It's Good to Be the King: The Seriously Funny Life of Mel Brooks (12 page)

Then there was Howard Morris, the third banana on Y
our Show of Shows.
This New York-born actor was added to the cast of regulars in 1951. (Some have suggested that at one point, the aggressive Brooks hoped to win the acting post handed to the newcomer.) Previously, Morris had done occasional sketch work on
Admiral Broadway Revue.
In contrast to Reiner, Howard was short and physically quite slight. This provided an immediate visual contrast between him, Caesar, and Reiner when they performed together in front of the cameras. More important, Howard was sufficiently light of weight that the brawny Caesar could easily pick up the diminutive man and cart him about the stage—a gambit utilized to great effect on several Your
Show of Shows
sketches. Like Reiner, Morris made a habit of sitting in on the writers’ meeting because (1) it was such fun and (2) it was a wonderful way to be in on the genesis of scripts and to learn all the nuances as the sketches developed. By becoming familiar with the material in this manner, these players had an easier time of learning their lines and the comic business amid the pressure of doing a weekly show. (Another of Liebman’s dictates for his TV showcase was that no cue cards were to be used by the cast during the actual broadcast, just as no canned laughter was employed to “sweeten” the responses of the live studio audience.)

Brooks and Morris got off to a wacky start together. The madcap Mel thought it would be amusing to introduce himself to newcomer Morris by pretending to be a Frenchman visiting New York to observe the creative process on Your
Show of Shows.
For several days, Brooks kept up the charade, peppering his brief interchanges with Morris with a French word and relying on a great deal of pantomime. Howie, as most of his friends called him, could not make heads or tails of this absurd visitor from abroad who spoke broken English with such a heavy Yiddish accent. Then one day, the quirky Frenchman approached Morris and said in perfect English, “How the hell are you, Howie?”

In the coming months these two Jewish men, who both understood and loved the art of comedy, became good friends at and away from work. At least so the trusting Morris thought. One time the pair was strolling along a Greenwich Village street when, suddenly, Howie felt a sharp jab in his back. A voice growled, “Your money or your life!” Morris was caught totally off guard and swung around to see why his attacker sounded so much like Mel. Now standing face-to-face with the “robber,” Howie saw that it was indeed Brooks. Unfortunately, there was no smile on the comedy writer’s face. In fact, he had a strange, wild look in his eyes and a most determined set to his jaw. Morris was baffled by the situation and felt he should humor his “friend.” He surrendered his watch, wallet, and other valuables. (According to some accounts of the bizarre incident, Mel tied up his perplexed victim before disappearing into the night.)

The next day, a mystified Morris questioned several others at work about this peculiar episode and how he should best handle the situation. He was reassured, “Oh, that’s just Mel. He has these strange blackouts and one day he’ll suddenly remember the incident and make everything right.” True to their prediction, in the coming days, Brooks approached Morris, apologized for the episode, and returned all the taken items. Time passed and the occurrence was all but forgotten by Howie.

Many months thereafter, Morris and Brooks were enjoying a lunch break from the
Your Show of Shows
grind by renting a rowboat in Central Park. They ate their sandwiches and chatted about the day’s events. Their boat was passing under a little bridge and Howie was lost in thought when all of a sudden he saw this crazy look pass over Mel’s face. Before Morris could react to that strange stare, Brooks barked, “Give me everything you have or I’ll kill you!” The “assailant” didn’t look like he was kidding and the “victim” complied. Then Howie was ordered to get out of the boat and wade ashore. He did. Days later, Mel apologized to Howie and returned his possessions.

Such was life with the aberrant Mel Brooks, who rarely could resist indulging his antic sense of humor. Seemingly, he had little compunction about using anyone in his purview as a prop for his outlandish gambits. These larks usually were (subconsciously) constructed to make himself the center of attention.

