most notably starring as Miss Adelaide in both the Broadway and film versions of Guys and Dolls.
Which makes me feel a little less bad about what Dean and I did to her.
Vivian Blaine or no Vivian Blaine, second billing or no second billing, Dean and I knew only one way to go out onto the stage of the Copacabana, and that was with a big bang.
It was Thursday night, April 8, 1948. First show, 8:30 P.M. After the Copa Girls and the house singer had performed, I stepped out on stage, my heart in my mouth. I scanned that super-glamorous audience and saw my mother and fat
her, Patti, and Dean’s wife, Betty. Not to mention every heavy hitter in show business. There wasn’t a nobody in the joint—it was all somebodies. I saw Billy Rose, Walter Winchell, Milton Berle—all of them (except, of course, our families) there to see Vivian Blaine. And I stepped up to the mike and spoke.
You’re all wrong!
“My father always said, ‘When you play the Copa, son, you’ll be playing to the cream of show business,’” I told the audience.
My dad smiled. I looked out over the crowd, made a face, and shifted into a Yiddish accent: “Dis is krim?”
The crowd went nuts.
I did a few bits, then introduced my partner. Dean came up on my right and said, “How long we been on?”
When the laughter faded a little, he asked me, “Are you gonna be out here for a while?”
“No, I’ve got something to rinse out,” I said. “Sing something, why don’t you? They’re waiting!”
Then Dean sang “San Fernando Valley” and “Oh, Marie” and “Where or When”—and he sang wonderfully. Smooth, funny, sexy: The ladies, feeling as though they’d just discovered him and had him all to themselves, swooned. And then I stuck fake buckteeth in my mouth and careened around the Copa like a bat out of hell, knocking over busboys’ trays right and left, destroying crockery like I owned stock in Wedgwood china. It was the same act we’d been doing since the 500 Club, but this was the Copa. Our pandemonium worked like gangbusters (literally!) in these classy but mobbed-up surroundings.
We’d hit it just right. The Copa was the High Temple of nightclubs, but then and now, New York has always loved chutzpah. We were having a little fun with the Holy of Holies, getting right in its face.
But remember this: An audience is like a jungle animal—it smells fear. It will turn in a second. What Dean and I did on that all-important night wouldn’t have worked nearly so well if the crowd hadn’t caught on, immediately, to our self-assurance (the tuxes helped) and the fun we were having together. This ultrasophisticated audience had never seen a two-act enjoy themselves, and each other, so much. It was like nothing these smart-ass New Yorkers expected, including the critics. (Cough!)
We were supposed to do twenty-five minutes—and we were well aware of Podell’s ugly temper if you ran long—but we finally left the stage after fifty minutes, exhausted, with the crowd yelling for more.
We walked off that stage as if we had wings. We flew to our dressing room, and had to come back for three encores, doing fresh shtick each time. In the dressing room, we had the stage monitor turned up so we could hear the applause.
When it finally subsided, we heard the strains of the headliner’s music as the announcer introduced “the star of our show, Miss Vivian Blaine!” Almost sixty years later, people who were there still recall the eerie silence that followed that announcement. You know A Night to Remember, the movie about the Titanic? Well, this was a night to remember, and Vivian Blaine was the Titanic.
We were still listening on the monitor in our dressing room, changing our clothes as she began her opening number, a typical special-lyric song about how “I finally made it to the Copa” (probably written by Sammy Cahn, the special lyricist to the Hollywood heavyweights). At the finish of her number, the applause was something like what a white act, with no rhythm and singing off-key, might get at the Apollo Theater on amateur night. Vivian halfheartedly sang one more song, then left the stage in tears.
There were at least a hundred people jammed in the hall outside our dressing-room door, waiting to tell us how we’d conquered New York. People were hugging us, kissing us, just wanting to touch us. Every once in a while, Dean and I would glance at each other, shaking our heads.
Then Monte Proser, Julie Podell’s partner, stuck his head in the door with a grim look on his face. He was a short, balding, very natty fellow, always dressed to the nines—cuff links, stickpin, velvet-collared jacket, black-and-white shoes at the wrong time of year. Very natty. He whispered something in Greshler’s ear.
“What was that all about?” Dean asked.
“We have to be in Proser’s office as soon as the crowd clears out,” our agent said.
Proser was sitting at his desk, shaking his head. “I’d be a damned fool if I did nothing about this show,” he told us. “It’s all wrong.”
Greshler instantly went on the defensive. “Wrong? They took three encores, got a standing ovation—where the hell did you see wrong?”
“It’s not them I’m talking about,” Proser said. “Vivian Blaine is the problem. After what happened tonight, there’s no way for her to headline. So I’m going with Martin and Lewis. I’m putting her in the opening slot.”
