Lost in the Funhouse

by Bill Zehme

  The fakir would debut for television on Saturday Night Live, where he knew it would remind people of what he had done long ago before making such a racket. The date was set for October 23 and he was advertised as that week’s special guest star and he arrived early in the week to begin rehearsal. On Saturday evening, he performed at dress rehearsal as well, after which Stanley and Janice came to Rockefeller Center to watch the live broadcast and they were about to be seated in the studio audience when Andy was told that he had been cut from the show due to time constraints and due to the fact that Dick Ebersol was not thrilled with the fakir. “It was fifteen minutes before show time,” said Stanley. “He was devastated. And I was seething. I’m quick to blow my stack. If I had seen Dick Ebersol that night, I probably would have smacked him.” Said writer Bob Tischler, “Andy had never been bumped from the show before. He was legitimately pissed.” Tischler had followed him back to the Berkshire Place Hotel to assess the damage and attend to reparations. They went to Ebersol the next week with a plan writhed from the mire. He wanted to be scheduled to appear the following Saturday, October 30—“He told me to bill him at the top of the show as a guest but then he wanted me to cut him again,” said Ebersol. “He said, ‘While the show’s on the air, you’ll send somebody to the dressing room to tell me there’s not enough time and I’m not going to get on. It’ll be a totally normal thing. Then we’ll stage a fight out in the hallway after the show finishes.’”

  The premise of the appearance he would not make was to be an explanation of why he had been bumped from the previous week’s show and a personal attack on Ebersol—and because it was such a straightforward piece, a monologue, he would not have to be part of the pre-broadcast dress rehearsal that evening, which was a good thing because he would actually be in Gainesville, Florida, at that time, performing an actual concert—a makeup date, really—at the University of Florida. To accommodate the Saturday Night Live scheme, the concert had been moved up two hours, after which he would speed to the airport and fly directly to New York so as to be present when he was cut from the show and therefore assault Ebersol outside the studio as the audience filed toward the elevators after one A.M. and thus ignite gossip and scandal. None of this would be known to anyone except Ebersol and Tischler and writers Blaustein and Sheffield and director Davey Wilson. Later, Ebersol would tell Kay Gardella of the New York Daily News why he had bumped Andy and his monologue—“He handed me three handwritten pages he planned to do that [were] not only unfunny but also belligerent. Frankly, I felt betrayed. I made my mind up that he was not going on.”

  And so they fought because he had been cut twice in a row; and so they fought in the hallway by the makeup room—“Andy comes out of this makeup room and accosts me,” said Ebersol. “Starts screaming at me because I had fucked him and I owed it to him as a friend to put him back on the show. It got worse and worse and I was taking it, but he was good enough to start actually making me angrier and angrier. Finally, I turned my back on him. He never stopped screaming.” Said Blaustein, “It was great theater, totally believable. Everyone was sort of spellbound—the audience, the staff and crew that were milling around.”

  It was happening all over again.

  And none of it was televised.

  Two Saturdays later, November 13, the plan lumbered forward. Andy watched in Los Angeles and saw, near the very end of the program, Ebersol address the camera and the audience—

  “Hi, I’m Dick Ebersol, the executive producer of Saturday Night Live. In recent weeks, we have received inquiries from many of you, including even the editors of TV Guide, as to why, prior to our last two telecasts, we heavily promoted Andy Kaufman and then failed to present him as advertised. So tonight, let me set the record straight by saying, in my opinion, that in both cases Andy misled us into thinking, right up until airtime, that his material would be up to the show’s standards. It was not. It was not even funny, and in my opinion Andy Kaufman is not funny anymore. And I believe you, the audience here, agrees with me. So thank you, and I hope this sets the record straight. Good night.”

  Gardella, afterward, in the Daily News: “True or not, it’s a cruel blow even if the two were embroiled in a publicity stunt, which Ebersol denies.”

