I Remember Me Page 5

  Our problems at Castelleras, while not nearly as heavy, were serious. Each day we had to make what were sometimes daunting decisions. When you are literally a five-minute drive from the quaint town of Valbonne and no more than ten minutes from historic Mougins or twenty minutes from Antibes or Cannes, it is hard to decide what to do. Should we shop at Valbonne’s fresh-meat shop and open-air vegetable market and buy food to cook at home, or should we call for a reservation at one of the Michelin Guide’s three-star seafood restaurants in Cannes, or should we try to book a table at Roger Verget’s world-renowned Le Moulin de Mougins? Such was our dilemma.

  After vacationing in Castelleras for a half-dozen summers and sampling and enjoying every recommended restaurant in the environs and as far away as Ventimilia, Italy, we settled down. When we did not cook at home, we frequented small neighborhood restaurants—L’Auberge Fleurie for cuisses do grenouille (frog legs) and L’Estaminet for poulet vinaigre (vinegar chicken) or La Chandelerie for lapin provencal (rabbit, provincial style)

  Our three children, Robbie, Annie, and Lucas, usually had summer plans that did not include visiting Mom and Dad in France. Our daughter spent parts of some summers with us, as did our youngest, Lucas. He was sixteen the last time he visited us, and for this summer, we also invited his friend Kevin Pinassi, so he would have a buddy with whom to grouse about whatever needed grousing.

  Kevin and Lucas were with us when decided to visit some new sights along the coast. We had been driving along, pointing out the famous seafood restaurants and the many pristine beaches, when we saw a sign informing us that St. Tropez was just a few kilometers down the road. Estelle and I were aware that St. Tropez was a nude beach, and sophisticates that we were, we decided not to pass up the opportunity of visiting this much-publicized resort. If nothing else, it was certain to be an educating experience for our teenaged passengers.

  We parked the car, kicked off our shoes, and walked to the beautiful white-sand beach. We wore bathing suits and had no intention of shedding them. As we came onto the beach, many young bathers were leaving. All were fully clad, but it was not long before we saw, coming right at us, two very pretty, very bra-less young women. Not a one of us showed any visible signs of having noticed four of the most upstanding and beautiful breasts passing by us. And so the bare-breasted parade continued as we looked for a place to settle. Estelle and I found a spot to spread our blanket, and we sat down. Lucas and Kevin opted to go for a walk, and we agreed that it was a good idea for them to do “a little exploring,” and off they went. We told them not to stay away too long, as it was quite a drive back to Castelleras.

  The two young men “explored” for at least an hour, and when they returned, they had nothing to report—they actually seemed bored. Their faces were immobile, and their attitude could best be described as detached. When I asked if they were ready to go, they nodded, and the four of us left the beautiful beach at St. Tropez.

  For the first few minutes of the drive home, Estelle and I tried to initiate a conversation with the boys, and all we got from them were grunts and monosyllabic responses. None of us was feeling very energetic, the hot Mediterranean sun having sapped a lot of our energy. We all fell silent, but from time to time, Estelle or I would comment on the interesting sights and scenery we were passing, but there were no substantive discussions. Lucas had not said a word for the whole hour we drove. I kept checking the rearview mirror to see if he was awake, and he was. His eyes were open and staring straight ahead. Kevin, however, for most of the way home, napped.

  When we drove past Valbonne, I was happy to announce that we would be home in ten minutes. It had been a long day. I made a right turn at the sign that read Domaine Privee and headed for the guard gate at Castelleras, where actual guards greeted us every day with a pleasant, “Bon jour” or an “Au ‘voir!”

  When we were about a hundred yards from the gate, Lucas spoke for the first time since leaving the beach. Without emotion, and in a slow measured cadence, he quietly delivered these words: “This-was-the-best-day-of-my-whole-life!”

  Estelle and I did all we could not to keep from laughing.

  Pridefully, I can report that, since then, Lucas Reiner has had at least three more occasions when he must have said that it was the best day of his whole life—and they were: the day he wed Maud and the two days when their daughters, Livia and Rose, came into the world.