•     •     •

Brooks’s bond with Sid Caesar was far more complicated than the one Mel had with Howie Morris. Thanks to the
Admiral Broadway Revue
and
Your Show of Shows
, Caesar had achieved fame, power, and wealth. Being from a very humble background, he had great difficulty in accepting the fact that he earned in a week far more than his father (who died in 1946) had ever earned even in a good year. Somehow, Sid felt unworthy of his success, and he became increasingly guilt-ridden over his good fortune. Despite the soothing efforts of Sid’s wife, Florence, the joy of their three children, and the emotional support Caesar received from his ever-present brother, Dave, and others in his inner circle, the star was a deeply troubled man. He would become so keyed up at work from the pressure of turning out a good show each week that when he came home at night, he found it almost impossible to unwind, and turned to several cocktails to calm himself down. By the time the exhausted man finally dragged himself to bed, he still could not easily fall asleep. He would lie there thinking about how to improve the coming week’s skits, about how many people relied on his success for their daily livelihood, and about what might happen if he failed creatively and let down the network, the cast, and home viewers. Caesar’s insomnia prompted him to start taking an escalating number of sleeping pills each night, which had an increasingly adverse effect, especially in conjunction with the growing amount of liquor he consumed daily. This led, in turn, to a routine of his taking stimulants in the morning to counter the grogginess of the prior night’s lack of proper sleep and his injudicious use of pills and booze. The vicious circle escalated (and would continue for years until Caesar received successful substance abuse treatment).

Compounding Sid’s major addictions was the mixture of his lifelong shyness, extreme moodiness, and a volatile temper. When the powerfully built Caesar erupted in sudden anger, he literally did not know his own strength, and anything could occur during these violent explosions. Sometimes Mel was an observer of such events, other times he acted as a court jester to pacify the rampaging star. On different occasions, he became the instigator of Sid’s outburst (as with the infamous Chicago episode in 1951 during which Caesar dangled the bothersome Brooks out of an 18-story hotel window.)

One time, Caesar and Brooks drove down to Greenwich Village to see a club performance by entertainer Zero Mostel. They rode in Sid’s new Buick, a luxury car of which the comedian was extremely proud. Sid parked on the street, carefully leaving plenty of space in front of and behind his auto. As they were crossing the street to enter the venue, Caesar noticed a man parking his car very close to his precious Buick. After a few moments watching the man maneuver into the space and brushing against his vehicle, Caesar stormed over to the man, explained that he was bumping against his new car, and asked him to desist. The man not only refused the request but grew sarcastic. Almost instantaneously, Sid boiled over, reached into the window of the offender’s car, and attempted to pull the individual through the small opening. Thankfully, Mel rushed over and bit Sid on the arm, which caused Caesar to let go of his victim.

On another occasion, during a writers’ room conference, Brooks suggested an anecdotal joke he had just developed and thought was a real winner. The premise concerned a snake who wanted to be freed from its cage because it couldn’t stand to be imprisoned with others of its own kind. Sid did not find the joke funny, but Mel remained unrelenting in his insistence that it was a great bit and must be used. Later, Caesar and Brooks went out together for lunch. En route, bold Mel again brought up the subject of the snake joke. Once more, Sid vetoed using it on the show. Brooks grew increasingly belligerent in his reckless determination that this item must make it on air. He became completely caught up in getting his way and was, by now, punctuating his insistence by jabbing his index finger at the almighty Caesar.

In typical fashion, the star stood glaring at his pip-squeak adversary, who was carrying on frantically, oblivious that he had riled the much bigger man. Caesar could have easily pulverized this pest. Instead, he said very softly, “Shall I spare you?” Now attuned to his peril, Brooks replied, “Oh, yes, please, sire.” This led Sid to say, “I’ll let you live.” (And he meant it!) Mel smiled ruefully and quickly changed the subject. Later, Caesar informed Brooks that if the noisome joke meant so much to Mel, it would be used in the broadcast.

On several occasions in the
Your Show of Shows
writers’ room, the mercurial Sid would become enraged by the slightest thing that went wrong with his day. Sometimes, Caesar would vent his displeasure by slamming his fist through a wall. Other times, he might release his mounting tension by grabbing a heavy metal desk and lifting it one-handed into the air and then letting it fall back to the floor. At such tense moments, the clown of the group Mel Brooks would often come to the rescue by doing something particularly goofy to deflate his boss’s boiling rage. For example, he might jump up onto Sid’s back and ride him like a horse, all the while yelling, “Down boy, down!” Then Caesar would break into a grin and everyone knew they could get back to work.

