I Remember Me

by Carl Reiner

  “Mr. Ferrer,” I gushed, “you were so brilliantly funny and entertaining the night I saw you perform at the Stage Door Canteen—I just had to tell you that!”

  The silence and not hearing a phone being slammed into its cradle was my cue to continue gushing. “You had me and that whole audience falling off our seats! I had no idea that you sang—and those songs, they were hilarious. Where did you find them, and where did you learn to play the piano like that?”

  There was a thoughtful, measured pause before he spoke. “Where and when,” he asked, enunciating his Ws, “did you say you saw me perform?”

  “At the Stage Door Canteen in New York—about ten years ago, just before D-Day. I was on furlough and wandered into the Canteen. I had never expected to see a serious actor cut up like you did. You had me and my buddies howling. My friend Sol said that you are a fucking genius!”

  Whoa, too much, I thought, better dial it back a bit.

  I was sure Mr. Ferrer was going to hang up on me, and he did, but not before asking for my number. Amid all my slathering, I must have said something that piqued his interest and, two days later, he called and I found that the old adage, “Flattery will get you nowhere!” was wrong. Maybe ordinarily flattery will get you nowhere, but my slathering flattery of his comedy timing got me Ferrer!

  Joe—yes, he asked that I call him Joe—loved comedians, and he loved comedy and was intrigued with the idea of performing in a comedy. It took a bit more cajoling and the layering on of compliments about his comic instincts, which I truly believed, as I did when I told him what “a ball” he would have working with wonderful comedians and comic actors. What sealed the deal was my listing those who had signed on: Jack Gilford, Elaine May, Don Rickles, Michael J. Pollard, David Opatashu, Janet Margolin, and Shelley Winters.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Enter Laughing, Exit Screaming!

  My Affair with Shelley Winters, Part 2

  When Shelley Winters signed on to play the role of the mother in Enter Laughing, she had already collected a shelf full of awards and nominations, among them, Academy Awards for The Diary of Anne Frank and A Patch of Blue and nominations for A Place in the Sun, Alfie, and Lolita. She had also received a Golden Globe and a British Academy award for her role in The Poseidon Adventure. Shelley was also an active member of The Actor’s Studio.

  Besides celebrating her for her acting, the national and international press exhaustively chronicled her love life and her four marriages. Many articles featured her stormy marriages to Hollywood’s ruggedly handsome Anthony Franciosa and to the debonair Italian actor, Vittorio Gassman, with whom she had a child.

  Her reputation as a brilliant actress was richly deserved, as was her reputation of being, at times, exasperatingly stubborn, egocentric, self-indulgent, socially inept, and the biggest pain in the ass ever to set foot on a motion picture soundstage.

  And true to form, at the first rehearsal of our first day of shooting Enter Laughing, I learned that Shelley Winters’s reputation as a big pain in the ass was accurate.

  The scene we were to rehearse was set in a kitchen. Shelley, playing the mother of an aspiring eighteen-year-old actor, is discussing her son’s future with her husband, played by David Opatashu, who is waiting to be served breakfast. As the scene opens, the mother complains of a headache and, while their dialogue is going on, she prepares and drinks an antacid preparation. To keep the scene from being static, I instructed Shelley to busy herself by taking a glass from the cupboard, crossing to another cupboard to retrieve the antacid, cross the room, open a drawer, get a spoon, come back to the table, pour the powder in the glass, and then go to the sink, fill the glass with water, and drink the powder. For the antacid, I chose a Seidlitz powder, the weakest and most palatable product available.

  We rehearsed, and it went well enough—she got through her lines and was at the point where she was about to drink the antacid, when I yelled, “Cut!”

  “Why did you yell cut?” Shelley shot back.

  “Because this is a rehearsal, and I don’t want you drinking any more than one glass of this stuff.”

  “But I have to know how I will react to it when I do it on camera.”

  “Shelley,” I explained, “however you react, it will be an honest one, and we’ll use that.”

