by Carl Reiner
George, in attempting to placate our disgruntled friend, reminded Mel that the American Association of Family Physicians was sponsoring this prestigious event and how excited they were.
“They have never before had anything like this,” Dan offered. “There will be over four thousand people at each of your two shows.”
“I don’t give a shit!” Mel commented.
“They’ve been sold out for a week!” I chimed in. “These people are dying to see the 2000 Year Old Man.”
“Let ’em die!” Mel mumbled.
Better them than me! had to be the unspoken words in Mel’s head.
I believe that the clue to Mel’s reluctance to perform that night was his fear of “dying” on stage. He doubted his ability to come up with enough great ad-lib lines and jokes that would elicit the kind of laughs these people expected and had paid good money to hear. For the balance of the trip, Mel remained surly and blamed George, Dan, and me for throwing him to the lions.
“Never again,” he mumbled over and over. “This is the last time I let anyone talk me into anything!”
“Mel,” George reminded him, “for a couple hours of work, you’ll be getting a big chunk of money.”
“I have a big chunk of money,” Mel shot back. “Driver, take me back to the airport!”
Mel’s order fell on deaf ears, and we arrived at the arena, where the show’s jubilant producer greeted us with the news that they “had to turn people away.”
“They’re the lucky ones,” Mel mumbled too quietly for the producer to hear.
The better the news, the more negative and more vociferous Mel became. He did not want to be in San Francisco, and he said so in as many different ways as he could. At one point, he insisted they refund the money and “get my ass back to L.A.”
The producer informed us that the “chunk of money” to which he referred came to two hundred thousand dollars—a hundred thousand for each of us. This news only angered Mel more, and his cursing and fussing intensified as he strode from the limo to our dressing room. Luckily, Mel could stew for only a few minutes before hearing an announcer’s voice boom our names over the loudspeakers. There was no turning back—we bounded onto the stage and, for an hour and a half, I asked questions and Mel answered them, while the audience tried desperately not to fall out of their seats. The laughter was loud and continuous. The applause we received as we left the stage was sustained and so apparently sincere that we felt the need to return for an encore.
One down and one to go. We had less than an hour to recharge before getting to bat again.
We both knew it would be impossible to top the reaction we received for that first show, and we were right. We did not top it, but we did something which, by any standards, was a miracle: we equaled it! It was as if the engineers had recorded the first audience’s laughter and replayed it.
All of us had family and commitments back in Los Angeles, and after bidding sincere farewells to our happy producers, we scurried to our limo. On the drive to the airport, George, Dan, and I chatted about the performances, while a taciturn Mel sat quietly in his seat and stared out the window. Soon, we all fell silent.
I had asked Mel hundreds of questions that night, and I had one more that I was compelled to ask. I took a deep breath and posed the following: “Mel, be honest. Had you known you would get the reaction you did tonight, how much money would you have asked for?”
Without missing a beat, he answered, “Fourteen dollars.”
I knew it, George and Dan knew it, and now you all know it—Mel Brooks is a true artist! He was clearly saying that he would have done it for nothing, but he knew that “fourteen dollars” would get a laugh.
It did, didn’t it?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nose to Nose, Eye to Eye, and I to Mel
I just jogged my memory which, at ninety, is exciting, since I can no longer jog my legs. I recalled another time and another place where there was no big auditorium, no four thousand screaming fans, and no big chunks of money. There were just the two of us, alone in a living room. I don’t know why, but on that lazy afternoon, something possessed me to teach Mel how to speak French, or rather how to speak English with an exaggeratedly phony French accent.
I pointed out that when in a foreign country, if you need directions or help, the natives will be friendlier and more forthcoming if you attempt to speak to them in their language. If, for instance, you asked someone in broken English, “Mister sir—for eat—you can say me—where—is food good?”, the person would likely go out of his way to help you.
While explaining to him the advantages of speaking a foreign language when in a foreign country, a two-man comedy bit was born—a bit that only Mel and I knew existed, and now you know.
For the lesson, Mel and I faced each other while I attempted to teach him to speak English with a phony French accent. Using an officious attitude, I started by pointing to my nose and garbled these words: “Mr. Mel, say after me! The nose!”
Which came out: “Meeeestah Mellluh, sayuh ahftah meeuh! Zee nohhze!”
Mel pointed to his nose and replied, “The nose.”
“Noh, noh, noh,” I said impatiently, “iz not de noss! Iz ‘zeeee nohze, zee nohhhhzze!” We went through this exercise four or five times, and each time Mel said “nose” clearly, I became more and more agitated and kept repeating it my way. When he finally got close, I gave up and reluctantly went on. I then pointed to my chin and said, “Ziss iss zee tttseeennuh—zee ttttseeennuh—say zee tttsseeeennuh!”
Mel again pointed to his chin and said, “The chin,” at least a half dozen times before I accepted his best effort which was “Zuh tsin.”
Mel had equal trouble accepting my pronunciation of the cheek. “Zee tsssick, I insisted, zee tssssick, zee tssssick!”
