by Howie Mandel
At one point, I was offered a tiny indie movie directed by Garry Marshall’s son, Scott. In this movie I played a really bad guy. I looked in the mirror and thought, I don’t look like a bad guy. Once again, impulse took over. I shaved my head. In my mind, the bald guy is the bad guy—except for Uncle Fester, Kojak, and Yul Brynner in The King and I.
I’ve got to tell you, it was so much fun. I went into my bathroom. I shaved just the top, and for five minutes I was Larry from the Three Stooges. Then I shaved up above my ears and became Princess Leia for the next two minutes. I then shaved it clean, got in my car, and went to the set.
When I came home from work that night, I walked into the house. Terry had not seen my head, nor did she know I had shaved it. After twenty years of marriage, what would she say? How would she react? She stepped around the corner, saw me, and was immediately taken aback.
“Oh … my … God,” she said. Where is this going? I thought. After a long beat, she continued, “That is so sexy.”
My knee-jerk reaction was “Wow.” For her to have that reaction was wonderful. What man does not want to be considered sexy? Then the neurotic side of me kicked in. I had been with this woman for two decades. If I’m sexy now, what have I been for the last twenty years?
My initial intention was to grow my hair right back after the week’s work. But it felt really clean, which is a nice thing for somebody who has issues with germs. As a shower aficionado, I believe the hair is the leading indicator. If you happen to touch your hair and it’s a little oily, you will probably want to take a shower regardless of how clean you are. Of course, with my OCD just being conscious is my indicator. I looked at it as if I had just grown my face. For me, more to soap is more to enjoy.
I had been on television and in front of the public for the last twenty years, but after a few strokes of the razor, I had disappeared. No one recognized me. I could walk into a neighborhood establishment I had frequented every day and not even be acknowledged. Once I opened my mouth, they would recognize my voice. This was usually followed by a very concerned look.
“How are you?” they would ask.
“I’m fine,” I’d say.
They would repeat, “Really, how are you?”
I didn’t get it at first, but then it dawned on me. They thought I was ill and going through chemotherapy. My days were filled with assuring the few people who recognized me that I was fine. I could tell that they would walk away unconvinced. This is the reason I decided to grow a lip bang, or soul patch. If I have facial hair, I must be healthy.
My new look not only felt good psychologically, it enhanced my anonymity for my hidden camera pieces. It also gave me another ten minutes in my stand-up act. However, my new look and cleaner feeling were not enough to snap me out of the malaise caused by my dwindling career.
I decided to sit down and write a script for a TV pilot based on my life. The concept was a comedian with a wife and three children who happens to do hidden camera pieces for a living. The humor would come out of the fact that he would be working within a five-mile radius of his home and the effect this would have on his family.
Now, remember that I suffer from severe adult ADHD. When I say I sat down and wrote, I mean I wrote a two-line synopsis for the show. You may not believe me because you’re more than 195 pages into this book. But I could never do more than a couple of pages a day, and even that was torture.
In 2004, I sold the idea to NBC. We shot a pilot entitled Hidden Howie that just didn’t work out. I ended up doing six episodes of the show for Bravo. Professionally and psychologically, I really needed this work. This character was me, and this story was my life. I put all my energy into promoting the new show. I called in every favor I could. I made every possible TV appearance, did every piece of press you could think of, and both Jay Leno and Michael Gelman were incredibly generous in allowing me to promote the show. In spite of all my efforts, the show failed immediately.
I was so distraught that I wanted to quit the business. I was a broken man. Okay, I realize now as I write this how it must sound. People come back broken from war-torn countries or natural disasters. These are real-life catastrophes. Why was I broken? Because two networks didn’t pick up my pilot. But in that moment, it was horrible. I felt I just couldn’t go on in this business.
I was seriously considering other options. I had been dabbling in real estate and making investments throughout my career. I was thinking of getting involved in this full-time. Unlike show business, real estate is a profession you don’t put your heart into, only your cash. If for some reason it gets taken away from you, all you’ve lost is your money, not your soul.
For the first time in my life, I took my destiny into my own hands. Up until now, my career was just a sequence of opportunities that had presented themselves. All of those opportunities seemed to have vanished, so I was forced to create my own. I made a conscious decision to turn away from show business and go into business without the show.
Within minutes of charting my new path, the phone rang. It was Michael Rotenberg. He told me that Endemol and NBC had called and asked if I would be interested in hosting a game show. He didn’t even get the word show out of his mouth before I abruptly said no and hung up.
How bad could it get? I had just made a decision to leave show business. Even if I were to remain in the business, I could not imagine being a game-show host. I’m an actor. I’m a comedian. Being a game-show host would certainly be the final nail in the coffin of my career.
About fifteen minutes later, Michael called back. “Have you calmed down?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Can I just tell you a little bit about the show?”
To humor him—and maybe me—I said, “Go ahead, Michael. Tell me a little bit about the show.”
“This show airs in sixty-five countries,” he said. “It’s a huge hit all over Europe. In fact, the host in Italy got offered millions of dollars to walk off the show by a rival network because it was cutting into their ratings.”