  We rehearsed the scene one more time and then shot it. Again I yelled cut before Shelley drank the Seidlitz powder, and again she was upset that I did. I explained that we would not use that particular shot because it was a long shot; her drinking would be in a close-up.

  Now, with the film rolling and her face in a close-up, she drank almost a glassful and then stopped, spit it into the sink, and sputtered, “This stuff’s terrible. I always use Citracal. I have some in my dressing room—somebody go get it!”

  I was hoping that this would make her happy. I was working on a limited budget and had much to shoot that day. We did the next take, and all was going well until Shelley gulped down a mouthful of her Citracal and grimaced. “This is warm, I can’t drink Citracal with warm water. Can’t I get some ice water?”

  “Not from the sink, Shelley.”

  “Well, I can’t drink this stuff with warm water!”

  I explained that there was no way we can get ice water through the cold-water tap. And that was it—no ice water, no scene! It was up to me to find a way of getting ice water into that glass. Being the son of an inventor, I did come up with a way. I instructed Shelley to place her glass in the sink, right under the faucet, and then turn on the tap and fill the glass. I explained that a glass of ice water will be preset right next to where she set her glass.

  “When your glass is filled,” I explained, “turn off the faucet and pick up the glass with the ice water. The camera is placed at an angle that excludes the glasses in the sink.”

  We rolled the cameras, shot the scene again, and Shelley was perfect, that is until she drank, spit, and shouted, “This isn’t ice water!”

  I don’t know how she did it, but Shelley managed to pick up the wrong glass—twice—before getting it right. By the time we completed covering the scene, Shelley had downed at least four glasses of Citracal. Before each take, I told her we have the shot and she did not have to drink any more of the stuff, but she insisted that if she didn’t drink it, her performance and the scene would ring false. When I warned of the possible effects of drinking that much antacid, she assured me that she had been “using this stuff for years and never had a problem.”

  By early afternoon, she had a problem, and her problem became our problem. Work stopped every time she ran to the ladies’ room, which was often. We also lost time locating and bringing her the proper absorbent soda crackers whenever she screamed, “Bring me some of my crackers, right now!”

  Somehow we managed to film the scene and, to Shelley’s credit, one would never know that she delivered that first-rate performance between bouts of vomiting and attacks of diarrhea.

  It was on the final day of shooting, at a small theater in downtown L.A., where Shelley Winters and I had our non-consensual “affair.”

  We had very limited time to film the last scheduled scene of the morning. I needed but one quick shot of Shelley Winters and David Opatashu, seated in the audience and watching the theater curtain rise. All that was required of them was to watch the curtain rise as Jose Ferrer makes his first entrance on stage right, acknowledges some scattered applause, crosses the stage and sits in a club chair. If I got that one reaction shot of the audience, I could move the camera and lights off the stage and after lunch be ready to shoot the action, on the stage. There was one small but surmountable problem—Jose Ferrer had a late call and was not present. I had planned to step in for him, make his off-camera entrance, cross the stage and sit in the club chair just as he would. I told Shelley my plan, and Shelley asked, “Why couldn’t Jose do it?”

  I told her he was
not scheduled to be here until after lunch, and Shelley said, “So why can’t we do the scene after lunch?”

  “Because if we do, Shelley, it would throw us off schedule.”

  “For me to react honestly,” she said, “I have to see Jose enter, in his costume, and walk across the stage.”

  I reminded her that she is an actress, a method actress, and that she knows what Jose looks like. I said that I would wear his jacket and walk like him—and she actually said, “I’m sorry, but I cannot work this way.”

  “This is how I work,” I said, “and we haven’t the time to work any other way.”

  “I have! Call me when Jose gets back!”

  With that, Shelley turned, left the theater, and went to her trailer, where she remained through lunch and after lunch through the shooting of Jose Ferrer making his entrance on stage.