Despite these (harrowing) antics, Mel remained a firm admirer of Sid Caesar’s and considered him a good friend. (Some observers have suggested that in many ways Brooks subconsciously regarded the older Caesar as a father figure.) As time passed and Brooks became more established on
Your Show of Shows
and within the entertainment industry, the perimeters of his complex ties to Caesar shifted. One can read a lot into the situation that occurred one day when Sid, towering over Mel, laid his hefty hand on Brooks’s head and said to the others in attendance, “This is
mine”
Nonplussed, Brooks reached over and grabbed Caesar’s wallet from the star’s pocket and said pointedly, “This is
mine
!”

•     •     •

Among Mel Brooks’s
Your Show of Shows
confreres, he had particularly high regard for Mel Tolkin, who was both an agile comedy and songwriter and had the knack for being able to keep his collaborators largely in line to meet their weekly deadlines. (One of Tolkin’s favorite sayings to alert his team that it was time to get back to the grindstone was, “It’s Tuesday and hundreds of Jews all over America are waiting to see what we’ll do [on Saturday night].”) “Big Mel” was also a diplomat who knew how to stay on the right side of the mighty, short-tempered Caesar. One day, Tolkin presented Sid with the punch line to a sketch that he and the others had labored over for some time. As Caesar read it, a frown came over his face. “I’m not crazy about this joke,” he announced. To punctuate his adverse reaction, the comedian lifted up a nearby piece of heavy furniture and then allowed it to slam back to the ground. In the silence following this outburst, Tolkin—with perfect timing—responded with a wry, “We’re not married to it.”

One of Tolkin’s other attributes was that he was extremely well read in the classics, especially in the literature of his native Russia. It was he who first educated Brooks about the great Slavic writers, enthusing about the works of such Russian literary giants as Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Aleksandr Pushkin, and Nikolai Gogol. Such tutorials prompted Mel to read many of these authors’ works, and it solidified his lifelong habit of enhancing his knowledge of literature, history, and so much more. Brooks was always grateful for Tolkin’s efforts in prodding him to expand his cultural horizons.

Like many other bright, self-made individuals, Tolkin had overcome several obstacles in his strenuous efforts to succeed in life. This left him with unresolved emotional issues that, eventually, caused him to visit a psychiatrist and begin therapy. The sessions helped the writer to gain clarity and perspective to better deal with his problems. (In actuality, Tolkin was not alone among the creative forces at
Your Show of Shows
then undergoing analysis. Caesar regularly visited a therapist.) When Tolkin got to know Brooks better and learned more about his collaborator’s emotional angst, he suggested that therapy definitely might help his colleague to adjust better to his life of increased responsibilities and demands.

Brooks had long been a strong believer in good physical health. His ongoing concern prompted him to seriously read medical literature so he could personally diagnose any possibly aberrant health symptom he might experience. Over the years, Mel subscribed to medical journals, pored through his personal library of medical dictionaries, and investigated a wide variety of innovative treatments for various serious ailments. He was convinced that such studies would help him to recognize—early on—any potentially dangerous health issues that might befall him. He believed that being so forewarned he would be forearmed and could prolong his time on earth. (As a result of this near-obsessive activity, Brooks became familiar with a wide range of medical conditions and was able to advise concerned friends when they consulted him about health problems they were experiencing or treatments they were undergoing.)

With all his medical reading, Mel had given little conscious attention to the state of his mental health. However, he knew something was wrong, and his knowledge/intuition suggested it was not of a physical nature. As he grew more successful and earned more on
Your Show of Shows
he found that, frequently, he would suddenly become panic-stricken at work. At such times, he’d have to leave a meeting quickly, or stop whatever else he was doing, and rush out into the street. Brooks described his plight: “I started having acute anxiety attacks. I used to vomit a lot between parked Plymouths in midtown Manhattan. Sometimes I’d get so anxiety-stricken I’d have to run, because I’d be generating too much adrenaline to do anything but run or scream. Ran for miles through the city streets. People stared. No joggers back then. Also I couldn’t sleep at night and I’d get a lot of dizzy spells and I was nauseated for days.” He also recalled suffering “bouts of grief for no apparent reason. Deep melancholy, incredible grief where you’d think that somebody very close to me had died. You couldn’t grieve any more than I was grieving.”