“For a game show?” I laughed. “That’s crazy.”
“Let me describe the show to you,” he said. “It’s called Deal or No Deal. There are twenty-six cases. They have bikini models holding the cases, and people try to pick the case with the million dollars in it.”
“Wait a second,” I interrupted. “So you are telling me … how long is this show?”
“It’s an hour,” Michael said. “And NBC has devoted an entire week in prime time to launch it in December.”
“What?” I asked. I thought he had just told me that NBC was going to devote an entire week of its prized prime-time schedule to launch a game show with bikini models holding briefcases.
“They are going to put it on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday in the evening,” he said.
“I know how many days there are in a week, and I know how television works,” I shot back. “Can I just say something? The bikini models may get you thirty seconds of fun television. It sounds more like a magazine. Is there any trivia?”
“No.”
“Are there any stunts?”
“No.”
“Is there any skill involved?”
“No.”
“Goodbye, Michael.”
Five minutes later, the phone rang. Michael again. He wouldn’t let this go. He told me that they really wanted me as host and that Rob Smith from Endemol would like to meet with me in person as soon as possible and pitch me the idea. I told Michael that I was going to Jerry’s Deli in the Valley for lunch and if Rob wanted to buy my soup, I would listen to him.
A half hour later, I was sitting in Jerry’s Deli, and a man I now know was Rob Smith walked up to my table. He introduced himself and told me that he just wanted to show me the game before I passed.
Remember, I had been told it’s the biggest game in the world. Not only is it the biggest game in the world, but NBC is devoting five hours in one week of prime time to it. Endemol, I knew, did Big Brother and Extr
eme Makeover: Home Edition. So I sat back, ready for an elaborate song-and-dance presentation.
From under his arm, Rob pulled out an art board. In the other hand, he had a little plastic bag. I moved my soup to the left so he could put his art board on the table. I looked at the board. With a Magic Marker, he had sectioned off the board into twenty-six squares. Then he opened the plastic bag. He had made little squares with pictures of a briefcase on each one. On the other side of the squares, he had taped little pieces of paper with dollar amounts ranging from $1 to $1 million. Rob shuffled the twenty-six squares and placed them on the board. It looked like a project created by a seven-year-old with special needs.
At this point, I thought somebody was doing a hidden camera prank on me. This show was supposedly a major worldwide hit that NBC was going to air for a week in its most valuable real estate. They couldn’t spend six bucks at Kinko’s for a presentation? I sat and waited for the punch line.
Rob took me through the game. He told me to pick a case and not look at it. I removed one of the handmade cards and set it next to my soup. “That’s your case,” he said. “Now we are going to start the game. Pick six cases.” I complied. He then turned them over. I saw the numbers written on them: $500, $1,000, $50,000, $25,000, $75,000, $250,000. “Right now, if I offered you a hundred and thirty thousand dollars to quit, would you take it … or would you keep playing and go for the million?”
“I get it,” I said. “So why me?”
He talked about seeing my talk show, watching me on St. Elsewhere, and attending my live shows. The public’s awareness of me had also just peaked because of all the press I had done for my sitcom, Hidden Howie. “We want somebody who has acting, comedic, and improvisational skills,” he said. “You are perfect for this.”
I was incredibly flattered. “If I say yes, when do I start?” I asked.
“Monday,” he replied.
“Don’t you have to build a set?” I asked.
“It’s built.”
“Don’t you need twenty-six models?”
“They’re cast,” he said. “We are ready to shoot.”
These are the moments where you realize you are not number one on the list. When they come to you just two days before production begins, you can be sure that their first, second, and third host choices must’ve said no. That was why I was perfect for this.
I still didn’t think I wanted to do it. I went home and told Terry about the offer. Without skipping a beat, she said, “Take the deal, you idiot.”
“But it’s a game show,” I said. “It will screw up my career.”
Terry, whom I love for her beauty, her intelligence, and most of all her honesty, answered me. “What career?” she said. “You don’t have a show. You want to quit the business. Why not try something new? You have nothing else to do.” She’s always there with her words of encouragement.
Deal or No Deal was shot at Television City, where American Idol and Dancing with the Stars are also taped. I showed up for work on my first day and was introduced to a man named Dick, who’d invented the game. He was a very sweet mathematician with a Dutch accent. He explained to me that the entire game was based on a probability equation. Dick and I were taken to a basement at the studio so he could teach me how to play.
He wanted me to be so familiar with the game board that I would focus only on the contestants. And he believed we would achieve this by making me play the game with him in a windowless room thousands of times.
Dick put the twenty-six cards in front of me and told me to talk to him as though I were hosting the game. I told him to pick a case. He did. I then told him he had four more cases to open. Dick picked $500,000. I said to him, “You just opened a big number.”
Immediately, he interrupted, “Not number. Amount. Don’t say ‘number.’ Say ‘amount.’” Apparently, this was very important … to Dick.
Hours went by and I felt as if I were being tortured. I was holed up in a basement, being subjected to mathematical hell. I was no longer allowed to say “number”; I had to say “amount.” During one break, I called Terry at home and told her that this was all her fault. I was about to snap.