I glanced over at Dean. He had a pipe stuck in his mouth, and he was doing Eddie Cantor banjo eyes. Leave it to my partner to cut up at the most important moment in our career. But that was Dean’s way of handling big moments.
Poor Vivian quit the next morning. What else could she do?
And Podell and Proser extended our engagement at the Copa for twelve weeks, at $5,000 a week.
It was like stepping onto a merry-go-round spinning at a thousand miles an hour. Between the Copa and a one-show-a-night gig at the newly renovated Roxy Theater, we were pulling down $7,500 a week. Each. As a point of comparison, the apartment Patti and I were renting in Newark cost sixty bucks a month.
And it wasn’t just the money. Suddenly, it seemed as if everyone in New York City wanted to meet us. A lot of them were female people.
Dean, of course, had never had any trouble in that department. I was a little slower to come to the party. At twenty-two years old, I’d never been what you’d call a ladies’ man—all the more so since I had married at nineteen. But I’d paid careful attention to Dean’s words during our late-night bull session; I’d been impressed by his free and easy way of drawing the line between his fun and his domestic life. A super-handsome man, I knew, could always have it both ways. But now, I was learning, success and fame were just as much of an aphrodisiac as good looks.
Two encounters during our first few weeks at the Copa would have a huge effect on us, both as a team and as individuals. The first, like something out of a fairy tale, was good and evil at the same time. It would take us to enormous wealth and fame—and would lead, ultimately, to our breakup.
The second would join us forever to the biggest star in the world, and would continue to reverberate for both of us, individually, long past the split.
The first meeting was with the legendary Hollywood producer Hal Wallis. As production chief at Warner Brothers, he’d made Little Caesar, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, The Charge of the Light Brigade, Casablanca, and Yankee Doodle Dandy. He’d left Warner’s in the mid-forties and hung out his shingle as an independent producer. Now he and his partner, Joe Hazen, had a distribution deal with Paramount Pictures. We both knew Wallis’s name, and we were pretty damned impressed when he stopped by.
But then Hal B. Wallis seemed pretty damned impressed with himself. He was a stocky, well-dressed fellow with a big, suntanned bullet-head like one of those stone statues on Easter Island. Wallis squinted at you, sized you up, and made you feel like it was a privilege just to shake his hand. He also didn’t appear to have a sense of humor—especially when he told us he thought our act was “terrific fun.” In fact, you’d have had trouble finding many comedies in his résumé, which should have told us something right then, but we weren’t thinking about that when he said he wanted to sign the two of us, then and there, to a Hollywood contract.
“Where’s a pen?” I yelled. Funny guy. Dean looked pretty excited, too. But once again Greshler, who was standing by, prevailed.
“The boys are booked at Slapsy Maxie’s”—a famous Los Angeles nightclub—“in late August,” our agent told Wallis. “We’d love to sit down and talk with you then.”
Wallis smiled politely—looking not especially pleased that he hadn’t gotten his way on the spot—and said he looked forward to it.
“What were you thinking?
” we wailed to Greshler after Wallis left. “Hollywood comes calling, and you send it packing?”
“You think he’s the only fish in the sea?” Greshler said. “You watch—they’ll all come courting.”
Once again, he turned out to be right. And though what resulted wasn’t a shotgun marriage, in the end it might as well have been.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE DAY WE ARRIVED IN LOS ANGELES—AUGUST 9, 1948— our new press agent, Jack Keller, took us to George Raft’s house for our first Hollywood party. George Raft! My eyes were practically falling out of my head. My God, Raft was the biggest movie star in the world (or at least the biggest one I’d ever met), and here he was in his cabana, telling me to pick out a pair of brand-new swim trunks and go jump into his gorgeous backyard pool. I suited up and ran out to Dean—who was standing poolside, cool as could be, with Loretta Young, Sonny Tufts, Edward G. Robinson, Veronica Lake, Mona Freeman, William Holden, William Demarest, and Dorothy Lamour. . . . All big, big names of the day. I tapped my partner on the shoulder and—I couldn’t help myself— screamed, “Now, this is show business!” Despite his blasé appearance, I knew Dean couldn’t have agreed with me more. He idolized Raft, who’d had a rough background similar to his own. As a kid, he’d seen every movie the tough-guy actor ever made.
As the sun set, Keller came by Raft’s house to pick us up for our press conference at the Brown Derby. When we got there, we met the queen of gossip columnists, Louella Parsons, aka The Headhunter from Hearst. She spoke like a Muppet without a hand up her back. As she interviewed us, she wrote on a little pad given to her by the Shah of Iran during a polo match at the Will Rogers estate in Pacific Palisades on a hot summer day when Clark Gable was sitting on a horse but couldn’t get a game.... We found all this out because we asked, “Where did you get the cute pad?”
