Authors: Jerry Stiller
The paddy wagon driver and Richard were always in synch. At the screech of the wheels when the wagon pulled away, Richard’s hands would reach for the two poles. His timing was uncanny. He knew just how long to wait. He had every eye in the grandstand on him. He could practically hear the people out there holding their breaths. It was the high point of the show.
Several weeks into the summer, at one performance the paddy wagon pulled away a microsecond sooner than usual. From where I was sitting inside the wagon I could see Richard’s hands grab for the poles, and the startled look on his face as his 250-pound frame lifted into the air, arching as if he were doing a backward dive. For a moment, he seemed to levitate, his hands reaching to heaven for the poles.
I saw his head hit the ground first. When I heard the sound I knew he
was gone. The music and the laughter stopped. The crew, stable people, singers, dancers, actors, all converged upon him where he lay. The audience stood silently watching, then slowly started filing out. Two hours later we performed again, on schedule—minus the bit.
The following Sunday there was a memorial service for Richard Lee. The chimes of the Chicago Railroad Fair played “Somewhere a Voice Is Calling.” That summer I learned, among other things, that timing is everything, the show really does go on, and funny people die.
About midsummer Paul Killiam, who produced
Billy Bryant’s Showboat,
one of the other fair attractions, announced he was auditioning actors for
The Physician in Spite of Himself.
Since I had done Monsieur Jourdain in
Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme
at school, another Molière play, I felt qualified. I read for Sganarelle and got the role. We rehearsed between performances of
Frontiers
. Two weeks later we went on in the music tent between performances of
The Merry Widow
. The show was a huge hit. All the laughs I never got doing Molière in school had at last arrived. Over the following years, I kept in touch with Professor Falk. These are some of the letters we exchanged.
OIL INDUSTRY SERVICE CENTER
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS AT THE CHICAGO FAIR OF 1950
Dear Professor Falk:
The Molière play is coming along fine. I could never have done it without the
Bourgeois Gentleman
under my belt, however.
As for this pageant extravaganza, I’m beginning to be noticed. The director paid me a compliment for my work in one of the comedy scenes …
Give my regards to the family, faculty, and students.
Sincerely,
Jerry
OIL INDUSTRY SERVICE CENTER
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS AT THE CHICAGO FAIR OF 1950
432 W. Wellington Ave.
Chicago, Ill
August 13, 1950
Dear Professor Falk:
Things have been happening so fast that it has been difficult for me to find time to write. In a nutshell,
The Physician in Spite of Himself
was a smashing success. We played it before 1,000 people as a free attraction after our final performance…. I didn’t think I had the strength to play that night, but I went out and absolutely killed them. As a result, I’ve become a sort of an overnight sensation at the fair.
The show itself was nowhere near
The Bourgeois Gentleman.
It lacked style, but as an individual I felt comfortable and funny.
But the good news is this: The producer of
Billy Bryant’s Showboat,
here at the fair, a fellow named Paul Killiam, saw me and liked me. He wanted me to do the villain in
The Sin Man,
an old fashioned melodrama. I accepted. It pays ninety-five dollars a week. I go into the show Friday, replacing an old comedian in the role. Right now, I’m trying to learn the lines.
In the meantime the demand to see the
Physician
has been so great that I arranged with Killiam (who is also special-events director for the fair) to put it on again. Mr. Falk, I’ve invited every agent and drama critic in Chicago down to see it. The show gives me a great chance to act, and act I do. I’m beginning to get the things you were talking about and the value there is in not dawdling when doing Molière. Believe me, Mr. Falk, those rehearsals and pounding were worth it. I’ve put those lessons to good use.
The melodrama plays four shows daily, seven days a week. I’ll be in the American Guild of Variety Artists by the end of this week. There is a rumor the fair may be extended till September 30. Do you think this will conflict with meeting Cheryl Crawford?
Well, this has been a chaotic summer, to say the least. I started out as an apprentice and I end up making $95 a week. I’ve never had so many ups and downs in my life, Mr. Falk.
