I Remember Me

by Carl Reiner

  Since writing about Hedy Lamarr, I learned something about the woman that I had not known until reading the Calendar section of today’s L.A. Times. The headline read, “Screen Beauty’s Striking Brain.” It seems that the late Hedy Lamarr, besides being beautiful, was also a gifted scientist. She was the co-holder of a patent on spread-spectrum radio, a technology that underlines modern conveniences such as mobile and cordless telephones, wi-fi, Bluetooth, and GPS.

  It seems that Hedy Lamarr’s beauty was more than skin deep.

  Dinah

  In 1960, I found myself happily employed as a writer/actor on Dinah Shore’s popular variety show, which was aptly titled The Dinah Shore Show. Dinah Shore was, by anyone’s standards, the loveliest, most charming hostess in all of television. Charley Isaacs, a great comedy writer and I, co-wrote sketches for Dinah and her guest stars, and every second week, besides writing for the show, I also appeared on it. On those alternate weeks, I received an unusual billing that Charley dreamed up. The announcer would say, “And on tonight’s show, Dinah’s special guest will be, Yves Montand, and her not-so-special guest, Carl Reiner.”

  Dinah and I became good friends during that period. Estelle and I were often invited to her home to dine with her and George Montgomery, her extraordinarily handsome husband, whom she adored. She told us that she had fallen in love with him before they ever met and how after they met, she blatantly pursued him, caught him, married him, and had a lovely daughter with him, Melissa.

  Among other things, Dinah was an excellent cook. Her culinary skills were on a par with her singing, and as evidence, she wrote two bestselling cookbooks, from which my wife culled many a fine recipe.

  This one lazy afternoon, Dinah and I were on our way to a rehearsal in Studio Two at NBC. To remind those who remember Dinah Shore, and to inform those who were too young to know her, Dinah had one of the best figures in Hollywood—a figure which, on her show, she chose to clothe in dresses, sweaters, and gowns that were designed by one of the reigning fashion designers of that era, Bob Mackie. Dinah’s wardrobe did not include anything that was bare, off-the-shoulder, or revealed any appreciable amount of cleavage. Whatever she wore, Dinah always managed to exude a subtle sexiness. In good part, it was due to the fact that she was blessed with an innate calm, a soothing, Southern-accented voice, and an absolutely beautiful bosom—which is the raison d’etre for this essay, which I had considered titling, “What Was I Thinking?”.

  That afternoon, as we strolled down the long hall making small talk, I, for some unknown reason—perhaps because Dinah and I were good friends or because I have a devilish bent—stopped, turned to her, and said, “Dinah, there is something that puzzles me, and maybe you can help me. You do know that you have a smashingly beautiful bosom. I know it! Your fans know it! Your designer knows it! Everyone knows it! It is common knowledge. Well, something just occurred to me—I was thinking that if I had breasts like yours, I would be playing with them all day long—I would not be able to resist fondling them. I just don’t understand how you can walk around and completely ignore them. I have never seen you even touch them—let alone fondle them. How can you resist them? Can you please explain that to me?”

  Dinah stared at me, thought for a second, and then answered, “No, I cannot explain it, Carl—but I will say that you have given me something to think about—and I thank you!”

  She laughed, punched me lightly on the arm, and said, “Carl, you are too much!”

  To this day, I have seen many women whose bosoms deserve praising or at least positive comments, but Dinah’s were the only non-spouse breasts I have ever openly praised—or ever will. That’s the kind of guy I am.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Me and Gregory Peck

  I had just been honorably discharged from the army, where for the past year I had toured the Pacific islands, performing as a comedian in an army show entitled “Shape Ahoy.” I was now an out-of-work actor and looking for a job on Broadway or in a film. To this end, I visited a small theatrical agency where a lone, sad-looking agent was looking to cast a young actor to play a small role in a film scheduled to be shot in New York. Before sending me to read for a part, he asked if I would recite something for him—just to make sure I didn’t stink. I chose to do a monologue I had learned when I was seventeen years old. It was a speech from Death Takes a Holiday, a film that starred Frederic March playing the title role of Death. Disguised as the sophisticated, tuxedoed Count Circe, Death visits Earth to discover why its inhabitants feared him so deeply.

