Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [67]
Then, next morning, came the London papers.
Jack Keller phoned us and said he’d meet us in Dean’s suite. When I walked in, I found them in the living room, where Jack had spread the front pages of all eight London newspapers over the floor, every one blaring a variation of the same huge, black headline:
MARTIN & LEWIS BOOED AT PALLADIUM OPENING
Jack was shaking his head, looking like he’d just taken a swift kick to the balls.
“What in Christ’s name is this all about?” I asked him.
Dean chimed in: “We did the best show of our lives, and they run headlines like that!” For once he had lost his cool. I’d never seen him so furious.
It turned out that a number of the papers ran great reviews, but not on the front page. Those headlines eclipsed everything.
Jack sat us down and tried to explain. “Look, you guys,” he said. “As great a job as you did last night, you’ve got to understand that ever since Lend-Lease, anti-Americanism has run pretty strong over here.” He was referring to the program that started the year before the United States entered World War II, when England was getting beaten up pretty badly by the Nazis, and we began sending them ships, planes, tanks, guns, food, and other supplies. Great Britain was going to make good on all of it, but file it under No Good Deed Goes Unpunished—lend someone money and, without fail, the recipient feels like a turd for needing it in the first place, then blames you for having it to give him.
Once again: Being the receiver of generosity isn’t always the easiest thing in the world.
Now, though, something else was going on. The Red Scare was at its peak in America and Joe McCarthy was trying to prove everyone a Communist. Only days before we arrived, McCarthy’s chief goons, Roy Cohn and G. David Schine, had stopped in London as part of their European tour to root out subversives. Both the English and European press had a field day making fun of these two turkeys. In addition, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, convicted of giving American atom-bomb secrets to the Russians, had just been executed at Sing Sing. U.S. prestige, Jack reminded us, was at an all-time low overseas—especially in England.
A few weeks later, we found out that the shouting at our Palladium opening had been started by two left-wing students, and that most of the booing had been directed at their rudeness. But those headlines dogged us for the next two weeks, as we continued to play to standing-room-only crowds at the Palladium. Meanwhile, Dean seemed to keep getting angrier and angrier. I was mad too, but because Dean was taking it so hard, I tried to lighten things up in order not to make him feel worse.
“They’ll never see me in London or Hong Kong, or even Burberry’s in New York,” Dean swore. “The English press are whores, parasites, and just low-down filthy scum.” And the sad thing was, I had to admit he was right. Remember, Fleet Street in London was the mother of tabloid journalism—and when you’re in that spotlight, it isn’t much fun.
After England, we toured the U.S. military bases in France, then stopped in Paris for some R&R. Time had passed, but Dean and I were both still stinging. When Art Buchwald, then writing for the International Herald Tribune, came to interview us over lunch at the Hotel George V, we didn’t hold back. When I ordered my lunch, I asked for “a nice roasted English reporter garnished with lots of French-fried potatoes.”
“I’m never going back to England,” Dean said, “on account of the British press stinks. And you can tell them I said so. They tell you how much they like you to your face and what great admirers they are of yours, and then the next day you read in the paper that you stink.”
Dean sailed back to New York the next day, while Patti and I took a much-needed vacation in France and Italy. I was mostly out of touch for the next few weeks,