Your ever-striving student,
Jerry
My chaotic adventures at the Chicago Railroad Fair continued throughout that summer. I was never happier. I was working all the time.
First Frontiers of Freedom,
then
The Physician in Spite of Himself,
then I was making $95 a week in
The Sin Man
.
The Sin Man
started with a series of “olios,” vaudeville bits that each performer had in their personal repertoire—a novelty song, a poem, an eccentric dance. It familiarized the cast to the audience, who would next see them as characters in the melodrama. I had no olio. I was just introduced as “The Villain” by the master of ceremonies, who told the audience to hiss me, which they took a delight in doing.
My villain was hissed at throughout the entire show. In one scene I’d chase the heroine from one side of the stage to the other, each time stripping her of a piece of her clothing—first her sleeve, then her skirt. As this happens, she’d say, “Sir, what are you doing?” and I’d turn to the audience and say, “Now isn’t that a silly question.”
When I’d finally have her down to her blouse and pantaloons, she’d turn to the audience and reveal an American flag across her chest. As the piano player plays “Hurrah for the Red, White, and Blue,” she’d say, “Violate me if you will, desecrate me if you wish, but dare you desecrate our country’s flag?” and the audience would cheer madly.
I’d take one look at her, then look at the audience and say, “Just call me Benedict Arnold.” A big laugh, and I’d say, “The sun has set, Nellie; the flag must come down.”
The Sin Man
had its origins at the Old Knick Music Hall in New York. Mr. Killiam told me Ernie Saracino created my role and Jack Lemmon played the hero.
When the Chicago Fair closed, I returned to New York from my summer adventures, hell-bent on cracking the Broadway stage. I was living at
home with my mother and father in the Ravenswood Project in Astoria, Queens. My brother Arnie and my sister Doreen were on their own. My younger sister, Maxine, was almost five. It occurred to me that I would have to contribute something to the house, but I also needed a job that would allow me the time to make rounds. So I applied for work at Nedick’s, a New York institution that sold hot dogs, orange drinks, and coffee all over the city. I worked first at Penn Station, then in Times Square. But I kept trying to find work in the theater.
25 Jackson St.
New York, New York
November 17, 1950
Professor Sawyer Falk Director of Dramatics Syracuse University Syracuse, New York
Dear Mr. Falk:
Just a few lines to say things are moving along. The only thing tangible is that I managed to get a walk-on on
The Colgate Comedy Hour,
which stars Jack Carson. It’ll be televised coast-to-coast this Wednesday from 8 to 9. I’m in the subway scene. I don’t say anything, but this morning I practiced climbing all over Jack Carson—which I later did at the rehearsal. Carson nearly threw me out of the International Theater …
I’m getting lots of laughs at the Blackfriars [a theater company run by the Catholic Actors’ Guild]. In addition I’m getting a reputation, the trend of which seems to be similar to the one I picked up in Syracuse. I don’t know if this is good or bad, but the audience seems to like me. The other man who plays the role doesn’t seem to come near to this phenomenon. The purpose of this show, Mr. Falk, is to get seen by some agents. I have no other choice.
I may be starting from the pit, Mr. Falk, but I want you to know that your standards are well preserved in this carcass. It is a great advantage to have been inculcated with those standards.
Well, suffice it to say that I’ll make this league, and it won’t be too long either. Thanks to you, I feel equipped.
Sincerely,
Jerry
25 Jackson St.
New York, New York
December 3, 1950
Dear Mr. Falk:
Thank you for going to bat for me with Mr. Alexander Cohen. I’ve already finished the letter to him that you suggested.
I’m supposed to sing for Cheryl Crawford this week. I’m going to do “The Song of the Open Road,” only like it’s never been done before. I will give you the results as soon as I get them.
I’m also in line for an audition with Rodgers and Hammerstein. The only trouble is they are all singing auditions. It’s the only way I can get a crack at nonsinging roles. In other words, I have to do something unusual enough in the singing audition to warrant their asking me who I am and where I’ve been all these years. And that’s exactly what I’m going to try to do. Without elaborating too much, Mr. Falk, I think it’s the funniest five minutes I’ve ever done. And if I get the job, it will be.
