Andy Kaufman Revealed! (32 page)

Though I loathed the ungenuineness that pervaded the West Coast entertainment industry, Andy was even less sanguine about it. New York by comparison seemed much more egalitarian, a great metropolis where people of all walks of life mingled on the sidewalks and your class distinction was “New Yorker,” not “struggling actor,” “hack writer,” “superstar,” or “über-agent.” Hell, in L.A. nobody even walked, unless it was to nowhere on a treadmill, and people oozed stock little snippets of insincerity like “Let’s do lunch,” or “I didn’t love it,” or “My people will call your people, darling.” Yes, sports fans, “showbiz” people really do say stuff like that in “Hell Lay,” and Andy reacted by fleeing to the kitchen of the Posh Bagel. Sometimes I wondered whether Andy had dropped in from another world or perhaps another galaxy and erroneously been branded a comedian. Many say he was twenty years ahead of his time; I think he was
from
twenty light-years distant.

On April II, 1980, ABC launched its answer to
Saturday Night Live,
calling it simply
Fridays.
Also an 11:30
P.M
. “live sketch show” with a musical act and a guest host,
Fridays
came out of the blocks with considerably less momentum than
SNL.
It tried to survive that traditionally thin Friday-night spot, but saddled with scattered affiliate disaffections brought about by material deemed objectionable in more conservative markets, from the get-go
Fridays’
ratings were abysmal and cried out for medical attention. By early 1981, the doctor they called upon to get the patient on its feet was Andy Kaufman. The offer came in for Andy to do the show with no restrictions. The only edict given him: Kick start this dog and get it some attention. There was never a concern that Andy was burning his bridges at
SNL
by doing
Fridays. SNL
was so far ahead of the pack that Lorne Michaels’s take on the new show was that since imitation is the sincerest form of flattery Andy could do what he wanted with
Fridays.
The executive producers, John Moffitt and Pat Tourk Lee, contracted Andy to first appear on February 20, 1981.

Andy was to act in a sketch centered around two couples who are enjoying dinner together. The other actors were Maryedith Burrell, Michael Richards (of
Seinfeld
fame), and Melanie Chartoff. Occasionally each person, one by one, would be excused, go to the restroom, and return to the table stoned out of his or her gourd. A few days before the show’s airing, Andy vehemently registered his offense at the drug humor, as he had forsaken drugs some years prior and no longer supported anything related to the drug culture. If the producers wanted to send such a message to the youth of America, they could do it without him. Producer John Moffitt, one of the sweetest, most reasonable guys around, patiently explained to Andy that the drug humor was done only in fun, and though the kids watching the show laughed at it, they understood it was just that, fun.

During the live cast, moments after the red cue lights on the big cameras winked at the performers to begin, Andy, who was in the middle of the sketch sitting with the three other actors at the dining table, announced he could no longer continue. This was live, on national television. None of the other actors knew what to do. Seconds of dead air seemed like hours as all eyes fixed on Andy, waiting for him to respond. When he reiterated that he wouldn’t continue, Michael Richards walked over, grabbed a stack of the sizable cue cards, and slammed them down in front of Andy, warning, “Read the lines.”

“You don’t have to do that,” retorted Andy, now offended. To punctuate his feelings he picked up a glass of water and threw it in Richards’s face. Melanie Chartoff then tried to come to Michael’s aid by hurling a plate of butter pats at Andy. The butter stuck to his face and hair, and he leaped up, ready to fight. As Andy and Michael squared off, producer Jack Burns jumped in from off-camera to mediate the dispute, screaming to the control booth, “Go to commercial!
Now!”

When Jack told Andy to get off the stage and he refused, Jack shoved Andy. Suddenly all hell broke loose. They collided in a rage, and the studio security, along with various cast members, descended to pull the mad dogs off each other. A furious Kaufman and Burns were restrained from killing each other. Cut to commercial.

Luckily, when the show came back from the spot break it was the end of the program. As the cast gathered to wave good-night, one look at their faces and you could tell they’d been traumatized — and Tony Clifton had been nowhere in sight. The next day news wires shouted the headline across the country — Andy Kaufman was at it again, this time disrupting a live national broadcast.

