Still Foolin’ ’Em Read online

  “You look mahvelous!” No matter where I went (and still to this day), somebody would tell me I looked mahvelous, as if I had never heard it before, from Bill Clinton and Ted Kennedy to Barbara Walters and my gardener. The encounter I’ll never forget was with Henry Kissinger, who not only told me I looked mahvelous but then introduced me to his wife: “Honey, this is my favorite, Billy Joel.” Other characters I did were Buddy Young Jr., an insult comic, who would become the basis for Mr. Saturday Night; Joe Franklin, a well-known talk-show host; and a character named Lew Goldman, an old Jewish weatherman who only gave the forecast for where his family lived. A writer on the staff named Larry David created him with me. I’m not sure what became of him.

  “Three Amigos” with Martin Short and Jesse Jackson, when Jesse hosted SNL.

  (Photograph © Fred Watkins)

  We were older than the usual cast, the only drugs we did were antacids, and our comedy sensibilities were different, but it worked. People were talking about SNL again. All these years later, fans think that we were all there for a few years, when in fact it was just eighteen shows. Midway through the season, I started to feel that one year wouldn’t be enough. I was having too much fun. Nine years after getting bumped and slinking out of that great studio, I was thriving in it, and I finally had the career I wanted, doing the work I had always hoped I would get a chance to do. For four years I had only played Jodie; now every week I got the chance to play four or five characters.

  It was exhausting as hell. The cast and writers would meet the host on Monday and get their ideas and thoughts, and then the cast members would have only two days to write the bits we wanted to do on the show, while hopefully the writers were writing parts for us as well. All proposed sketches had to be ready by Wednesday afternoon, which was read-through day. The entire cast, the writers, and the crew would meet and we would read every piece, and then Dick, who was the best producer I have ever worked with, would pick the sketches for the show. Before we knew it, we were rehearsing on-camera or shooting promos or a film piece or writing a feature for “Weekend Update.”

  It seemed that I lived at 30 Rock. One Tuesday night around three A.M., Marty and I were in our offices on the seventeenth floor, staring at the driving snow that was falling on the sleeping city. I poked my head out of the door: “Marty, you have anything?”

  “Nope, I’m dry.”

  “Want to grab a cab? It’s late and it’s snowing—let’s get out of here,” I said. Totally wiped out, we got into a cab and headed down Seventh Avenue. We were talking about how tired we were as the cab stopped for a light at Thirty-third Street. Marty was saying something when I heard it: the roar of a giant animal. Marty’s eyes lit up, and I turned and saw a huge tiger outside the window. I knew I was tired, but this was ridiculous. It roared again, and we wiped the condensation off the window and saw not only tigers but lions in cages and elephants walking in the snow. The circus was loading into Madison Square Garden. Led by his handler, the tiger joined the animal parade into the great arena. It was one of the most beautiful and surreal moments I’ve ever experienced. Marty and I had just left the office, and these animals were on their way to work.

  After all the time I had put into comedy, I was finally where I had set out to be, and it was the time of my life. If nothing came out of this year, so be it. I had given it my best shot. As the season was winding down to its finish, I got a call from Peter Hyams, who was directing a movie called Running Scared. He wanted me to star in the film with Gregory Hines. I was overjoyed. It was a solid action-comedy script, and I flew to California to screen-test for the part. Then, the night before the test, Brandon Tartikoff called and asked me if I would be interested in hosting SNL on a permanent basis. He was toying with the idea of a wheel: four different rotating shows to run on Saturday nights, one of which would be SNL. I was thrilled but confused—everything was happening at once.

  “Brandon, if this is real,” I said, “I have to know, because I’m screen-testing for this movie tomorrow, and it’s going to shoot when the show would be on, and I can’t do both. I won’t do the test. We’d have to start working on the show right away!”

  “I’ll call you back,” Brandon said.

  He never did. What happened was that Dick Ebersol suddenly stepped aside as producer, and Lorne Michaels came back to rebuild SNL. He wanted to start from scratch, so not only was I not going to host the show, I couldn’t go back to SNL even if I wanted to. I did the screen test and got the part.