They took me upstairs to the set. It was beautiful, and all the girls were, too. I began introducing myself to the models. I went up to the first girl and said, “Hi, I’m Howie. I’m the host.” She turned to me and said, “You’re friends with my dad.” Now I felt like the old guy who was not allowed to say “number.” Remember, Howie, “amount.” Amount.
That weekend, I called some writers from The Howie Mandel Show to help me prepare. I thought if nothing else, I should try to be somewhat entertaining. More than anything, I was afraid of being embarrassed on national television.
Then came Monday. I was downstairs getting ready, and there was a big discussion about whether I would wear a tie and take out my earrings. They wanted me to look like a game-show host. I was fine with the tie, but I told them that I wasn’t going to remove my earrings. A big negotiation ensued. I figured this would be my out. When they informed me that my earrings had been cleared by the studio brass, I was a little disappointed. I was hoping I could get out of what I believed was going to be a big embarrassing mess. It just didn’t seem to me that you could fill an hour of television by pointing at cases and making offers.
The audience began pouring into the studio. The lights came up, the crowd roared, and the countdown from the control room began. I started out alone in the vault offstage. America didn’t know what this show was, so they gave me these very dramatic lines to explain how it worked. I would recite these lines as I made my way to the main stage.
“Five, four, three, two, one….” The show began.
“Around me are twenty-six cases,” I said. “Each of these cases is holding an amount of money. One of these cases is holding one million dollars, and tonight, without any skill, without any stunts, without any trivia, somebody could walk out of here with one million dollars.” As I came through the tunnel onto the main stage, I continued: “And all they have to do is answer one question.” Then I walked into the light at center stage in front of the audience and asked for the first time, “Deal … or no deal?”
The crowd erupted on cue. I thought, Oh, my God, this is different from being in the deli with Rob from Endemol or in the basement with Dick the mathematician. This is kind of exciting. But how are we going to fill this hour?
I introduced the first contestant. I’ll never forget her name: Karen Van. She jumped up out of the audience onto the stage. I was standing two feet from her. I looked into Karen’s eyes and realized that this was real. We were no longer pretending. This person had hopes and dreams and a family, and if things went well, her life could be changed forever.
It hit me like a ton of bricks. At that moment, every concern I had fell by the wayside. In that split second, I was no longer a comedian hosting a game show. I didn’t care about being funny. I didn’t care about being entertaining. I didn’t care about being embarrassed. My entire focus became about making sure that I didn’t stand in the way of Karen Van walking out of there with as much money as possible.
The contestants find themselves in the center of twelve cameras, 350 people, and glaring lights. I would notice a glaze set over them. I wanted to make sure that everything was incredibly clear to them so that they could make the best decision possible. With some of the contestants, even my cadence changed. I would repeat the dollar amount over and over very slowly, making sure that it sank in.
I can’t tell you how great it feels to witness somebody walking out with enough money to pay for college or buy a new house. That being said, I can’t tell you how devastated I feel when a contestant walks away with nothing. I can carry that with me the entire day. I feel terrible and wonder whether I influenced their decision in any way.
The first five episodes were a tremendous experience, but I still had no concept of what I had done. I didn’t know how viewers would respond. How did I know that I was not going to be the
laughingstock of show business?
The shows were set to air over the Christmas vacation. As luck would have it, I had booked a family vacation on a cruise to South America. I thought it would be great for me to be out of the country and away from potential humiliation. This would be my last bastion of mental relaxation, which, by the way, I’ve never had in my life. I remember lying on the deck of the ship someplace in the Caribbean at the exact same time I knew the show was airing, hoping I could just stay there forever.
I woke up the next morning to an email that read, “Wow!” As it turned out, the show had set a record for NBC on a Monday, excluding football or the Olympics. The next morning, I got another email. The ratings had gone up for the second night, again breaking a record. Each day that week we got more and more viewers, and I was part of the biggest success in my professional life.
The game I initially believed was silly and the job that I had turned down were now becoming my biggest success. I don’t know if my wife was more excited about the success or the fact that she could say “I told you so” for the rest of our lives. I know that had I been left to my own devices, I would not be part of it.
Just after New Year’s, the ship returned to the port of Miami. As I made my way through the terminal, it began. People would recognize me and shout out, “Deal!”
The next few months were like a whirlwind. The show had been picked up and returned to the air right after the Olympics. Deal or No Deal became part of the zeitgeist. There were parodies on Saturday Night Live, references in magazines and comic strips, and even a look-alike puppet on Sesame Street that plays Meal or No Meal. My own notoriety shot through the roof.
People seemed to be fascinated with my new look. I had shaved my head seven years earlier without anybody noticing. Now all of a sudden, I had created a new look for my new show.
I believe that Scott St. John, the executive producer, is the mastermind behind the success of Deal or No Deal. From choosing the contestants and the look of the set to the feel during game play, he built an amazing machine. All that was left for me to do was show up and allow the contestant to play the game.