ABC was bombarded with letters from irate viewers (some who hadn’t even seen the broadcast) demanding Kaufman be banned from television. One incensed writer claimed that Andy was a “danger to himself and others.”
Fridays
received so much mail that the producers decided to bring Andy back the next week to “smooth things over.” During that appearance, a chastened Andy sat next to John Moffitt and read a prepared statement that sought forgiveness for his behavior. He performed our classic Viet Cong Confession, eyes blank, voice monotone, and rattled off his “sincere apologies.” The ratings soared and a re-invigorated ABC renewed the show for the next season.

Six months later, a humbled Andy, his bad-boy ways behind him, appeared again on
Fridays.
Now a changed man, he sported a Pat Boone haircut and a suit and tie. Filled with joy, Andy had returned to the scene of his embarrassment to announce his new life. On his arm was a lovely young lady, a gospel singer from
The Lawrence Welk Show,
Cathy Sullivan. Facing the studio assemblage, Andy nervously announced he’d been born again and that he’d found the Lord. Then he dropped the bombshell: he and Cathy had fallen in love and were engaged to be married. It was a poignant moment for Andy as he and Cathy sang a beautiful spiritual and gazed moon-eyed at each other, all to the complete dismay of the studio and national audience.

Now, here’s what really happened.

First, you must understand one thing: no matter how insane you are, no one but no one
ever
freaks out on national television without prior network approval. The reason is simple: do it and you will be blacklisted from television forever, no matter what kind of “artist” you are. Remember the name of the actor who uttered the word “fuck” on
SNL?
Exactly my point.

But that does not mean everyone need know what you’re doing. Andy believed very strongly that the actors and crew should not know because their genuine reactions were what would make his little psychodrama completely believable. John Moffitt, Pat Tourk Lee, and Jack Burns all did terrific jobs of carrying out Andy’s wishes and selling their anger to the rest of the cast, the crew, and, ultimately, the audience. John later confided that he had told Maryedith Burrell because she likely would have lost her cool. He was also concerned that if she were not let in on the secret she would not trust any of them in the future. Only recently, my good friend Michael Richards let me in on a secret: he’d been told the day before the incident and kept it quiet all those years. He did so because there were still many people who believed it was a real conflict, although there were those who didn’t, and Michael didn’t want to prove the naysayers right. His realistic reaction (fooling me as well) is a testament to his exceptional acting skills and his devotion to the Kaufman mystique. As for Jack Burns, the producer who rushed in to break up the fight that he only succeeded in fueling, he too did a wonderful job of acting. In
Man on the Moon
you can relive this incident in all its glory, with yours truly playing Jack’s role.

Was Andy really disapproving of drug humor? Absolutely not. But because his devotion to TM was well known, and given TMers’ disdain for drugs and alcohol, it was a natural plot point to allow Kaufman to find fault.

After we sat back and surveyed the “damage” done by our staged brawl, we became concerned that the public might begin to think Andy was literally insane, so we drew the line. At the time, it seemed every politician or entertainer who got caught doing something bad would suddenly announce they were born again, and the nation would always accept a loose nut or bad apple who’d turned to Jesus. That Andy was a Jew was all the better.

Thus we continued with our overall game plan: Andy as the good guy, then the bad guy, then the good guy again. Just like pro wrestling.Cathy Sullivan was actually from
The Lawrence Welk Show
and was relatively innocent to all the scheming behind the scenes. We decided Andy would really marry her on the show —just like when Tiny Tim and Miss Vicky got hitched on Carson’s show, the only difference being we would cast Cathy as Andy’s bride-to-be. That Andy didn’t really have a relationship with Cathy, and in fact hardly knew her, didn’t matter, as he was prepared to have her sign a prenuptial agreement and then have the marriage annulled immediately after the ceremony.

At the last minute, Cathy either wised up or got cold feet and backed out — I heard some of her
Lawrence Welk
crew talked her out of it. Andy just shrugged it off because he’d accomplished his goal: satisfy his responsibility to save
Fridays
while maintaining his artistic integrity. It was the ‘80s and the new phrase “win-win” was in vogue.

