Andy Kaufman Revealed! (27 page)
Andy had little respect for sitcoms and even less for poor Dinah’s show, which was solidly in his “contempt” category, the ass end of television. Andy had done
Dinah!
before, as Andy, and had loathed everything about it. To Andy, it was worse than pornography, a homogenized effluent of mindless patter and less-than-trivial guests and features, all contrived to give its target — stultified, midlife housewives — an effect strikingly similar to fifty milligrams of Thorazine. If Andy had wanted to blow
Taxi
out of the water,
Dinah!
was in the path of a strategic nuclear strike. The thought of his having to chatter away with Dinah, as the simpering Charles Nelson Reilly demonstrated how to concoct Cherries Jubilee, caused a seldom-seen hostility to well within Andy. Tony Clifton was called up for active duty and given his marching orders.
As I Cliftonized Andy at his home that morning, the rest of our entourage began to assemble: a new employee of George Shapiro’s, a young agent named Jim Cancholla, whom we renamed “Jimmy the C” after presenting him with his Clifton-approved Ray-Bans, and three women, Andy’s secretary Linda Mitchell and two other girlfriends of ours. The ladies did themselves up as tarts, and as soon as Tony Clifton emerged from makeup, we jumped into Tony’s signature pink Caddie convertible with me at the wheel and sailed down Laurel Canyon to our two o’clock taping in Hollywood.
Tony spotted a liquor store and ordered us to stop for cigarettes and booze, a pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Then we continued on to our destiny with
Dinah!
Noting it was spot on two as we approached the studio, Tony started in on the bourbon and told me to drive around for a while to make sure we were late. Half an hour later at the studio gate, juggling a cigarette and the three girls, who were in back with him, Tony barked a nasal command to the gatekeeper. “I’m Tony Clifton. I’m doin’
Dinah!
Lemme in.” The guy looked over his drive-on sheet and made a mistake: he disagreed with Mr. Clifton.
“Clifton? Sorry, but your name’s not here.”
“You idiot, don’t you recognize me? I’m the International Singing Sensation, Tony Clifton. I’m deeply insulted. Lemme in.”
“I’m sorry, sir, your name’s not on my list.”
“I don’t have to put up with this shit! Listen, asshole, I’ll sue you and your two-bit studio for everything it’s worth! You understand me?”
Recognizing what might have happened, I said to the rattled sentry, “Check the list, maybe you got the wrong name, maybe you got Andy Kaufman instead.”
“What did you say?
What did you say?”
blasted the enraged Singing Sensation. “I told you never to use that untalented jerk’s name around me …
ever!”
Then he focused his rage on the poor guard. “How old are you?” demanded Tony.
The guard looked quizzical. “Forty-five.”
“
Forty-five? Forty-five?
” mocked Tony. “You’re forty-five, and this is all you’ve made of your life?”
The man’s eyes narrowed angrily, so I quickly leaped out, apologized, and tried to communicate with him while Tony screamed for the man’s full name, yelling at the girls to take it down and “spell it the hell right!”
I confirmed that sure enough, the talent coordinator hadn’t heard the rules and had given Kaufman’s name to the gate. After calling the set, we cleared that up and the guy let us through, but not before jotting down our license number. Having already gotten off on the wrong foot, I knew Clifton was somehow going to exact revenge for the slight. As we pulled into our parking place I glanced into my wallet and inventoried our potential bail money.
As Clifton and his retinue swept onto the set of
Dinah!
the producers and talent coordinator took one look and began getting nervous. With about twenty minutes to tape time, the plan was for Tony to go out, sing “On the Street Where You Live,” then do a duet with Dinah, the cheery song “Anything You Can Do.” After that, time permitting, they would do a cooking segment. One of Dinah’s hooks was to get her celeb guests to cook something in the on-set kitchen, a little feature that “humanized” the stars for the folks in Iowa. Tony offered to whip up his favorite breakfast, bacon and eggs à la Clifton. His secret that made it so special? A dozen eggs, including some shells, whipped, tossed with raw bacon, then pan fried. Mmmmm, gooood.
When we’d settled into our suite, a shiny-faced assistant producer knocked on the door.
“Dinah has a cold today,” she said, “and though she’d love to sing that duet with Tony, she’s going to have to beg off. She says she hopes Tony understands.”
He didn’t.
“What in the fuck is this?” he screamed when I told him. “This is
outrageous!