  The audience at the Letterman show liked the fakir bit just fine. He performed it there five nights later. He was forbidden by the network, however, from mentioning Ebersol or Saturday Night Live. But he did tell Letterman, “Lately, it’s become a pretty popular thing to say that Andy Kaufman isn’t funny anymore. [Audience laughed.] And that Andy Kaufman should not be allowed on television, and that he should be banned from television.” He likened it to blacklisting—“It reeks of McCarthyism to me”—and brandished a clipping from the San Jose Mercury News whose headline blared, ANDY KAUFMAN SHOULD BE PUT OUT TO PASTURE. [Audience awwwwwwwwed.] He told Letterman, “Let’s face it—yours is about the only show I’m allowed on right now. And I thank you very much.” And Letterman said, “Well, we kinda feel it’s a badge of honor, Andy.” He also said that he was working with his lawyers on a plan to refund the price of admission to anyone who had paid to see Heartbeeps. Letterman said, “Well, make sure you have change for a twenty.”

  He had buttonholed Ebersol outside the Improv the previous summer and told him that he had very much liked the Larry the Lobster vote in April. “Andy had been intrigued with the vote,” said Ebersol. “That had resonated with him. And so he had it in his mind that he wanted to have a vote like Larry.” Which had been the crux of the mission from the start. He had wanted to build the rejection of October 23 into a monstrosity of consumptive rejection—from the hallway skirmish to the he-isn’t-funny-anymore statement to the cry for appeal on the Letterman show to a culmination in democratic process and telephonic technology. Should he be allowed to return to the show or should he be banished forever? On the November 20 broadcast, the nation would be polled and two telephone numbers would be given out over the air—one to save him, one to punish him for all transgressions in aggregate. The lobster had lived and he insisted to Ebersol that he would as well. “He never thought he would lose,” Ebersol said. “I know that as clear as day.” Blaustein: “He didn’t think he could lose. He was convinced they would vote him on.” Tischler: “He didn’t think it could backfire.”

  They tried to talk him out of it.

  He camped all week in the Berkshire Place Hotel and received their repeated entreaties to call it off. He told George that he was sure that even if he lost, they would let him return somehow. He wouldn’t even have to be him when he came back. Some other him could come back. He had many other hims from which to choose, didn’t he? And it was going to be all in fun, only fooling, no really, anyway, wasn’t it? He was not worried.

  “As the week went along,” said Ebersol, “I kept saying to Tischler, ‘He’s not going to win this.’ The wrestling had ticked people off. He was going to lose the vote and then we were really going to be in trouble, because if people vote no, then the vote has to hold.” Blaustein said, “I remember late Thursday night we went over to the hotel and said, ‘Andy, just as your pieces have to be real, so does ours. And if they vote you off, you can’t come back—unless we do something at the end, where you run in and cause a disruption and somehow you say the vote was fixed.’ He said, ‘No, I want to keep it real. They’re gonna vote me on.’ We said, ‘But if they don’t, you realize that you can’t ever come back?’”

  Clifton could, though—except Ebersol hated Clifton, never wanted Clifton anywhere near the show, nobody liked Clifton, even George had to tell him that Clifton was over, that Clifton did not work, that Clifton was dead, keep the Clifton puppet from the Fun House show and play with the puppet, but there was no way Clifton would be allowed on the show….

  Ebersol went to the hotel very late Friday night. He gave his final plea. He told Andy, “Bringing this into a vote is an enormous mistake.” The vote had not been advertised. There would be no loss in killing it. The cast would have time for mor
e sketches. “But the vote is going to lock us in,” he said, “and we’ll have to live with the results.” Andy told him, “No no no no no no—we’ve got to do it!”

  He knew he would lose. He told Zmuda. He told George.

  George stayed in California. What was the point? They would think of something. Ebersol had discovered Andy, for God’s sake. Ebersol had given him Saturday Night Live! Time would win out somehow.

  Zmuda returned to California after the Letterman show. He was working on a screenplay for a movie called D.C. Cab and there was nothing he could do anyway. They spoke on the phone about Clifton, who was dead, which they refused to understand.

