If You Ask Me - Betty White [3]
Sorry, Daddy, for this late apology—now I understand.
Daddy—Horace White.
BETTY WHITE PRIVATE COLLECTION
A scene from Bringing Down the House with Steve Martin.
TOUCHSTONE/SAM EMERSON/THE KOBAL COLLECTION
HUMOR
At the Screen Actors Guild Awards, my agent, Jeff Witjas, and I got there a little early, because I was presenting an award with Alec Baldwin (and, lucky me, this meant I didn’t have to walk the red carpet!). So we arrived and went straight to the greenroom to wait.
We’re sitting on the couch when Tim Conway walks in.
Now, I am such a pigeon for Tim Conway. I look at him and I can get hysterical.
So Tim walks in, and he looks at Jeff and says, “Don’t get up,” and he looks at me without changing his inflection at all and says, “And I know you can’t.”
Jeff and I just broke up laughing (not Tim, he plays it straight).
Some people think they have a tremendous sense of humor. They make a remark and look at you and say, “Did you get it? Did you hear what I just said?” And it just kills the humor altogether.
For me, humor is about rhythm. It’s like an ear for music. It’s hard to explain.
For instance, at the table reads each morning for Hot in Cleveland, you listen to learn the timing. You hear the other characters, and you know where they’re coming from, and it helps you map out the show—it puts you way ahead of the game for rehearsal. It’s listening for that beat, like with music.
You go through the table read, and you just feel, Wait one beat. Or, No, less time, don’t wait that long beat—say it quickly. If you think about it too much, you screw up the timing completely.
I think what helped my comedic timing most were those breakfasts and dinners growing up—I was raised with such funny parents who told marvelous stories. I’d be sitting there as a kid, wanting to add to the conversation, wanting to jump right in with an idea, but if I blurted something out it might ruin the moment. It taught me a lot about the power of waiting.
Still, sometimes something hits my brain and my mental editor falls asleep and it comes right out and it’s simply less funny than it would have been had I waited a beat.
I remember being on set with Allen and trying to explain it to him once, listening to him deliver lines and thinking, Oh, he should wait a beat.
But he kept doing the scene the same way, kind of rushing through it. I was cringing.
When I finally mustered the courage to mention it to him, he did not take it well. That’s an example of when a wife and husband shouldn’t work together! I kept my mouth shut after that.
Another good example of the importance of your mental editor!
© BETTMANN/CORBIS
ENTHUSIASM
I think everybody needs a passion.
Whether it’s one passion or a hundred, that’s what keeps life interesting.
If you live without passion, you can go through life without leaving any footprints. You might leave behind pleasant memories in the minds of friends and acquaintances, but those dissipate quickly.
You often hear about people who can’t wait to retire. When they’re sixty-five years old—that’s when they’ll start to live. And I think it’s so sad! My father was a workaholic who just could not stop working. He would talk about all the things he was going to do when he retired at sixty-five, and you knew he was whistling in the dark. And sure enough, he died at sixty-four and a half. He just couldn’t face it.
I’m so fortunate that I not only have a passion for my profession but that that profession allows me to indulge my other passion—for animals—and work for their welfare. If I was in any other profession, people might not listen to me.
I know I’m fortunate, and boy, am I grateful.
I rarely hear the alarm clock. Even when I have to get up early, I’m usually awake before it goes off. I need about four hours’ deep sleep and I’m good to go. I chalk it up to my passions and enthusiasm. I can’t imagine living any other way.
With Bandit, aka “Bandy”—I later named my production company