Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [98]
Milton came on first, exploding with energy—banging out one-liners, walking on the sides of his feet, making faces, crossing his eyes, prancing and dancing, licking his hand to slick back his hair, and all with a look of sheer delight on that rubbery mug of his. He was a marvelous rat-a-tat clown—a master of Berlesque burlesque—who the audience adored and he adored back. As I watched him, I could almost see the six-year-old boy standing up in his parents’ living room, making his whole family double over in awe at this precocious and genuinely funny kid.
Then came Dad, Mr. Sleek, in his pressed black tuxedo with his red satin pocket hanky. He strode to the mike and good-naturedly welcomed his audience. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” They immediately quieted down to hear what he would say next. Dad adored making an audience laugh, but he also loved bringing them to a hush. He used to tell me that a good storyteller knows how important the silences are, and is never afraid of them. Dad controlled his audience like an orchestra conductor. He was Mr. Cool.
I remember once being with him in the dining room of the Sands Hotel when a young comic approached our table.
“Mr. Thomas,” he said nervously, “I’m just starting out as a comedian, and I’m having the hardest time beginning my act. I never know what to say when I first come out. Can you give me some advice?”
My father looked up at the young comic.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you, free of charge, what I open with.”
“Oh, my God,” the kid said. “Would you really? What is it?”
Dad said, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
Third on the bill was Sid Caesar, who couldn’t have been more different from his two friends. No rat-a-tat, no gentlemanly welcome to the audience. Instead, Sid came out in character—a German professor—then gave us another of his characters, and another, and yet another, all from different countries, all with different accents. The audience was transfixed.
And it was interesting knowing where all those voices came from. Sid had told us the stories of growing up like my dad, as the son of immigrants, in the same kind of melting-pot neighborhood. His father owned a small restaurant in Yonkers called the St. Claire Buffet and Luncheonette. When Sid was a boy of nine he worked there—for a quarter a day—clearing tables after school. As he went from table to table, he’d hear the customers chattering in a smorgasbord of accents—French, Italian, German, Polish, Spanish, Hungarian, Russian and Yiddish—and he liked to mimic them. He picked up the rhythms, the intonations, the musical nuances of each dialect, then he’d talk to each group in his own double-talk version of their language.
At first the customers thought Sid was actually speaking to them in their language, but soon they realized that this little pisher was faking it. They loved it—and Sid loved making them laugh. He couldn’t wait to get there after school every day. He had found his way into a comic device that would become a signature of his career.
Milton, Dad and Sid, always together, this time on stage.
On stage that night in Atlantic City, we never saw the man, Sid Caesar, until the final moments of his act, when he bid us “Good night.” But he was brilliant. He gave us not only a cast of colorful and funny characters, but also a touch of the rich cultures that came along with them.
In their brief but memorable engagement as a team, Milton Berle, Danny Thomas and Sid Caesar painted a remarkable picture of the distinct ways in which a comedian can approach comedy. They also made it clear that each one of them was destined to do it his own way. And it was certain, as you watched them up there on that stage, that they were also destined to spend their lives making us laugh.
SID’S MOST MEMORABLE JOKE
I asked Sid Caesar if he remembered the first time he got up in front of