“Zuh sick, zuh sick.” was the best Mel could muster.
I half-heartedly accepted, “Suh sick.”
Our most contentious confrontation came when I pointed to my eye and said, “Zis iss zeeeee ayyeeeyuh—zeeeee ayyeeeyuh! Zeeee ayyeeeyuh!”
Mel, with his finger resting on his cheek and pointing to his eye, shook his head and said, “That’s not the eye!”
To which I calmly informed him, “No, ziss isss how youuuu sayuh, zeeeee ayyeeehuh—zeeeee ayyeeeyuh!”
Mel insisted it was not the eye that I was pointing at, and the more Mel insisted, the more apoplectic I became. To make my point, I shouted my silly pronunciations louder and louder until Mel had enough and stopped me. He then impatiently explained why I was wrong.
With his fingertip resting on his cheek below his eye, Mel calmly stated, “This is not the eye.”
“Yess, issss,” I insisted, “zat issss zeeee ayyeeeeyuh!”
“No, that is just below the eye! This,” Mel insisted as he pointed to his eye, “this is the eye!”
Then, with the tip of his finger, he touched his eyeball. You may doubt that the man actually poked his finger in his own eye just to get a laugh—and from an audience of one! But that is what he did. Seeing the redness in the cornea of his blinking eye and the tears that fell from it made me realize that Mel is cut from a different comedy cloth than most funny men. I challenge you to find a comedian who would poke a finger in his own eye just to amuse one person.
Fortunately, the person Mel amused that lazy afternoon would, one day, in a book of treasured anecdotes, preserve our stupid but precious piece of performance art.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“It’s Not the Size that Counts…”
(and other Estellisms)
When our daughter, Annie, was about to turn sixteen, my wife and I and our eighteen-year-old son, Rob, were seated in the living room, discussing with Annie what kind of a sweet sixteen party she would like and what major gift we might get for her.
Rob, who had strong opin
ions about most things, and a typical “big-brother-knows-more-than-little-sister” attitude, spoke up. “Hey Annie,” Rob suggested, “why don’t you get what all your friends got for their sixteenth?”
“What did they get?” I asked.
“A nose job!” Annie wailed. “Rob wants me to get a nose job!”
“Why not?” Rob chided. “Your friends all look great! I hear the guys are chasing after them.”
“Hold it, Rob,” I chimed in. “Your mom has a more prominent nose than Annie, and look at the handsome guy she got.”
At this point, all eyes turned to Estelle, who nodded knowingly and offered this bit of philosophy: “Yes, it is not the size of your nose that counts; it’s what is in it!”
Those wise words got a big laugh and tabled the discussion permanently. Annie kept her lovely nose and, judging by the successes she has had in her many endeavors, she made the right decision.
A few years later, when directing The Jerk, a film starring Steve Martin, I told Steve what Estelle had once quipped and thought it was very amusing.
Sometime after The Jerk and the three more films we did together, Steve called to ask if Estelle would mind if he used her line in his new movie, Roxanne. He had adapted it from Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac and was in the process of shooting it. Estelle was thrilled that Steve wanted to put her words into Cyrano’s mouth. And she was again thrilled to be at a preview and see Steve on screen, declaim as Cyrano, “It is not the size of one’s nose that counts—it is what is in it!”
I wonder if Monsieur Rostand would have hated or loved the liberties that were taken with his text—my guess is that he would have loved it. Steve Martin did, and who doesn’t love Steve Martin?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Estelle Reiner, One Ahead of Humphrey Bogart
When Rob Reiner was directing the film When Harry Met Sally and considering who to cast for the part of an elderly woman who delivers a humorous line, his mother immediately came to mind. Rob knew of his mom’s ability to get a huge laugh by tossing off a few well-chosen words.
Both Rob and his mother have been interviewed many times about how she came to be in the now-iconic scene that was shot in Katz’s Delicatessen. Estelle’s reply when Rob asked her to fly to New York to deliver the one line, was, “Rob, why do you want to spend money to fly me to New York to play an old, Jewish woman when the whole city is full of wonderful actresses who can do that part?”
“Because, Mom, no one will do it as funny as you,” was his answer.
And that was it. Rob’s mom flew to New York, delivered the line, “I’ll have what she’s having!”, and flew back to California the following day. For the record, the line, which has since become famous, is constantly being quoted—even finding its way as a question on a recent telecast of Jeopardy.
In her lifetime in the arts, Estelle has had many great reviews. She had been lauded for her one-woman art shows, her hundreds of appearances as a jazz singer in clubs and cabarets, her seven jazz albums and CDs—but I don’t think anything gave her a bigger kick than having smiling people come up to her in restaurants, department stores, or at airports and repeat to her a version of the line she delivered in Katz’s New York Deli.
And there have been many, many versions of the line, among them:
“Can I have what she had?”
“I want what you’ve got.”
“Can I have what she’s eating?”
“I’ll have some of that!”
For the record, the classic line was an ad-lib Billy Crystal came up with during a rehearsal.
