Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [43]
their hands throughout the applause, so no one would think they had started it.
The excitement in my dressing room after the curtain came down was thrilling. My mother was ecstatic—everyone was happy and crying. Then I saw my father. He looked like he had just finished the triathalon. I knew he had lived through every moment of the play with me. And he was drained.
I’ll never forget the look on his face. It wasn’t joy, it wasn’t pride. It was utter relief. I was going to be okay.
The next morning I received spectacular reviews, but none more liberating to me than the one that ended with “She’s the daughter of an American comedian, I’m told.”
In true form, Dad was funny about it all. One night I had forgotten my curlers at the hotel, and Dad ran over to the theatre with them in a paper bag. The old man at the stage door yelled down to my dressing room, “There’s a dark-complexioned man here with a package for you.” My very famous, very adorable father came down the stairs, handed me the bag of curlers and said, “I’m going back on American Airlines where they know who the hell I am!”
Chapter 21
Killing and Dying—Alan Alda
Alan Alda and I made a movie together in 1968 called Jenny, and we’ve been friends ever since. He always makes me laugh, and I love listening to him tell stories about his childhood with his famous dad, the actor and musical star Robert Alda.
Like me, Alan grew up surrounded by comedians—in his case, burlesque comics. He traveled with his parents and a troupe of singers, chorus girls and comedians to places like Buffalo, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. From the time he was two years old, he’d stand in the wings, watching very funny people perform about five times a day. (“Sometimes, we’d stay up all night drinking beer,” he jokes. “I didn’t drink beer till I was three.”) It’s always good to catch up with Alan, especially when we’re talking about our favorite topic: growing up with laughter.
—M.T.
Alan: Funny, I just saw you the other day. I was looking at pictures from my last birthday party, and there you were.
Marlo: There I was.
Alan: And you look good.
Marlo: You’re sweet—you’re no slouch yourself.
Alan: I don’t look too bad in pictures. I’ve noticed that I never like any pictures of me when they’re taken. I should put them in a drawer and wait three years—then I’ll look sensational.
Marlo: I’m always glad to be there for your birthdays. It’s great being old friends. My father used to say, “Never trade an old friend in for a new one.”
Alan: My dad was like that, too. Even after he began making movies in Hollywood, he never abandoned his old pals. The burlesque comics would come over on Sundays and there would be, like, fifty people there. They’d fire up the barbecue and everybody would get up and do old sketches. They’d even let me join in with them. I was constantly in the midst of funny people.
Marlo: So your comic training started early. How old were you when you first realized you were funny?
Alan: About four.
Marlo: You’re kidding! Four?
Alan: Four. And I remember exactly where I was. My parents were in bed, and I was in their bedroom, picking up newspapers from the floor. As soon as I picked one up, I’d immediately drop it—you know, like Buster Keaton. And each time I did it, my parents would laugh. Finally, my father said, “You’re doing a bit, aren’t you?” And that’s when I realized I was deliberately going for the laugh. I think that may be the first time I thought I was funny.
Marlo: That’s so cute. You were already honing your physical shtick. But I’ve always believed there’s something more than just comic skill inside comedians. Do you agree?
Alan: Yes. I think it comes from the desire—the need—to please. And you can’t ignore it. Comedians always talk about killing. In a sense, that’s a very accurate term. When you make people laugh, you make them helpless. So, in a way, you are killing them.
Marlo: That’s interesting—I never thought of it that way.
Alan: I think it’s good for people to laugh together—which is why I always