Whaddya mean she ain’t singin’ the song? She can’t do that and call herself a professional!”
As he ranted, the thin walls of the dressing room couldn’t contain him and soon we had another knock at the door, this time a senior producer.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, more to quiet us down than to solve a problem.
Tony strode out to confront her. “You bet, sweetheart! There’s plenty wrong! Dinah’s got a cold? Dinah’s sick? As far as Tony’s concerned … as far as Tony’s concerned, the show must go on!!! It does not care if you are sick!! You must put on the show!!! I used to play the Steel Pier, fifteen times a day!! You tell her to get her ass out there and sing that song with me if she knows what’s good for her!!”
The producer left, white as a sheet.
A moment later there was yet another knock at the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Kaufman.”
“What did you call me? What did you call me?”
yelled Tony.
After an appropriate pause came a sheepish little voice. “Sorry, Mr. Clifton.”
We then sent Jimmy the C as an emissary to convince Dinah’s people that Tony wasn’t going to take no for an answer on the duet issue. Shuttling back and forth between peace talks, a minute before show time Jimmy the C delivered the death blow. “They won’t budge. Dinah is really sick and is afraid her voice will crack.” In retaliation, Tony upended the Black Jack, draining the bottle. “Well, we’ll see about that,” he said ominously, and headed for the set.
I whispered in Jimmy the C’s ear, “Kaufman couldn’t hold down a beer if his life depended on it.”
We followed the now-weaving Tony out to the set. The studio audience was typical for
Dinah!
Lots of women, mostly over-weight, heartland-fresh tourists locked into their style the day they left high school. They were well meaning, but not terribly sophisticated, and when Tony blew in with three floozies on his arms, they thought he was for real and applauded. I got close to Tony and saw that he was drunk, no, make that smashed. He smelled like a crashed Jack Daniel’s truck.
As the floor director gave him the countdown, he seemed to sober up for a second. I held out hope he’d just do the act and we’d leave. Meanwhile, a nervous Jean Stapleton (Archie Bunker’s wife, Edith, from
All in the Family)
was in her dressing room, preparing to go on next and quizzing the assistants about the commotion she’d heard.
As the show came out of the spot break, Tony was in the back, microphone in hand. On cue he waltzed down the center aisle of the audience singing “On the Street Where You Live,” and, again, the ladies were all very impressed. At the end of his number, which was worse than usual because he was completely blitzed, Tony was welcomed by Dinah, a lovely, genteel southern belle. They shook hands and Dinah started in with the small talk that was sure to ignite Tony’s powder keg.
“So, Tony, I understand you …”
“Woah, woah, woah … lemme stop you right there,” he said. “I wanna introduce the three chickees, my ‘assistants.’”
Our three female companions stood one at a time from their seats at the edge of the stage and were warmly encouraged by the audience. Dinah looked confused and I could see the crew scurrying to figure out what to do. Tony made them all wait as he introed the girls. That done, Dinah tried to continue, under the mistaken impression that it was still
Dinah!
she was hosting — she didn’t know it had become the
Tony Clifton Show
the moment they’d let him on the lot. “So,” she continued gamely, “I understand you have many albums out.”
“What did you say?” he said challengingly.
“I understand you have many albums out.”
“I don’t have any albums.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you did.”
“Why are you bullshitting these nice people?” he asked, and with that the honeymoon was over. The audience tittered as Dinah reeled herself back and noted, “Well, we’re going to have to bleep that out.”
“I don’t have any friggin’ albums.”
Dinah knew she was in a train wreck and tried to save herself. Realizing she’d just come out of a commercial and couldn’t seek the refuge of another, she thought fast. “Well, Tony, why don’t you sing another song?”
“Why don’t we sing that duet?”
“Oh, Tony, I’d love to but, as I said before the show, I have a terrible sore throat and couldn’t do it justice.”
“A professional would sing,” countered Clifton.
She smiled daggers. “Oh, some other time, Tony, I’d love to.” Like when they were ice skating on the River Styx.
“I’ll help you out,” he said, looking to the audience, who, thinking Dinah was just being coy, began applauding. Screwed, Dinah smiled through the pain and agreed to sing with him, but with one caveat.
“I don’t know the words.”
Tony produced a lyrics sheet from his breast pocket and they commenced.
“I can do anything you can do better …”
“No you can’t!”
“Yes I can …”
“No you can’t!!!”
“Oh yes I cannnnn!!!”