  She remained in her trailer while we reluctantly set the lights and camera to film the parents’ reaction to the curtain going up—a shot we should have made before lunch.

  When all was ready for Shelley and David to take their seats in the audience, only David showed up. Our good and loyal assistant director, Kurt Newman, informed me that Shelley refused to leave her dressing room. I knocked on her locked door and told her that we were ready to do her scene, and she responded by not responding. I called upon Joe Stein, my co-producer and co-screenwriter, and asked that he try to get our star on stage. He tried and failed. Shelley told him that I had humiliated her in front of the cast and crew and that there was no way she could return to the set.

  I thought about what I could possibly do or say that would get Shelley out of her trailer, and, what do you know, an idea did pop! I told Joe to tell her that I intended to make an important announcement to the entire company and that “I did not want Shelley present when I made my little speech, but if she was interested in knowing whose fault it was that they may be losing their jobs because the production was likely to be shutting down, she might want to eavesdrop!”

  Joe relayed my message to Shelley, and the following is pretty darned close to what I told the assembled cast.

  “Folks,” I said, speaking loudly for Shelley’s benefit, “we have a problem! A major problem that threatens to shut down our production. I don’t have to tell you that we are working on a very tight budget. We were scheduled to finish this film thirty-two days after starting principal photography—and a problem arose for which I will take some responsibility. I say ‘some responsibility’ because, as you know, it takes two to tango. My ‘co- tango-er,’ you may have guessed, is our star, Shelley Winters. When she agreed to do the part of the mother, I promised her something that I had every intention of honoring but I can’t. I told Shelley, who, as every man in the world knows, is a very sensuous and desirable woman, that at least once a day, during production, she and I would have sex. Well, I discussed this with my wife, and she simply refused to give me permission to screw Shelley, so I had to renege on my promise. Shelley, I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you come back to work, I promise you that, even at the possibility of wrecking my marriage, we will get it on anytime you want—except while we’re shooting a scene. How about it, Shelley?”

  Throughout my speech, the crowd giggled, but when Shelley sashayed onto the set and hugged me, they exploded.

  For the rest of the filming, Shelley remained Shelley—but a mellower, more manageable version of her talented self. She fully captured the essence of a concerned Jewish mother, and she faithfully delivered the actual line my mother said to me after seeing me perform as Donald Meadows in The Bishop Misbehaves. She patted my cheek and said, “You were the best one!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Do You Know Any Commies?

  In 1692, by participating in the Salem, Massachusetts, witch hunts, groups of self-righteous do-gooders did bad things to good people. A young girl suspected of practicing adultery would be hunted down by zealots, tried in a biased court, found guilty of practicing witchcraft, have the letter “A” branded on her forehead, tied to a stake, and burned to death.

  In the 1950s, the words “witch hunt” were co-opted by our journalists. It was an era when unprincipled politicians and reactionary radio commentators grabbed the headlines and the microphones and attempted to ruin the lives of patriotic American citizens, oft times succeeding. For a blessedly short time, Joseph McCarthy, a junior senator from Wisconsin, chaired an appropriately named investigating committee, “the Army-McCarthy Hearings.” The committee’s main objective was to identify and silence members of the army who were suspected of being communists or “fellow travelers.” His hate-filled words and behavior were dubbed McCarthyism. Fortunately, his career was short and not too sweet. His reign of terror ended in a courtroom, where, after professing his disdain of “Commies and Jews,” he attempted to impugn the patriotism of a young army private. The senator had gone a step too far, and the patient, kindly Judge Joe Welch shook his head in sad disbelief and said, “At long last, sir, have you no sense of decency?”

  Those words were heard and applauded by the millions of Americans who had gathered at their television sets to watch the proceedings. Among those millions applauding and cheering was a small group huddled in front of a portable, twenty-inch set that belonged to Sid Caesar, the star of TV’s The Sid Caesar Show. Among the group of “huddlers,” besides Sid, were his co-star, Nanette Fabray, his staff of writers and his second bananas, Howard Morris and me. All of us were mesmerized by the hearings, which had been going on for a week.

