In Dear Ruth, they were the characters. A lot of the jokes were little family jokes that were real. A lot of it is just echoes of the dinner-table talk at Groucho’s house. I was crazy about Ruth. She was the kind of girl men were crazy about. They all liked her. She was so lively.
Groucho liked to listen to Gilbert and Sullivan. He really loved Gilbert and Sullivan, and it was my real introduction to it. In those days he liked to stay home more and listen to the radio. He just wasn’t a lively enough companion for her, and she had so much energy and zest. She started going to the Beverly Hills Tennis Club, and she kept coming home later and later.
Groucho’s always cared tremendously about women. But he’s a sap about women. What a romantic! He always expects so much, the women can’t live up to it. Kay and Eden were the kind of girls who attracted him. He wanted noncompetitive girls; he didn’t want a modern girl with a man’s mind. That kind was all right, but only as a friend.
When he married Eden, she saw the round bathtub in Zeppo’s house and wanted one herself. So Groucho built his house around her round bathtub. She was like a four-year-old, so enthusiastic and pleased. Groucho isn’t cheap. He never wanted to give the twenty-five cents for checking his coat, but he was prepared to lose $20,000 on Time for Elizabeth. He always measured everything by the price of pumpernickel. He said, “I remember when you could hardly carry sixteen cents’ worth of pumpernickel.”
I
That was probably at the turn of the century!
NORMAN KRASNA
Yes, Groucho is older than I am, and the age difference seemed great when we first met. Now it isn’t anything. But then it meant a lot to me that he was willing to accept me.
I
What were your impressions of the other Marx Brothers?
NORMAN KRASNA
All the Marx Brothers were completely different from each other. Each of them had a different philosophy of life. Harpo was a pixie-like person—a giant pixie. He was completely kind. Chico loved gambling and women, and he threw away every cent he ever earned. But he was a good person in spite of it. Zeppo was just the younger brother. He was a gambler, something like Chico. But he was the funniest one offstage.
I
Groucho told me that, too.
NORMAN KRASNA
Really? Well, he should know. People used to say, “You must really be laughing all the time, rolling in the aisles, because you’re fortunate enough to spend all those hours with Groucho.” It wasn’t like that. Groucho is pretty serious. He could be quite dour, though of course he would say some really clever, funny things. But Zeppo used to have me rolling on the floor. I once actually got so hysterical that I rolled around on a car floor and out the door.
I
Groucho has told me that Zeppo was one of the funniest people he’s ever known. Billy Marx said he remembered Groucho rolling around on the floor laughing at something Zeppo had said. What was Zeppo’s humor like?
NORMAN KRASNA
He just told about his own personal experiences. It was his way of seeing it and saying it that made it funny. Groucho’s standard of wit was very high. He didn’t just have people around to laugh at what he said. You couldn’t deal in platitudes, and he wasn’t interested in just hearing jokes. He’d heard them all anyway. He expected a lot, and you had to measure up. It was very flattering when he accepted you. It was very flattering to be his friend. If you dropped by, you’d find someone like Artur Rubinstein there. He was not just a comedian, not just an actor. He was somebody to admire, by golly!
I
People don’t seem to mind his insults.
NORMAN KRASNA
Groucho could say anything, and people just laughed. Very few people got insulted. I was with him once when he’d just insulted someone, and I said, “Groucho, you can’t say something like that to a person.” He said, “They like it. They go home and tell their friends.” But once he said something to Lee Shubert that wasn’t funny at all. It just came out all wrong. He wrote a letter to him the next day explaining that he was sorry. He would do things like pushing up Greta Garbo’s hat in an elevator, but I’ll never know if he knew who it was before he did it. Everyone was afraid to follow Groucho onstage. Eddie Cantor told him once before going onstage, “Don’t be too hard on me, Groucho!”
I
I asked Groucho once if there was anyone he was afraid to follow onstage, and he said, “Frank Fay. He was wonderful.”