A few years ago, the American Film Institute voted the line as number ten in a list of the best hundred lines in modern movies. This year, People magazine and ABC conjointly narrowed it down to five, a shorter and even more salutary list.
#1.Gone with the Wind
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!” —Clark Gable
#2.The Godfather
“I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse!” —Marlon Brando
#3.Sudden Impact
“Go ahead, make my day!” —Clint Eastwood
#4.When Harry Met Sally
“I’ll have what she’s having.” —Estelle Reiner
#5.Casablanca
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” —Humphrey Bogart.
Which puts Estelle Reiner one ahead of Humphrey Bogart.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Christmas in Kealakekua, Hawaii
Our youngest child, Lucas, was just two years old when we flew to Hawaii for his very first winter vacation. It started a lovely family tradition that continued for many years. I remember this one fondly because our teenage daughter, Annie, accompanied us. In years past, she and her brother Rob had opted to stay home and hang with their friends. Obviously their pals were a lot more fun to be with than parents who were dedicated to raising them to be the best human beings extant—by suggesting that they do things that were, for the most part, boring.
This winter vacation again proved to me that it is possible for children to have a really good time with their parents. We spent our days, as all our fellow vacationers did, eating three beautifully prepared and elaborately served, delicious meals that featured fish with exotic names like ahi ahi—or is it mahi mahi? At his first luau, little Luke’s eyes widened as he watched the giant pig being roasted on a spit. It could have been traumatic, but he seemed to be intrigued with the fire and the pageantry.
When we were not eating or napping, we journeyed to the shore that was twenty feet from our door and splashed around in the warm tropical ocean while warm, soothing trade winds wafted the sweet scent of bougainvillea right up our noses.
On Christmas Eve, when we tucked Lucas in for the night, we told him, “Luke, when little boys and girls go to sleep, Santa Claus visits their homes and leaves presents for them—and tomorrow when you wake up, you will see all the presents he left just for you.”
Lucas asked to hear the story about Santa and the presents a couple of times before nodding off. What we did not tell him was that the day before, when the four of us drove into town and stopped at Ben Franklin’s Department Store to buy some toothpaste, we bought a lot more than toothpaste.
While Estelle and I had scooted up and down the aisles, doing Santa’s work—loading up our shopping cart with the toys and knick-knacks, which we hoped would brighten little Luke’s Christmas morning—little Luke was outdoors, being kept busy by his sister. Annie’s job was to feed coins into the small, mechanical pony that Luke was sitting on and keep the pony rocking until we signaled that our mission was accomplished.
It took almost thirty minutes to gather up enough goodies to make our son’s Christmas morning merry and bright.
It might have been the splashing in the ocean or the long mechanical pony ride, but that night, the minute his blond head hit the pillow, little Luke fell sound asleep.
While he slept, the three of us wrapped and tied ribbons to the dozens and dozens of small, inexpensive items we had tossed into the shopping cart. We hoped he would enjoy receiving and unwrapping them as much as we enjoyed buying them. Among the eclectic group of gifts, I remember: a toy soldier, an eraser, a box of Cracker Jacks, a pack of baseball cards, a small pencil sharpener, shoelaces, a chocolate-chip cookie, a box of crayons, a harmonica, a roll of Scotch tape, paper clips, two Tootsie Rolls wrapped separately, a memo pad, a pair of socks and other items.
We placed the dozens of colorfully wrapped presents on the floor between our room and the room that Lucas shared with Annie.
Surprisingly, we were all up before Luke. It was only seven o’clock, but it seemed that we were more excited to see his reaction to the presents Santa had brought him than he was to receive them.
We waited impatiently for him to awaken and soon found ourselves speaking louder than we normally did. It worked
, and minutes later we saw a sleepy-eyed two-year-old enter the room and slowly make his way toward us. He took a few hesitant steps and stopped when he was about ten feet from what he must have suspected were the presents Santa had left for him. He stared at the stash that lay before him—slowly looking to the right, then to the left, then up at the three of us, who were looking down at him. We had expected that he would sit right down and start ripping open the packages to see what Santa had brought, but instead he just stared at the colorfully wrapped presents strewn across the floor. A goodly amount or time passed before he looked up, smiled, and asked, “When is next Christmas?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Our Day in St. Tropez
In the south of France, nestled on a hilltop, overlooking a healthy grove of olive trees, sits a charming, private domain, or as the French say, “une domaine privee.” Sixty-five private homes make up the picturesque enclave called Castelleras Le Vieux. It was here in Castelleras, in a comfortable, compact, two-story house, that my wife Estelle and I spent fifteen idyllic summers of our sixty-five-year married life.
A more relaxing summer is hard to imagine. Most years, I used these two months to recharge the batteries I had depleted directing and writing motion pictures. The depletion comes from the concern every director has, from the quality of the script, to the casting of actors, to the finding of locations, to dealing with studio heads, viewing the dailies, suffering through the rough cuts, viewing the final color-corrected print, attending press previews, reading the critics’ reviews, and lastly and most importantly, learning of the public’s acceptance or rejection of what you hath wrought.