  November 20, on air, cast member Gary Kroeger:

  “… During the next hour, we’re going to be counting these votes, and I want you to remember that this show is live … we’re doing it for real. Andy Kaufman’s career at Saturday Night Live is in your hands. Now, I happen to think that Andy Kaufman is a comedic genius. If you agree with me, call 1-900-720-4101. However, if you think Andy is not funny anymore, if you’ve seen enough of his wrestling women, the Mighty Mouse bits, the phony injuries, the stupid, unfunny hoaxes—if you’ve had enough of this loudmouth, call 1-900-720-4202. You can call as many times as you’d like, but remember each call is gonna cost you fifty cents….”

  He was never ahead.

  Early tally, on air, cast member Eddie Murphy:

  “… This is how you people have voted so far. It’s Keep Andy: 38,945 and Dump Andy: 48,838. [Audience cheers] Now, last [season], I asked the people to call in and save Larry the Lobster from being boiled alive. The response to that was overwhelming, and tonight I’m asking you to vote to save a human being. Isn’t Andy Kaufman worth as much as a lobster? [Shouts of NO!] … You people are sick! …”

  End of program, guest host Drew Barrymore and cast stood at homebase stage, Kroeger reported final vote:

  Keep Andy: 169,186.

  Dump Andy: 195,544.

  The lobster poll had drawn a total of 466,548 votes.

  His poll inspired a total of 364,730 votes.

  One way or another, people had cared more about a lobster.

  Ebersol and Tischler walked to the hotel afterward to check on him. “He was disconsolate,” said Ebersol. “He couldn’t believe it. He was very sad. Not angry—sad. I think deep inside he figured that there was some way we were going to deal with this whole thing.” Over the following Thanksgiving weekend, George called Ebersol and said, “Dick, this is a mess. We’re losing bookings. We’ve got to do something about this. It’s really hurting him businesswise.” Ebersol suggested that Andy make some commercials that could be aired very inexpensively during SNL holiday repeats in relatively smaller markets like Omaha, Des Moines, and Macon, Georgia. Andy returned to California and made twelve of them. Some were pathetic—“Maybe one day Saturday Night Live will have a change of heart. Or I’ll find another show that I could go on. Until then, I just want to wish you all the best….” Some were indignant—“Sooo, you thought you could get rid of me, you 195,000 people that voted to dump Andy Kaufman! … You will never be able to get rid of me! You see my face? You don’t like it? Try and turn it off! You can’t do it….” Ebersol said he would work one of the commercials into the show’s Weekend Update mock-newscast on January 22, 1983, which he did only because it was legitimate news that Andy was mounting this campaign. He told George, “If the fans don’t go nuts or get really negative about it, then I’ll think there’s enough basis to start figuring a way to bring him back.”

  They ran one of the more pathetic commercials, but the audience did not awwwwwwwwww, which would have helped, and some viewers and press alike claimed the show had welshed on its promise by giving Andy even another thirty seconds of airtime. Ebersol called George and said, “We’re going to have to rest this for at least a year or more.” Years later, he would concede that SNL, which had prided itself on flagrant rule-breaking, had perhaps taken itself a bit too seriously in this matter—“In retrospect, it seems so silly, but we had a loose sort of integrity with this thing. People had spent money voting—about one hundred eighty grand. It seemed strangely unconscionable to do a backflop on the deal. But eventually we would have.”

  Writers Blaustein and Sheffield met with him in the aftermath. They presented an idea in which he would be disguised as a black cleaning woman in the background of sketches over the course of many weeks until finally he ripped away the artifice and declared himself back. He liked the idea at first, but as time went on he thought it seemed a little too desperate. Plus, the whole thing sort of made him, um, sick.

  He had lost his favorite playground.

  His father, meanwhile, would nurse a hatred for Ebersol that grew more incendiary with every passing year. “Miserable bastard,” Stanley would say. George would also somehow see it all as a double cross. “They could be rightfully pissed at Dick for a million different things,” said Tischler, “but in terms of the vote, it was Andy who was really driving it. He refused to understand the reality of it. Reality, however, was something he always had an unusual relationship with.”