Your devoted student,
Jerry
On the crucial day I arrived for the
Paint Your Wagon
audition for Cheryl Crawford at the Martin Beck Theater with a small suitcase. The doorman, eyeing the valise, ominously asked, “What’s in the case?”
“My music,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Jerry Stiller.”
“Sit down,” he said. “They’ll call you.”
I sat, waiting my turn, as some of the best voices in New York filled the
theater with operatic brilliance. When my name was finally called, I walked on stage with this suitcase, which had been crammed with reams of sheet music. I peered out into the darkness of the almost empty theater. From the last row, Cheryl Crawford, one of the premier Broadway producers, called out in a no-nonsense voice, “What are you going to sing?”
“What do you wanna hear?” I said.
“What have you got?” she said.
“I got them all,” I said, opening the suitcase. “ ‘Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,’ ‘Zena-Zena,’ ‘The Ocarina Song.’” The sheet music slalomed lazily to the floor as I read off each piece.
“Sing the next one you come to,” the faceless voice, turning icy, commanded.
“Okay,” I said, dropping everything ever written by Cole Porter and Irving Berlin in a heavy heap, and reaching inside my jacket for “Song of the Open Road,” which I had folded neatly into eighths.
“I also do origami,” I said, handing the wadded paper to the shocked piano player. “And would you mind raising this an octave?”
“I’ll give it a try,” he said acidly.
“This’ll take a minute,” I noted, as the piano player slowly unfolded the music. I could sense the shock waves as he began the arpeggio. I heard my note and burst into, “What in the world could be so sweet as the thundering clatter of horses’ feet and the song of the oopen road …”
When I reached high C, I sneezed, pulling out a handkerchief loaded with gum drops, keys, cufflinks, and what have you. Nickels, dimes, and pennies showered the stage. I heard gasps from out front.
“Keep on playing,” I begged as I went to my knees, singing away while picking up change. “I’m on the road to Mandalay … let me travel on with no more love and no more care, just like a vagabond …” I urged the piano player to keep playing away. He did. “I’ll let the blue sky cover my head … why should I want a feather bed …?”
“Thank you, thank you!” someone in the seats shouted. “That’ll do. Stop. Stop.” I kept going. “Please stop!” I finally stopped.
“I’m a comedian,” I said, as if what they had just seen needed explanation.
“We’re not seeing comedians,” Cheryl Crawford said.
“It’s the only way I could get in to see you for a part.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“It’ll take a minute to get my stuff together,” I said, picking up my music and carfare home as quickly as possible, and whatever coins I could. From the pit, the piano player handed me my music.
“Here,” he said, “I folded it for you.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Just trying to be funny.”
“Ha-ha,” he said.
(The following Broadway season, when I was a year out of Syracuse University, Bill Liebling, the kindly agent of the Liebling/Audrey Wood agency, unwittingly sent me to read for Miss Crawford’s new musical
Flahooley
. When I arrived at the Martin Beck, the doorman stared at me for a minute, then asked, “Where’s your music?” When my name was called, I confronted the same group of people. There was no recognition that I’d ever been there before. Or maybe there was. They were frozen. I read well, but did not get the part. A man named Professor Irwin Corey did.)
In those days actors would make rounds together, usually in twos and threes. We were never the same type. Essentially it was to support one another and keep our egos alive. We went from office to office and did shtick for the secretaries, who might someday be promoted to casting agents. Hopefully, through these mini-auditions, they would remember us.
One day John Cassavetes, Harry Mastrogeorge, and I were making rounds. It was in the era of live television:
Studio One, Danger,
Ernie Kovacs, etc. We walked into an office on Madison Avenue. It had a marble floor, and John, who didn’t look like an actor and dressed in suits that were a size too big because they belonged to his father, asked to see the producer. The receptionist took a look at the three of us and said, “He’s not in.”
John suddenly got very angry. “What do you mean, he’s not in?” he said. “I saw him coming in on the elevator.” Without warning, John fell flat-faced to the floor like a slab of stone. We were horrified.