  In my audition scene, the Count describes how it might impact us all if he, Death, took a holiday.

  “Imagine,” he declaims, “a world where nothing will decay, nothing will crumble…not a leaf will fall, nor a star from heaven. There will be only life and growth…and a sort of cosmic springtime…”

  After proving to the agent that I did not “stink,” he made an appointment for me to visit a film producer whose offices were in the Twentieth Century Fox building on West Fifty-Seventh Street. A secretary greeted me in an outer office, handed me some pages from a script, and suggested that I familiarize myself with the scene, in case the producer asked me to read for a part.

  By the time I was called, I practically had the scene memorized, and it was good that I did, because the producer who read the other part mumbled so quietly, I could not hear what he was saying. When I said my last line, he nodded his head approvingly, smiled, and told me that I was “a good actor” and that I had given “an intelligent reading.”

  When he added, “Mr. Reiner, there is no question in my mind that you can do this part and do it well,” I thought, Bingo! I got the part!

  But then he added, “But what we are looking for is a Gregory Peck type.”

  Shit! I thought. I’m not a Gregory Peck type!

  With a frozen smile on my face, I thanked the producer for his time, walked out of his office, past his secretary, and into the hall, where I stopped short. A thought struck me, and I strode back to the producer’s office, popped my head back in, and asked, “Excuse me, sir—you said you were looking for a Gregory Peck-type actor. I was wondering—what type of actor do you think they were looking for when they found Gregory Peck?”

  I did not wait for an answer.

  Some years ago, I met Gregory Peck at a party, and he laughed when I told him the reason I had once been rejected for a part in a film. He was so gracious and charming that it was all I could do to keep myself from asking, “Say, Greg, I was wondering: have you ever been turned down for a part because they were looking for a Carl Reiner type?”

  Darn, I wish I had asked!

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Lucas and The Greatest Story Ever Told

  In Hollywood, at 6360 Sunset Boulevard, between Cahuenga Boulevard and Vine Street, there sits a geodesic structure known as the Cinerama Dome. In 1963, I was invited to attend the theater’s star-studded premiere of the film, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. For me it was a very special event, as I was a party to two separate premieres, the Cinerama Dome’s and the film’s, in which I had a small role.

  Stanley Kramer was the film’s director, and he cast every role in the film with a famous comedian or a famous comic actor, be they starring roles, supporting ones, or bit parts. Every funny man in our business eagerly awaited a call from Mr. Kramer, asking if they would join the cast. I was happy to be in this elite group and do a cameo as an air-traffic controller. In the scene, we instruct two hysterical passengers, Buddy Hackett and Mickey Rooney, how to land a small plane that their dead pilot is no longer capable of doing.

  As the director-producer of this eagerly awaited blockbuster, Stanley Kramer had worked hard to complete and deliver the final print for the premiere. The Cinerama Dome’s landlords, however, were not as diligent about delivering a completed theater for his premiere.

  When my wife and I and other guests walke
d down the hall at the back of the theater, we had to avoid tripping over workmen who were on their knees, trimming and stapling plush, red carpeting into the floor. As we were ushered to our seats, we saw another raft of workers tacking carpeting to the floor of the stage below the Cinemascope screen.

  In spite of the delays, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World was well received by the celebrity audience, and with the help of positive reviews, went on to do huge business. There were a few negative reviews about the film’s excesses, but for the most part, the general public enjoyed the premise and the performances of a cast that included Spencer Tracy, Sid Caesar, Milton Berle, Jonathan Winters, Phil Silvers, Peter Falk, Ethel Merman, Edie Adams, “Rochester,” Jimmy Durante, the Three Stooges, Dick Shawn, and Buster Keaton.

  Though it was not one of my stellar roles, my wife and I thought our young son, Lucas, might enjoy seeing what his daddy did when he was not at home. We were amazed at how patiently our three-year-old sat for a film that was long enough to need an intermission. When it ended, Luke amazed us further by asking when he could see it again. He obviously loved the experience, because he never forgot it.

  Two years after attending the premiere of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World at the Cinerama Dome, Estelle and I were again invited to the Dome to join another elite audience, this time for the premiere of The Greatest Story Ever Told. This epic movie contained some of the most spectacular scenes ever filmed and boasted the starriest, star-studded cast ever assembled.