  At that time, most of us were able to discern which proposed legislation or social philosophy or presidential candidate would best serve our country. We forward-thinking Americans were called liberals or progressives, but folks like Joe McCarthy referred to us as “Commies” or “damned Commies.” Today, many decades later, liberals are still called liberals, and some are dubbed by the right as “left-wingers” or “socialists” or “not real Americans.” One thing, however, is vastly different. Today these abusive speeches and viciously contentious discussions that go on between the right and the left are heard and seen by millions more people—and on giant, high-definition, flat-screen television sets with surround sound.

  I believe it is safe to say that our technological capabilities still have not made it easier for the viewers to know whether the opinions expressed by the television news analysts and commentators are their own deeply held beliefs or the “talking point” beliefs held by the corporation’s billionaire station owners.

  In 1953, my wife and I, with money saved from my salary as a second banana on TV’s top-rated show, purchased a new split-level house at 48 Bonnie Meadow Road in New Rochelle, New York. For the next seven years, Estelle and I and our two young children, Robbie and Annie, were living the American dream.

  Then, one bright spring morning in 1954, at 8:30 a.m., I was rudely awakened by the ringing of my doorbell. Sleepy-eyed and annoyed that someone would ring our bell this early on a Sunday, I rolled out of bed and managed not to awaken my wife, who was ordinarily a light sleeper. Barefooted and clad in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, I made my way past the sleeping children’s bedrooms to the front door. Through a little side window, I saw two rather nattily attired men in dark blue suits. They had pleasant smiles on their tanned faces—their smiles a bit too pleasant for my comfort.

  “Yes?” I asked as I opened the door.

  “Mr. Reiner?” one asked. “Carl Reiner?”

  “Yep, that’s me,” I answered. “And you are?”

  “We’re from the FBI,” he said, flashing a toothy smile and his credentials. “May we come in, Mr. Reiner?”

  “Of course!” I countered, smiling. “Come in, gentlemen, come in!”

  “Thank you,” the second agent said as they entered. “I hope we didn’t waken you.”

  “Oh no, I was getting up to answer the doorbell anyway,” I joked, ushering them into the fo
yer.

  They accommodated me with a chuckle.

  What are they after? I thought. Or is it who are they after?

  My mind was spinning. How should I play this? I asked myself. Play—that’s it, a play! I’m in a play, and I’m the lead actor!

  Since the two G-men were soft-spoken and ultra-polite, I decided that I would out-soft-speak them and out-ultra-polite them.

  “Hey, this is no way to greet guests,” I said, indicating my apparel. “Would you gentlemen excuse me while I put on some fresh underwear? I’ll join you in the living room.”

  I trotted to the bedroom, where I found Estelle sitting up in bed and looking concerned. From the whispered conversation, Estelle intuited that something was wrong. As I casually put on a robe, I told her that she had nothing to worry about. She might have believed me, had I not said, “For FBI agents, they sure are polite.” When I saw her eyes widen, I realized she had not known who had rung our bell.

  “And they’re handsome,” I joked. “The tall one is your type, Jimmy Stewartish.”

  I gave her a hug and promised, “Everything will be fine!”

  I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep that promise, but I would try. On both our minds was the fear that everything we had built in our twelve years of marriage—our home, our children’s security, our way of life—could go up in smoke. I knew why the FBI knocked at my door—for the same reason they knocked on the doors and harassed many of our nation’s biggest stars. Information was fed to them by vigilante-citizens like Lawrence Johnson, a red-baiting owner of a small supermarket in upstate New York. He was the first to post the names of performers he suspected were either communists, communist sympathizers, socialists, or anyone who had joined what he dubbed a “left-wing organization” like the AVC, the American Veterans Committee, a World War II vets organization, of which I was a proud member.