  My experience at SNL had been like getting lost in a snowstorm, retracing your steps, and then starting off again, this time in the right direction. Getting my first Emmy nomination was the icing on the cake. That was the most important year in my career, and I was very proud of the work we all did there and grateful for the chance, but it was time to move on.

  * * *

  In Running Scared, Gregory and I had a natural chemistry that Peter Hyams was able to orchestrate and capture on film. It was Peter’s idea to team us together, and he brought out the best in us. I got into great physical condition to play Danny, a tough, street-smart, wisecracking cop from Chicago. Gregory and I did most of our own stunts, and both of us, not being the biggest guys in the world, had to train intensely. This would also be the first time I would have to shoot a gun; before that I’d never even had one in my hand, unless you count using my index finger as a kid to shoot the bad guys: “Bam bam bam.”

  We trained at a shooting range, and I was surprised and a little frightened by the power of a pistol and an Uzi submachine gun. The first day of filming was a shoot-out scene in a dingy drug dealer’s apartment. With movie bullets flying around me, I would have to run into a room, dive onto the floor, and shoot my pistol three times. I did the first take, hit the ground, and fired the pistol. Peter yelled, “Cut,” the crew applauded, and he called me over to the monitor, where he was cueing up the video playback. I was jazzed—this was a real movie! We watched the playback, and there I was, Mr. Tough Guy. I flew into the room, looking like a real cop, hit the floor, and when I fired the pistol, I shouted, “Bam bam bam!”

  Running Scared with Gregory Hines.

  “You don’t have to make the sound—the gun will,” joked Peter. I had no idea I’d said a word.

  * * *

  Earlier that spring, I was asked to host an NBC special to be shot at the Baseball Hall of Fame, in Cooperstown, New York. A Comedy Salute to Baseball would air the night before the All-Star Game. Mickey Mantle was going to be a guest, along with Willie Mays. They had both been banned from baseball because they worked for casinos in Atlantic City as greeters and had just been reinstated by new commissioner Peter Ueberroth.

  The show was to be a funny look at baseball and would feature Mickey and Willie doing sketches with me. When I arrived in Cooperstown, I was told that Mays had canceled at the last moment and it would just be Mickey.

  The night before shooting, there was a production meeting at a restaurant directly across from the Hall of Fame. The director looked like a Hollywood stereotype: purple sweater tied around his neck and matching sunglasses … indoors! We were waiting for Mickey, who had been flown up privately. The man picking him up was a kindly older gentleman. He and his sweet wife were the owners of the bed-and-breakfast where we were all staying. A former neurosurgeon, he had undergone a major cancer surgery that had left him with a gap between his shoulder and his neck. He handled this huge deformity with dignity. It didn’t bother him, so why should it bother you? was his mantra. Well into the meeting, Mickey arrived. Still wearing the golf shoes he’d had on in Atlantic City before he got on the plane to Cooperstown, he kept pawing the young waitress as she led him to our table in the back; I knew right away that he was smashed. She pushed his groping hands away again, saying, “Mr. Mantle, please…”

  Mickey slurred back, “No, not Mr. Mantle—I’m your uncle Bob.”

  He saw me. “Hey, you little son of a bitch!” he said, which is how he usually greeted me. He nodded to our staff
, and then he saw the director. “Fuck you!” he laughed.

  “What did I do?” asked the Hollywood stereotype, now clearly uncomfortable.

  “Look at ya,” Mickey snorted and sat down, and the meeting went on as best it could.

  As we were leaving, Mickey asked if we were staying at the same place. “Yes,” I said, “it’s a great old inn.”

  “Good,” Mickey replied. “I guess Shark Bite took my bags there.”

  “Who?”

  “Shark Bite,” Mickey said. “Ain’t that what happened to him?”

  I explained what I knew about our host, and Mantle felt bad for a moment and then started laughing hysterically. It was locker room banter. Players always make up a name for someone with a distinctive feature. Guys with big noses were usually “Hook,” big-eared players were “Rabbit,” and so on. So I’m guessing in his boozy state of mind, when Mickey saw the huge indention in the outline of the fellow’s shoulder, he was thinking there was only one reason: shark bite.