  A second memory of our summer home in Castelleras just popped into my head. It was of the evening when something provoked my loving wife to a fit of uncontrolled laughter. Estelle had earlier prepared and served a luscious dinner of poulet vinaigre to our dear friends, Mel Brooks, Anne Bancroft, and their dear friends, Renee and Harry Lorrayne, who have since become our good friends. Harry Lorrayne, besides being the author of dozens of books on magic and memory, is arguably one of the world’s greatest sleight-of-hand artists. At that dinner were our son Lucas and his wife, Maud, which brought the count up to eight diners, all of whom sat uncomfortably and uncomplainingly around our very small dining-room table.

  After dinner, we repaired from our cramped table to our very-well-decorated, tiny living room that sported two white, plaster-sculpted, cushioned couches and a single club chair. Each couch could accommodate three people. At one sat Anne Bancroft, Harry and Renee Lorrayne; on the other were Lucas, Maud, and myself. Estelle sat in the club chair that closed the semicircle—which left one guest, Mel Brooks, standing and looking about for a place to settle. With his coffee cup in hand, he retrieved a wicker stool and approached our guests, who were cozily configured in an open horseshoe, facing a white-plaster fireplace. There was little room in front of the fireplace for Mel to put down the stool, so he placed it in the center of the fireplace, ducked under the overhang, and sat on it. With his head up the chimney, he crossed his legs, took a sip of coffee, and for the next several minutes, carried on a conversation as if nothing were amiss. As you might imagine, a headless Mel Brooks casually conversing and sipping coffee would make anyone laugh. We all broke up, but it was Estelle who kicked off the wave of screaming laughter.

  It was the first of two events that set Estelle off that night. After the bottom two-thirds of Mel milked all that he could, he emerged from his roost and joined the rest of us in a game of Dictionary. Dictionary, for those of you who have forgotten the game or never knew of it, is played by friends who try to guess the meaning of an obscure word that one player has chosen. Being in France, we sophisticates opted to use a French dictionary. Each player writes that word on a slip of paper, and a monitor reads the invented definitions.

  With Renee Lorrayne, Anne Bancroft, Mel Brooks and Estelle Reiner

  On this go-around, Estelle was the monitor, and the word someone had chosen was pourlecher. She picked up the first piece of folded paper and started to read what one of our players ascribed to be the word’s definition. I say started to read, for before getting out the first word, her face contorted as she battled to suppress a giggle. She pulled herself together, repeated the word pourlecher, and immediately lost the battle. She burst out laughing and made one or two aborted attempts to rein herself in. As often happens, all of us found her struggle amusing and started to laugh—and continued laughing as Estelle attempted to read what someone had written: “To lick all over.” “To lick, to lick …” was all she could get out before doubling over. Mel Brooks, for reasons known only to him, found Estelle’s laughter so infectious that he stamped his foot, clapped his hands as an almost soundless, high-pitched laugh escaped his lungs. For fear of damaging himself , he bolted out the front door, up a short flight of colorfully tiled stairs, and onto an unlit Castelleras street. Still laughing and desperately trying to stifle himself, he staggered up the street, turned right, and made his way onto the unlit, pitch-black road, risking the possibility of falling into a pothole or off a cliff.

  I daresay that being aware, as you are, of the magnificent output of films, musicals, a
nd plays that are attributed to him, Mel did not come to anything but a happy end that laugh-filled weekend.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Search for the World’s Funniest Number

  I am currently a member of a committee that, once a month, is invited to a lunch at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences where, by voting, we select which of the newly released films will be previewed for our members.

  I had eaten my free lunch (two half sandwiches: one an egg salad on white bread and the other a sliced chicken on rye), recorded my votes, and was ready to leave. As I rose from the impressive, oval conference table, Larry Mirish, the chairperson of the meeting, asked me a question. My short-term memory being fairly good for periods of less than an hour allows me to give you a verbatim account of my conversation with Larry.