NORMAN KRASNA
Groucho wanted me to appear on You Bet Your Life, but I was afraid. “You go easy on me,” I said. He told me, “I’ll kill you!” so I didn’t go on the show. I knew I couldn’t compete on my feet with Groucho. He had a Congressional Medal of Honor winner on the show once, and the fellow went for the top and lost it all. I told Groucho he should have let him win, but Groucho said he couldn’t help it. It was a matter of integrity. The show wasn’t rigged. He was very proud of that when the scandals broke about shows like The $64,000 Question. I thought he should have been honest and have integrity, but not for a Congressional Medal of Honor winner. It’s so rare that there’s a live one. Usually the medal goes to a widow or relative. But Groucho believed he did the right thing.
I
Once he makes up his mind about something, he doesn’t often waver.
NORMAN KRASNA
Groucho’s a very strong man. I think it’s impossible for someone of your generation to appreciate Groucho in his moment. Looking back isn’t the same thing. When I first knew Groucho, for a while, maybe, that was the best credit I had.
JACK LEMMON AND WALTER MATTHAU
An unshaven Jack Lemmon came for lunch one Saturday while I was staying at Groucho’s. Apologizing for being less than his normally fastidious self, he explained that he had a stage matinee that afternoon and his part necessitated the unkempt appearance. The play was Juno and the Paycock, a production at the Mark Taper Forum.
“I hope you won’t mind my dirty fingernails,” he added, displaying them for us as he sat down at the table with Groucho and me. “It’s for my part. So I can be in character for the people in the first few rows, I always go into my garden and make my fingernails dirty.”
This part was important to him in that special way that film actors feel about their stage appearances, especially in Los Angeles, where the audiences are so often made up of their peers. He told me that he wouldn’t ordinarily eat before a matinee, but for lunch at Groucho’s he had made an exception.
There was also a place set for Jack Benny, whom Groucho expected. We waited a long time, but Jack Benny did not arrive, and there was no phone call. I have never known Groucho to wait so long for anyone, but finally in deference to Jack Lemmon’s matinee, Groucho asked Robin to serve, and we began without Jack Benny.
Jack Lemmon talked about all of the physical ills that had plagued Walter Matthau during the run of the play and described the one tiny dressing room they were sharing. He also told us how exciting the visit was of Sean O’Casey’s widow, who came to Los Angeles to attend the opening. “They served wine, and she could really put it away.”
The conversation got around to the Depression, and Groucho recalled how he had lost everything in the stock market crash of 1929. Jack Lemmon also remembered that time:
“I was four or five. I remember my father coming home and putting all of his things on the dresser: his change, his keys, his cigar cutter. I could hear him whispering with my mother. I didn’t hear what they said, but there was something in the atmosphere. And I knew that something terrible had happened.”
As soon as we finished lunch, Jack rushed to the theatre. Groucho cracked nuts and with hurt feelings pondered why Jack Benny hadn’t come to lunch or even called. Several days later we learned why.
On December 26, 1974, during Groucho’s morning walk, we met Milton Berle, who told him that Jack Benny was dying and perhaps had only a week to live. Milton Berle finished by saying, “Nobody could ever say a bad thing about him.”
A shaken Grouch
o returned home, not saying anything at all. Then he sat quietly by his record player listening to Ruth Etting sing “It All Depends on You.”
Before going to see Juno and the Paycock, Groucho invited Billy Marx to have dinner with us. Billy came prepared to interview Groucho for me, but Groucho wasn’t in the mood. He was too involved with thinking about the play, almost as if he himself were going to be in it. Juno and the Paycock was the theatrical event of the moment, and tickets were much sought after.
At dinner Billy reminded Groucho about a story Arthur, Groucho’s son, had told him:
“You told Arthur he was to be in by ten o’clock, and he was late. So he came in as quietly and carefully as he could, tiptoeing through the house, trying not to make a sound, getting undressed in the dark. And just as he was about to get into bed, he heard your voice saying, ‘I hear you.’”