  At the inn, Mickey and I had adjoining rooms with a common bathroom. It was a rough night for Mickey—I could hear him thrashing about. In the middle of the night, he knocked softly on my door. “Hey, you still up?”

  “Yeah, but, Mick, it’s two A.M. and we have to be at the hall at seven.”

  “I can’t do this. I’m too nervous.”

  I let him in. There we were, me in my pajamas and Mantle in his boxer shorts. We spoke in hushed whispers. He was visibly upset.

  “You’ll be fine, Mick, it’s all on cue cards.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I’ve never been in the damn place. When I got inducted in ’74, I left after my speech. Had a hundred friends and family, Merlyn, the boys, and I just left. I don’t belong in there. I wasn’t good enough.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t believe the legend was having an anxiety attack.

  “No, I should have been so much better. I can’t do this.”

  I talked Mickey down and finally coaxed him back to bed.

  At the breakfast table the next morning, our host was pouring Mickey some juice and Mickey couldn’t look at him. He kept staring down at his eggs like a kid in church who’d done something wrong. I knew he felt bad for calling him Shark Bite.

  We headed over to the Hall of Fame. Mickey stopped me again.

  “Please, I can’t do this. I’ve never even seen where my plaque is.”

  “Well, let’s go find it,” I said, “’cause that’s where the first shot is.”

  “Shit,” Mickey muttered. We met David Israel, one of the producers for the show, and we walked Mantle to his plaque. “There it is, Mickey,” I said.

  He stared at the plaque and looked at the others on the wall, and then suddenly he said, “Why the fuck am I with that guy? I should be with Willie and Whitey. What the fuck is going on?”

  So now the man who didn’t think he should be in the Hall of Fame was mad about the positioning of his plaque. It was a curious juxtaposition, and we all felt a little uncomfortable.

  We shot some funny skits together, including a version of “I Hate When That Happens.” He was a natural. On a break, the director of the hall, Bill Guilfoyle, took us upstairs. A preacher type with wire-rimmed glasses and a kind shyness about him, he was obviously thrilled that the great Mantle was there. We went to a floor dedicated to Babe Ruth and his amazing career, and we stared at the accomplishments: 714 home runs, .342 lifetime batting average, over two thousand RBIs, 94 wins as a pitcher. Ruth was the greatest player in baseball history. His locker from the stadium was sitting there, poetically alone.

  “Some career, don’t you think, Mickey?” said the president.

  “Yeah, but I got more pussy than he did.”

  I thought the president would have a stroke. I wasn’t far behind. Guilfoyle didn’t know what to say. His glasses fogged up, his voice cracked. “Uh … yes, I guess you did, Mickey.… Would you like to see Gehrig’s locker?”

  It was a perfect Mantle joke. Totally wrong, but really funny. I put it into the script of 61*, the film about Mantle and Maris I later directed for HBO.

  At the end of the day, we were taping my good nights on the field where Abner Doubleday was said to have invented the game. I said, “When you’re a kid learning how to play this glorious game, you dream of a time when Mickey Mantle and you would be having a catch, and he’d say, ‘Nice arm, kid.’” With that, Mantle stepped in behind me holding two gloves and a baseball. “Hey, quit talking—let’s play catch.”

  I turned to the camera and said, “I love when this happens.” The credits rolled as we were throwing the ball to each other. When it was over, we just kept throwing. I started to cry.

  “What’s the matter?” Mickey asked.

  “I got something in my eye.”

  A lifelong dream. I had thought about playing catch with Mantle from the first time I saw him, in 1956. We moved farther apart, as he seemed to really enjoy throwing the ball again. Mickey couldn’t move too well, and I didn’t want to throw the ball where he couldn’t get to it. Sure enough, the harder you try to make something perfect, the more likely you are to screw up. He limped after my next toss, the ball falling at his feet. “Sorry,” I said, feeling awful. “No, I am,” he said. “If I could get that, I’d still be playing.”