  “Carl, I have a question for you.”

  “And I may have an answer for you, Larry—shoot!”

  “When you were on Your Show of Shows, do you remember doing a sketch about trying to determine what the funniest number is? I never saw the sketch, but a friend of mine said that you might recall what that number was.”

  “I not only remember the number and the sketch,” I boasted, “but I remember the active discussion we had trying to agree on what the number should be.”

  Larry Mirish’s face lit up when he realized he had struck pay dirt. “This is great, go on!” he urged.

  I told him that the discussion was in Sid Caesar’s office, and present, I thought were writers: Lucille Kallen, Mel Brooks, Neil Simon, Joe Stein, and our head writer, Mel Tolkin. The sketch in question featured a woman breaking the bank in Monte Carlo by placing a bet on her lucky number on the casino’s roulette wheel and winning each time. The sketch was written, and the only thing left to do was to choose the funniest-sounding lucky number for Imogene Coca to call out as she placed her bet. The search went on for at least a half hour, with each writer suggesting a number he or she thought was funny. Imogene, who everyone addressed as Coca, was called upon to audition the funny numbers that each writer offered. The candidates were: fourteen, twenty-five, seventy-one, eighty-eight, sixteen, twelve, one, double zero, the ever-popular sixty-nine. Dozens upon dozens of other numbers were tossed up and batted down. So it went and continued to go until someone came up with the funniest “lucky” number. I could not remember who that writer was, but if that genius is still alive, he would surely remember that it was he who created the winning entry: “Thirty-two!”

  As soon as Coca voiced it, there was no doubt that “thirty-two” was one hilarious number. Every time the birdlike Coca delivered a nasally drawled “Thiiirrrty-twooo!”, everyone in the room laughed.

  At one point, we were sure that we were punch drunk and that it was weariness that made us all giddy. Some worried that we were—to use the writer’s accepted vernacular—“jerking off,” but we were not!

  On that Saturday night, some sixty years ago, the hundreds of guests who were members of NBC’s studio audience and the millions of Americans who tuned in to Your Show of Shows laughed every time Coca placed her bet down and chirped, “Thiiiirrrrty-twooo!”

  No one could explain it. Someone suggested that the audience thought Coca’s “Thirty-two” sounded like she was saying “Dirty-doo!” What it really came down to was something a wise comedian once said: “Funny is funny!”

  Apropos of nothing, but giving credit to where credit is not expected but due, while I was in the middle of telling the lucky number story and had not yet said what the number was, Larry Mirish suddenly blurted out, “Thirty-two?!”

  Larry swore that it was a lucky guess, and I believed him. Why would I not? He was the son of the producer of The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming, the one and only film for which I, as an actor, received top billing. How could I ever doubt that man?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Enter Laughing, Exit Screaming!

  My Affair with Shelley Winters, Part 1

  One morning at breakfast, while reading the New York Times, I learned of the passing of actor Farley Granger. I had met Farley during the Second World War, when we were attached to a special-service entertainment unit that was based in Hawaii.

  Farley’s obituary included the many romantic relationships he had with members of both sexes. And though he lived out his life with a male partner, he acknowledged the satisfying liaisons he had with some of his female co-stars. In his autobiography, he included the short, torrid affair he had with Shelley Winters.

  I too had a torrid affair with Shelley Winters, and it was by no means a “one-nighter.” Our involvement lasted for two and a half months, but it seemed a good deal longer. At the end, I was bloodied and, happy to say, unbowed. If you are expecting to read a romantic or pornographic account of what went on between Shelley and me, you will be disappointed, but if you are interested in a behind-the-scenes odyssey that involved some of my—and likely your—favorite actors, read on.

  It started nine years earlier, in 1967, when I had written my first novel about a young delivery boy who aspires to be an actor. Thanks to the reviews, the book, Enter Laughing, had a modest success. The following are not verbatim quotes, but they more or less encapsulate the opinions of some newspaper critics.