In the car Billy and Groucho talked about writers and musicians.
GROUCHO Franklin P. Adams was very good. But he wasn’t Kaufman.
BILLY
You and my father both loved music. Harpo liked Gershwin and Ravel.
GROUCHO
I liked Brahms. I liked Gilbert and Sullivan. I liked Irving Berlin. Irving Berlin was in love with Ellin. Her father was very rich and wouldn’t let them get married, but they got married. Then the stock market crashed, and after that Irving was the rich one. It’s like the kind of plot he would have set to music. They had one of the few good marriages. It would make a good play. (They sing some Irving Berlin songs)
At the Mark Taper Forum, Groucho attracted the usual amount of attention. This was as true when the audience was made up of celebrities as when it was a noncelebrity audience. A cute young usherette greeted him with a delighted squeal of glee, and Groucho rose to the occasion by kissing her.
As we were about to be seated, Groucho, who usually liked an aisle seat, reversed his usual course, trading seats with Billy. The reason was immediately obvious—a Grace Kelly–looking blonde. Groucho sat down next to her, raising his eyebrows and giving the lady a lecherous ogle worthy of his “mangy lover” days. She remained coolly oblivious. Not one to be put off by an icy rebuff or a house falling on him, Groucho tried again.
“Kiss me, babe.” The blonde grew even cooler. Then, with a haughtily scathing glance, she changed seats with her escort.
“I guess she didn’t recognize you,” Billy unassured Groucho.
“I guess she did,” Groucho responded, undaunted.
During the first act, Groucho whispered to me, “That’s a part I could’ve played,” referring to the part of Joxer Daly being played by Jack Lemmon. Throughout the play, Groucho studied Jack Lemmon’s performance with professional interest. “He’s a fine broth of a lad,” he commented to me in a heavy Irish brogue as the curtain fell at intermission. Groucho continued to speak with an Irish brogue as members of the audience of all ages approached and asked him to autograph their programs. The ensuing melee was more orderly than usual.
One young man respectfully said to Groucho, “You’re really neat!” In a mildly perplexed tone, Groucho asked, “You mean I’m meticulous?”
The intermission was spent signing autographs until Groucho announced, “I’m going to take a leak.”
“You’re trying to escape from signing all these autographs,” I said.
“No,” Groucho said, “I’ve gotta sign them there, too.”
After the final curtain, we all went backstage. Whenever friends of his were performing and Groucho was in the audience, his visit backstage was de rigueur. Climbing up the narrow stairway, Groucho apologized for holding on to the banister: “I’ll just hold on to the third rail.”
As we walked toward the star dressing room, several of the actors approached Groucho and asked him for his autograph—a special compliment. Before we reached the dressing room Groucho confided to me, “Lemmon’s performance was fresh-squeezed.” Then he editorialized, “Bad joke.”
Billy noticed the actor who had played Harpo in Minnie’s Boys and said, “There’s my dad!”
In the tiny dressing room, which scarcely contained them, not to mention us, we found Jack Lemmon, who was stripped to the waist, and Walter Matthau, who still had on the special padding for his part. “John Wayne wore this in pictures,” he told us. “Can you believe that?!” He was gray-haired for his part. “I’m the only person whose hair gets black when I come out of the shower.”
Walter Matthau opened a small portable refrigerator and asked Groucho if he would like to join him in some buttermilk. “It’ll be too crowded,” Groucho said, then he added one of his favorite “small” jokes: “What’s a cow good for but-her-milk? That’s an old vaudeville joke.”
A pretty young actress passed by the open door, and Groucho, who rarely failed to notice feminine beauty, nodded approvingly. Walter Matthau, observing Groucho’s wandering gaze and noting the object of his attentions, commented, “But she’s boring.”
GROUCHO
All young girls are boring. You shouldn’t expect any more.
JACK LEMMON
I do.
GROUCHO
I’m in love with your wife.