  We finished the taping, and “Shark Bite” drove us to the airport in Albany. The Mohawk Valley was in fine form; the spring rains had turned it into a green wonderland that would become a stunning red-and-gold watercolor in the fall. Mickey sat in the backseat with a six-pack of beer. I was up front with a tuna sandwich. After a while, Mickey said, “Pretty…”

  With Mickey at the Hall of Fame, a comedy salute to baseball.

  “You should see it in October,” said Shark Bite.

  “Yeah,” Mickey muttered, “maybe I should come up here more. When they put the new guys in, maybe I should come.”

  “Of course you should,” I said. “Williams comes, Musial, Bob Feller … they all come…” I continued, and as I turned I saw Mickey staring out the open window, the breeze blowing his now thinning blond hair. “Hey, driver,” he said. “I never got your name.”

  “Ted,” the sweet man answered softly, his eyes, still focused on the road, now misting up.

  “I’m Mickey, nice to know you. If I get up here, maybe you’ll drive me again.”

  “Anytime,” said Ted. Mickey soon fell asleep. He looked like a kid who’d had a big day and conked out in the family car on the way home. We drove in silence now. Ted and I looked at each other and smiled as we headed through the lush hills of upstate New York.

  * * *

  Soon after, I recorded a live stand-up album at the famous Bottom Line nightclub in New York, and wrote a single called “You Look Marvelous” with Paul Shaffer, which was nominated for a Grammy. We made a fun video of the song for MTV, in which I played Grace Jones, Tina Turner, Sammy, and, of course, Fernando. On the promotional tour I met a young Chicago talk-show host named Oprah Winfrey, who called me “the designated Negro” because I could play black people so realistically. I think what made it work was that they were characters I loved, and having been around all those great musicians growing up, playing African Americans just came naturally to me. I did a concert tour and made another HBO special, called Don’t Get Me Started, which I also codirected. It was a parody of Sting’s movie Bring on the Night, where he rented a mansion in France to write music and rehearse for his new tour and made a documentary of the experience. For my show we rented a house in Pasadena and Rob Reiner played Marty DiBergi, his director character from Spinal Tap, who this time was making a “yockumentary.” The show also featured Chris Guest, Eugene Levy, and a strange older German comedian named Brother Theodore. I played Fernando, Whoopi, Sammy, and Buddy Young Jr. The show was mostly improvised, and working with these incredible talents was inspiring. Sammy (the real one) particularly loved the scene where I as Sammy show some footage of “himself” in the Jack Nicholson part in One Flew
over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which he was fired from after one day for “creative differences.”

  Rob was in the midst of doing a string of terrific movies: Spinal Tap, Stand by Me, and now came The Princess Bride, from William Goldman’s classic screenplay. Rob asked me to play Miracle Max, an ancient gnome of a medicine man. Carol Kane was my equally ancient wife, Valerie, and we made a magic pill that helps bring the hero back to life. No director had a more varied slate of films than Rob, and this trend would, of course, continue. His trust, sense of humor, and timing were sensational. He would always get the scene as written but would never stop finding new places for me to improvise. For instance, in a take when Rob told me, “Say whatever you want,” I came up with “True love is the greatest thing in the world, except for a nice MLT, a mutton, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe. Mmmm. They’re so perky. I love that.” We’d become the closest of friends and could talk about anything with each other, which in a few years would figure in a unique way.

  For Max, I asked Peter Montagna, my makeup artist from SNL, to make me look like a cross between Casey Stengel and my grandmother. After five hours of makeup, I was that funny-looking little old man. I hope if I get that old, I’m as much fun as Max was. To this day people will say to me, “Have fun storming the castle.” The movie wasn’t a big hit, but it is now considered a classic. I’m so proud to be in it. (If only for three minutes!) The film means something to people. I’ve now watched it with both my kids and my grandkids. In 2012, we had a twenty-fifth reunion at the New York Film Festival. The screening at Lincoln Center was raucous. A thousand fans applauded everyone’s entrance in the film and said their favorite lines with the actors on the screen. It was like going to a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Tears came to my eyes as they chanted Mandy Patinkin’s line “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die” and my “Have fun storming the castle.” Generations of families came to see the film and pay tribute to Rob and the cast. Sadly, André the Giant and Peter Falk had passed away, but the rest of us were there, united forever by this special film.