At that point, it was evident that the poor, gentle Dinah would have gutted Clifton with a deer knife had she been wielding one. They finished their strained twosome and Dinah breathed a sigh of relief. Dinah wanted to get rid of him, but the floor director signaled she had several more minutes to kill.
“I understand you’re quite a cook,” she lied.
“Oh, yeah,” said Tony, “I learned in France.”
“Well, let’s go over and watch you make your specialty.”
They reset the cameras on the fly and walked over to the cooking area. Obsequious guest cohost Charles Nelson Reilly, usually zapping out numbing one-liners like a shtick-dispenser, was oddly quiet, apparently intimidated by the looming Clifton. Andy was over six feet tall and, with all his Clifton armor, looked formidable, less a lounge lizard than a lounge Komodo dragon.
“What are you making, Tony?” Dinah asked, watching the clock.
“Bacon and eggs, my favorite breakfast.”
Tony proceeded to crack a full carton of eggs into a mixing bowl, making sure quite a few shells fell into the mix. As he stirred and dropped in the uncooked bacon, Dinah and Charles stood back, their postures oddly tensed, as if cringing in anticipation. Tony blithered on about his cooking skills, and finally, for Dinah, they’d run down the game clock. She smiled sweetly. “Well, Tony, we’re out of time, but I want to thank you for coming.”
Tony Clifton’s next words rang like thunder. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not leavin’.”
For a split second Dinah was speechless. “Well, Tony, I’m sure I’d like to have you stay, but I can’t. You have to leave.”
“No, I ain’t leaving.”
“Tony, you have to go, I’m sorry.”
Again, Tony took his case to the people. “Everyone who wants to see me stay, applaud.” There were some isolated claps. “Okay, everybody who wants me to go, do the same.” The crowd erupted. After the noise died down, he shrugged. “Okay, it’s settled, I’ll stay.” That got a good laugh, but now Dinah was looking to her offstage muscle to toss Clifton. As the security guards moved toward Tony, he grabbed the egg whip. “Okay, I’ll leave, but not before I leave
you
with something, Miss Shore,” Tony said, whereupon he committed assault with a gooey weapon by pouring the eggs over Dinah’s head.
The producers went to a spot break, and the shit hit the fan. Tony dropped the bowl and began running from the pursuing studio gendarmes. “Stay away from me! I’ll call a cop!”
The men tried to corner him, and by then the audience was really wondering if this was real or not. Some people in the crowd understood and were screaming appropriately.
“Get your hands off me,” screeched Clifton. “You can’t treat me this way! Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with? I’m gonna remember each and every one of your faces, and if you come to Vegas …
you’re not gettin’ in!”
Now it was a full-blown circus: Dinah was egg-dipped and ready for the deep fryer; Clifton was fleeing the authorities like Buster Keaton; and a panicked Jean Stapleton had rushed back into her dressing room and locked the door, fearing that that madman, whoever he was, had killed Dinah and was now after her.
Finally, as Clifton was grabbed and physically ejected, and as the rest of our motley crew, Jimmy the C and the counterfeit bimbos, all raced to help Tony, I ran outside, jumped into the rented Cliftonmobile, and spun around the corner. I slammed to a stop by the door to the
Dinah!
set as the guards heaved Tony into the back seat. We exited the lot, rubber burning. As we made Sunset, the import of Tony Clifton’s coup d’état hit us, and like six high school kids who’d just put a flaming sack of dogshit on the principal’s porch and rung the doorbell, we burst into hysterical laughter. Yes, Tony’s act was irresponsible, childish, and impossibly rude, but it established one very important parameter for future potential employers: Don’t fuck with Tony Clifton.
Smoke and Mirrors
I used to find myself really guessing which of those characters was closest to the real Andy. And I guess that is a tribute in and of itself, because you never really knew, and he would constantly surprise and fool me.
GARRY SHANDLING
Ninety-eight percent of Andy Kaufman’s performances were never recorded or, for that matter, even seen by formal audiences, for they took place on streets, in restaurants, and in myriad other public places. Most of the witnesses to those incidents didn’t know they were experiencing a performance, let alone that they had become an audience. But just as classic as Andy’s “Mighty Mouse” or “Caspian Sea,” those particular aesthetic treats were often as carefully planned as our stage shows and employed as much art of design. Yet because of their nature, much of Andy’s best work (and mine too) was cast to the winds like dandelions.