11

Tony and Me

Andy was traveling at the speed of life. It’s amazing stuff.

ROBIN WILLIAMS

We decided we needed to get Tony out in public and stir up some ink on him. The Improv seemed like the natural place to begin. One night Tony made an unexpected appearance, and though he was warmly received, halfway through his act the crowd began shouting “Andy! Andy!” Furious, he stormed off the stage, and we left. It was bad enough that Foreign Man had been “bought out” and repackaged as Latka,
and
that both were automatically related to Andy, but now Tony Clifton was suffering the same fate.

Andy was pissed because fame was beginning to get in the way of having fun. It was similar to what happened to Allen Funt, the creator of
Candid Camera.
Before his show became an institution, Funt would go out and participate in the stunts himself, but his massive exposure eventually ruined his anonymity. The same was happening with Andy.

As we drove home to Andy’s we decided a new strategy was in order, one that would once again turn the tables on the audiences.

“What if Clifton and I appear simultaneously?” he offered.

“Get somebody to play Clifton?”

“Exactly. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Tony’s on stage, they’re thinking it’s me, and I show up.”

“Yeah, okay, I like it, but who?” I wondered.

Andy looked over at me. “Oh, no!” I protested. “Forget it! No way.”

From the moment I saw Clifton, I’d been doing his accent and mannerisms, and as we developed material as well as a persona for him, I had worked on getting him down. It was the quickest way for me to write a character: just become that character. I admittedly did a damn good Clifton, and many of the lines Andy uttered as Tony were my invention. I knew he was right about who should be the other Clifton, but I was scared.

Andy’s voice was calm but firm. “Why not? It makes complete sense. You’ve got Tony down perfectly, his voice, the mannerisms. You
are
Tony.”

It was a huge compliment from the man who was very proprietary about his characters, but Andy had given me, as his writer and best friend, a membership in a club so exclusive it had but one member, me. He trusted me completely, but knew I had to overcome one problem, a problem that was so foreign to Andy I didn’t think he could possibly understand.

“You’re afraid,” he said quietly. “That’s natural. We can work on that.”

As the other half of “Albrecht & Zmuda, Comedy from A to Z,” when we sucked I could blame Albrecht, and vice versa. And appearing on the
SNL
wrestling sketches, or at colleges in a background role, or even onstage at the Park West
in a mask,
well, that was a whole lot different from taking the stage all alone, figuratively naked, with no one to play off of. And on top of that, this character was not only front and center, he was one of the most balls-to-the-walls entertainers to stalk a stage, a guy who seized an audience by the throat and made them scream uncle! Tony Clifton was no shrinking violet. I didn’t know how I could walk on stage and do what Andy did.

“You don’t have a fearful bone in your body,” I said. “Doing Clifton is …”

“Doing Clifton is no different in front of me or onstage,” he said firmly. “It’s all in your head. You know the character, right?”

“Yeah …”

“Well, we just have to convince you there’s nothing to be afraid of. Would Tony he afraid?”

I laughed at the thought of Tony Clifton being afraid of anything. “No.”

“Okay, then you will become Tony. Just like I do.”

I pictured Andy Kaufman, the nonsmoking vegetarian, consuming steaks and chain-smoking as the polar-reversed Tony Clifton and worried about my own commitment to the character. Could I go there?

“I told you,” he said, “when I was a little kid doing those shows? I was really scared, terrified even. I practiced in my basement for years before I could go in front of anybody, and then when I did, it was the neighbor kids, always younger than me. I never let the adults in because I was afraid they’d judge me.”

We pulled up to his house and went inside. He continued. “What I’ve never told you, or anyone else for that matter, is that I’m still afraid. But that’s why I meditate. So I won’t be scared.”

He had a meditation clause in all his contracts, allowing him time to release his tensions before going onstage or onto a set — it was de rigueur if you wanted to hire Andy Kaufman. He never told me it was because he was afraid — I figured he might now be telling me that to make me feel better. “You? Afraid?” I laughed. “That’ll be the day.”