  Estelle and I were ushered to our reserved seats in the tenth row of the center section. A couple of seats to our right was Sheldon Leonard, my friend and executive producer of The Dick Van Dyke Show. My having created The Dick Van Dyke Show brought me the kind of stature that got me invited to such a classy event.

  Unlike the premiere of Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, the theater was ready. The lights dimmed on time as the curtains parted on the massive, 260-meter, curved Cinemascope screen. The opening titles were projected against an orange-hued background, while a very subdued, legato orchestral score accompanied the credits. The very first words scrolled on the screen, in very small print, were “Released Through United Artists.” Then, in alphabetical order, in the very, very smallest print any of us had ever seen, were the unreadable names of following stars:

  Max Von Sydow, Michael Anderson Jr., Carroll Baker, Ina Baul, Pat Boone, Victor Buono, Richard Conte, Joanna Dunham, Jose Ferrer, Van Heflin, Charlton Heston, Martin Landau, Angela Lansbury, Janet Margolin, David McCallum, Roddy McDowall, Dorothy Malone, Sal Mineo, Nehemiah Persoff, Donald Pleasance, Sidney Poitier, Claude Rains, Gary Raymond, Telly Savalas, Joseph Schildkraut, Paul Stewart, John Wayne, Shelley Winters, and Ed Wynn.

  As I think about the small-lettered billing the stars were given, it well may be that the producers of the film were saying that no actor deserves star billing except for the real star of the film, Jesus Christ.

  When the film started, we gave it our full attention, but after the first fifteen or twenty minutes, we all sensed that we were trapped watching a long, slow, boringly produced film about a subject that deserved a better fate. The production, the sets, the costumes, the art direction were beautiful, artistic, and lavish, but their magnificence could hold an audience’s interest just so long. The invited guests sat quietly, and for almost a half hour, nobody moved a muscle. We all knew that our hosts’ eyes were fixed on us, and they would interpret any movement we made as being a negative criticism. Without turning my head, I looked at my neighbor, Sheldon, who sat rigidly, his legs crossed. He kept them way for another fifteen or twenty minutes and then—uncrossed them! The moment he did, every head in my row turned to see who it was that dared to move. It caused a ripple effect, and those in the row behind Sheldon looked to see, as did those in the row behind the row behind Sheldon. Somehow, Sheldon uncrossing his legs gave the audience the freedom to behave as they ordinarily would when in a movie theater. They whispered to each other, they adjusted their clothing, coughed, sneaked a candy, or nodded off.

  In the film, there were some all-time, memorably cringe-worthy moments. For me, the most memorable one involved a truly iconic Western star who, like many of the stars, had a very small part. This major box-office draw, John Wayne, had but one line.

  Dressed as a Roman warrior, the imposing cowboy star looked upon the body of the crucified Christ, and sounding exactly like John Wayne, delivered the film’s last line: “He—truly—was—the—son—of—God!”

  There has never been a more disciplined or respectful audience. There was no audible laughter, thanks to those who stifled it by covering their mouths with their hands or biting their lips.

  When the screening ended, it was not difficult for the invitees to find enough praiseworthy things to say about the boring but brilliantly produced film that told one of the greatest biblical stories ever.

  A few weeks after its premiere, my wife and I and five-year-old Lucas were driving past the Cinerama Dome. The film, which had received mostly fair to poor reviews, was still playing there, and Lucas, recognizing the theater, asked if we would go in and see, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World again. When, told it was no longer playing there and that a new one was, he asked, “Can we go see the new one?”

  “I don’t think you will like this one, Luke.”

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Mom and I saw it.”

  “Didn’t you like it?”

  “It was all right, but we don’t think you will like it.”

  “What’s the name of it?”

  “The Greatest Story Ever Told.”

  “I’ll like it!” he shouted. “I want to see the greatest story ever told!”

  “It is called The Greatest Story Ever Told,” we explained, “but the movie isn’t very good.”

  “Why do they call it The Greatest Story Ever Told, if it isn’t very good?”

  It took a lot more explaining, and I was almost tempted to take him to see the four-hour film, so he could see for himself what a dud it was—and how, in the future, he should trust our judgment—but I resisted.