  “It’s okay.” —New York Daily News

  “I’ve read worse first novels.” —New York Herald Tribune

  “Might enjoy reading it on the beach.” —Women’s Wear Daily

  “The graveyard is a very unlikely place for the leading character to have lost his virginity!” —New York Times

  For the record, I took liberties with the first three blurbs, but the last is an accurate quote from the Times’ critic.

  What I had written in my novel, that the critic found unlikely, I had actually experienced. I was quite unhappy with the criticism, but a week later, I smiled when I read the response it provoked. In a letter to the editor, a doctor of internal medicine at Mount Sinai wrote: “Your reviewer, suggesting that a graveyard is an unlikely place for a young lad to lose his virginity, has not done his research. A graveyard is a very likely place for that event to occur, I can attest to that.”

  I cherished that admission. The book did get a number of positive reviews, but the single most important review came from my friend, playwright Joe Stein. He simply said, “Carl, this is a dandy book. I think it would make a dandy little play.”

  And so Joe went ahead and adapted the “dandy book” into “a dandy little play.”

  The same year he adapted Enter Laughing into a dandy little play, Joe adapted Sholem Aleichem’s classic, Tevye the Milkman, into Fiddler on the Roof, the dandiest of all musicals.

  Dandy is a word I have never heard anyone use until I heard Joe describe my novel as being that and suggest he adapt it for Broadway. This he did, and in 1962, both Enter Laughing the play, and Alan Arkin, its leading player, won Tony Awards. The play ran for more than a year on Broadway, and productions of it continue to be mounted and performed in regional theaters and schools throughout the country.

  I just had the niggling suspicion that some of what I have just written I had covered in an earlier book, My Anecdotal Life. It was Joe Stein’s use of the word dandy that alerted me, so I checked, and there it was on page eighty-three. I was reminded by my assistant, Bess, that I had also discussed Joe Stein’s proprietary use of the word dandy in a eulogy I had written for his memorial service. Joe lived to be ninety-eight.

  Recalling Joe’s age just triggered a memory of an English play in which two stuffy English gents had the following curt exchange:

  “Have you heard? Faversham died!”

  “Did he now? How old was he?”

  “Ninety-eight.”

  “Hmm, asking for it, wasn’t he?”

  Unlike Faversham, Joe Stein was not asking for it. At ninety-eight, his mind was as sharp as ever, and I had spo
ken to him two days before an unexpected accident caused a fatal fall.

  Back to 1967—when Joe and I collaborated on adapting Enter Laughing for the screen, we considered a cast of very talented actors, which included Alan Arkin, who was brilliant in the show but was now in his mid-thirties and would not seem credible playing a seventeen-year-old. This gave us the unenviable task of trying to find another genius actor-comedian to fill the role.

  After auditioning many actors for the role of David Kolowitz, a Jewish teenager from the Bronx, we engaged Reni Santoni, a twenty-five-year-old of Puerto Rican descent. It was a bit of a challenge for the very talented and creative young man, but he was up for it.

  For the important role of Mr. Harrison Marlowe, the aging ham actor, our first choice was Jose Ferrer. Mr. Ferrer was then one of our nation’s most distinguished stage and screen performers. He had won worldwide acclaim for his film portrayals of Cyrano de Bergerac and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

  I phoned Mr. Ferrer, offered him the role of Marlowe, and held my breath. I did not have to hold it long, as he immediately said that he had no interest in doing a comedy. He punctuated his decision by hanging up his phone—hard! No doubt he would have hung up harder had I told him that the film, Enter Laughing, was a low-budget comedy and would be shot in thirty-two days on location in Manhattan. We had planned to build sets in the Bronx’s Gold Medal Studio—a studio which had been shuttered for twenty years and we had contracted to be un-shuttered.

  I decided to give him none of that information if he decided to pick up my next phone call. He did and was about to hang up again when I did the one thing that will keep any actor from hanging up on anybody—I flattered him, unmercifully and to within an inch of his life!