JACK LEMMON
I’ll tell her you said so.
GROUCHO
I already told her.
Groucho had been trying to call Walter Matthau and his wife, Carol, to invite them for lunch, but had been frustrated because their number had been changed. Many of the stars constantly change their telephone numbers to guard their privacy, even though it creates an obstacle course for the friends they really want to be able to reach them. They are also highly peripatetic, both from choice and necessity, and keeping an up-to-date address book is exceedingly difficult. As we left, Groucho took Walter Matthau’s new number, saying, “I have your new phone number now in case I don’t want to call you.”
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
Among Groucho’s oldest and best friends was the late Nunnally Johnson, who, although basically a writer, also wrote, directed, and produced numerous films, including Night People, Black Widow, Oh, Men, Oh, Women, and The Three Faces of Eve. He wrote the screenplay for and directed The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit. His most recent screenplay was The Dirty Dozen, but he was perhaps best known for The Grapes of Wrath, The Gunfighter, The Mudlark, The Desert Fox, and How to Marry a Millionaire.
Groucho, who was a regular visitor to Nunnally Johnson’s house, talked about him with Erin and me as we rode back from afternoon tea with the Johnsons:
ERIN
He must have been a terrific guy, huh?
GROUCHO
Nunnally was a wild man when he was young. He did great things.
ERIN
In what way?
GROUCHO
With the girls.
ERIN
Oh yeah. I figured. They liked him.
GROUCHO
He had everything. He was tall, intelligent, and capable.
On several occasions I went with Groucho and Erin to visit Nunnally Johnson. His wry, understated sense of humor contrasted with Groucho’s ironic iconoclasms. His wife, Dorris Bowdon, had starred in The Grapes of Wrath.
On one visit, Lauren Bacall was there when Groucho and I arrived. Tall, slender “Betty” (as all her friends know her) was in California to promote Murder on the Orient Express. They talked about mutual friends, like Comden and Green, and she told how she was going to visit Ira Gershwin, whom neither Groucho nor Nunnally had seen for some time. Groucho showed her a picture of Melinda and grandson Miles:
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
Why don’t you show him yours, Betty?
LAUREN BACALL
Show him my what? I don’t have pictures…but I have other things.
As she left, she spoke to Nunnally in her famous sulky tone:
LAUREN BACALL
Take care of yourself, you silly man. Next time we’ll go upstairs.
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
There is no upstairs.
LAUREN BACALL
&nb
sp; Well, now…we don’t need an upstairs! (She exits singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside”)
Groucho and Nunnally reminisced about the old days and old friends. Nunnally talked about Herman Mankiewicz, author of Citizen Kane. He told how, when Mankiewicz was assigned to write a Rin-Tin-Tin picture, he turned in a script which had Rin-Tin-Tin carrying the baby into the burning building instead of rescuing him. Mankiewicz was never assigned to a Rin-Tin-Tin picture again.
Excusing himself for a moment, Groucho returned from the bathroom beaming:
GROUCHO
You must come in and look at the picture in that room I was just in. Come on. It’s very interesting.
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
It’s a very foolishly religious picture, and it must date back eighty years, because one of the sins depicted is Sunday railroads.
GROUCHO
It said, “There is one road to damnation and one road to…”
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
One is the straight and narrow path. Dorris got it in one of those thieves’ marketplaces in London. It’s got an automobile in there, but the automobile wasn’t invented at the time this was dated, so it’s been reproduced and altered.
GROUCHO
It’s a great picture. I’d like to own it.
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
Well, it’d help you, Grouch. Because when you don’t know if something’s right or wrong, you go in there and check on it.
GROUCHO
But you’ve got to go to the toilet.
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
Yeah, you go to the toilet to check on morals. In our other house, she had framed three cathouse cards from Paris in the twenties.
GROUCHO
You lived in Great Neck when I lived there…
NUNNALLY JOHNSON
Hello, I Must be Going Page 49