  The other day, I told fifty-year-old Lucas that I am writing about when he was five and his wanting to see The Greatest Story Ever Told, and our telling him that it wasn’t very good and that he would not like it, and he said, “You know, Dad, I saw a little bit of it not too long ago. I kinda liked it!”

  I feel that I need a moral for this tale, and only one comes to mind: “Sobre gustas, no hay disputa!”

  For those thirty-two Americans who do not speak or understand Spanish, Sobre gustas, no hay disputa means, “About tastes, there is no dispute.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  My Son, the Little League’s Big Leaguer

  In the summer of 1966, for one full season, Lucas Reiner, who aspired to be a member of his Beverly Hills Little League team, was one month shy of the age required to participate as a player. Lucas told us of one boy who had fudged about his actual birth date, and he wanted to do the same, but my wife and I, who were law-abiding citizens, would not allow him to lie. Poor Luke, who had as much ability as his friend, spent his first season in the league as a mascot for the Beverly Hills Dodgers. He was permitted to wear the team uniform, sit in the Dodgers’ dugout, and root loudly.

  Even though our son never played during that first full season, my wife and I attended every game and watched a frustrated Lucas sit on the bench and root.

  The following season, during the first few practice sessions, it became apparent that Lucas Reiner had the makings of a fine ball player, and his coach, Hy Braun, chose him to play two key positions, shortstop and pitcher.

  The Beverly Hills Park Department had furnished our fair city with a beautiful baseball field for the Little Leaguers to play on and two sturdy grandstands for their parents to sit in.

  Two six-inning games were scheduled every Saturday and on the s
eason’s opening day, Lucas was scheduled to pitch the second game. His best friend, Johnny Zucker, who was a member of the Beverly Hills Pirates, had just finished pitching the first game, and his teammates were congratulating him. When Lucas walked onto the field, Johnny told Lucas that he had pitched a no-hitter. Lucas smiled and said, “That’s great! I guess I’ll have to throw a no-hitter too.”

  With his mother, father, sister Annie, brother Rob, cousin Georgie, and friend Billy Persky among the crowd rooting him on, Lucas Reiner not only pitched a no-hitter but a no-hit no-run game. Which means that no one scored, and no one got on base by virtue of walks or errors—a rare thing in Little League.

  Lucas was as proficient with the bat as he was with his arm. He had many multi-hit games and powered at least one home run.

  Early in his first season, a game I remember well featured Luke’s defensive skills. He was playing shortstop, and it was the bottom of the sixth, the final inning of the game. His team was leading by two runs, and the opposing team had the bases loaded and their best hitter at the plate. There were two out, and a big hit would win the game for the opposition. To guard against their ace slugger blasting one over the fence, Hy Braun, the team’s manager, instructed his three outfielders to paste themselves up against the four-foot-high fence.

  Our pitcher threw a strike, and the batter swung and hit a “Texas Leaguer,” a short fly ball over the heads of the infielders. It was not hit hard or high enough to reach the deeply positioned outfielders but hard enough to make it difficult for the infielders to chase it down. From where we sat, it looked like the whole team was racing to catch that soft fly ball.

  Lucas, who had spent hours in our back yard, practicing to bird-dog this kind of fly, was ready for the challenge. He and I would stand together at the far end of our back lawn, and I would toss a high lob toward our house. He would take one quick look over his shoulder, judge the height and trajectory of the lob, and take off after it. He would not turn his head until the last second, when he would stick out his gloved hand and make an over-the-shoulder catch. A conservative estimate would be that each time we played catch, we practiced this particular move 50 million times, or at least fifty. We played catch quite a lot, and I was amazed at his ability to throw strikes—fast-ball strikes, curve-ball strikes, and believe it or not, a knuckle-ball strike. For the life of me, as a kid, I could never throw a strike. I was so happy to discover that Luke had inherited his throwing genes from his mother and her brother athletes. Our firstborn, Rob, who is almost thirteen years older than Luke, loved baseball and played Little League in New Rochelle. He was a good athlete and played first base and pitched. For the six years he played, I never missed one of his games or failed to be thrilled about how well he played and comported himself.