  Before the vote, he kept asking Johnny Legend about that Lynne girl and Legend told him that his sister, that Lynne girl, was helping to edit the Blassie movie and then by late fall they were ready to show him a rough cut of the movie out by Venice Beach so he went and he watched her more than the movie and they all went to a Mexican restaurant that was open until three in the morning. Their first night together they stayed up until dawn watching televangelist Dr. Gene Scott, thereby consecrating their own private unusual relationship with shared realities. Which was to say, they fit. She would let him strangle her in cars to frighten other motorists; she would hang out with him in pinball arcades at ridiculous hours; she would perform screaming fights with him in public; she had posed in Apartment Wrestling magazine grappling with another girl in bikinis; she had done a nude layout for Gallery magazine; and she didn’t mind his obsession with prostitutes. The moment she knew they were meant for each other came weeks after they began and they were at the Berkshire Place in New York—“He took his socks off and blew into them and started rolling them up. I recognized that from the W. C. Fields film The Man on the Flying Trapeze, and I repeated a line that Fields’s wife had said—‘Why would the maternity hospital be calling you in the middle of the night?’ And his eyes lit up, as if to say, ‘Oh my God! She knows what I’m doing!’ And that was it—that sealed the deal.” He sang her Slim Whitman songs. She liked “Rosemarie” best. He told her he was taking something called the Making Love weekend workshop, which was taught by his old TM friend Johnny Gray—who liked to be called John now—and Gray’s wife, Barbara De Angelis, both of whom were psychologists. Kathy Utman, who loved to spread love, had urged him to do it, since maybe there had been so many negative things happening to him that maybe he needed to be reminded about love. He told Lynne about one of the exercises where you have to reveal to the person you’re partnered with, which was Kathy, the worst thing you’ve ever done in your life. He said the worst thing that he had ever done in his life was picking his nose when he was alone in the bathroom. “He was completely serious,” said Lynne. The workshop also taught him that masturbation was not good for relationships because it drained energy and made one less present with other people. He did not like learning this—he had never liked learning this—since he was a frequent enthusiast of the practice. (“That’s one of the reasons he was late sometimes,” said Kathy.) But he did stop for a while and people said his eyes became more present and more clear.

  On the seventh day of 1983—which was ten days before his thirty-fourth birthday—he returned to Rockefeller Center, where his banishment from Saturday Night Live still hung thick in the air, and visited the Letterman show to demonstrate his new loving nature. He hugged Letterman and bandleader Paul Shaffer and the producers and audience members and said that he loved each one of them and then he called his parents from backstage and announced, “This is Mommy a
nd Daddy.” And he addressed them—“Mommy and Daddy, I never told you this before, but I just want to say that I love you both very much. And I’m sorry for if—I know I was a hard kid growing up—I gave you hard times. And I’m sorry for all the hard times I gave you…. And I really appreciate you. I’m very grateful to have you both as my parents….” And he hugged them both and Stanley said that they loved him very much, too, and Letterman said, “It’s a little like Queen for a Day out here.” Then they all sat down and Mommy and Daddy told stories about Andy and about how he stood up in the crib and played the records and about how he entertained the little children at birthday parties. Mommy also said she hated the wrestling with women and Andy pointed out that it had embarrassed her so much that she was afraid to go to the beauty parlor for fear of what ladies would say. And Stanley said he was still incensed at Jerry Lawler and then they called Grandma Lillie on the air and Andy said he loved her, too, and the whole family, including Lillie, sang “Row Row Row Your Boat” for all the nice viewers. And if there was a put-on at all during the visit, it was that this was not the first time that Andy had told Mommy and Daddy that he loved them. He said that all the time always. It was just that maybe 195,544 certain people who watched Saturday Night Live might not have known what a lovely fellow he truly was.

  He sent the real him onto a television program hosted by a psychologist named Tom Cottle who asked him all about him no really and he told Cottle about the sad little boy who stared out the window when the grandfather died. He told about the boy with the cameras in the wall and the boy in the woods by the playground. He told about the meditating that saved him from becoming a wino in the gutter. He promised that the mean things he said about the women he wrestled were only fooling in fun and that he believed professional wrestling was really real after being thrown on his head three times. Cottle asked him how he felt when Elvis died and he said, “I was sad and, you know, like everybody else, I was a little doubting whether it was true or not, you know? It was a sort of unbelievable thing.” He coughed quite a bit while he did all of his telling.