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Professor Falk would quote Talma, the great French writer and actor, as saying, “Middling intelligence makes for great actors, while great intelligence makes for middling actors.” Was this a reference to me, I wondered? Talma was a man after my own heart. Professor Falk also said, “It takes twenty years to make an actor.” Why so long? I’d ask myself. He said a true comedian was not afraid to make a fool of himself, and pointed out to the class that Jerry Stiller was an example. When I did the lead in
The Rising of the Moon,
an Irish one-act, he said I was terrible, but added that I wasn’t afraid to make a fool of myself. He said I’d never be able to do Shakespeare, though I might someday become great, but only if I could develop good taste—which, he was quick to point out, can’t be learned.

Each day he’d arrive on campus in a green Studebaker, his wife Kay at the wheel. I watched as he climbed the steps of the Hall of Languages. He came prepared to teach. I was always on guard when it came to teachers. Teachers could destroy my confidence. I’d put up a screen to allow some learning to find its way in and keep out what I didn’t like. When Falk praised me in class, I sensed the desire to think of him as a father figure. But he did like me, and I was fast becoming the fair-haired boy of the Drama Department.

During my sophomore year I auditioned for an off-campus nightclub. I’d always loved the ghost-white spotlight, the cigarette smoke, the desire to make it with the crowd, the tough guys who accompanied saloon performing. I loved the cockfight atmosphere, the “You better be funny, kid, or we’ll break your knees” thing.

Since I knew a little Italian from my army days, I worked up a five-minute routine for an Italian soap opera called
Maria Malone, Female Dottore
. It was loosely based on
Mary Malone, Woman Doctor,
a daytime soap of that era. The bit started with me as an announcer saying in pigeon-Italian, “Bona Sera, Signores, Signorinas. Questa sera I presente la daytime seriale, ‘Maria Malone, Female Dottore.’ I ahora al hospitale Bellevue y ‘Maria Malone Female Dottore.’”

I then imitated an ambulance siren and then, in a loudspeaker voice, I said “Maria Malone, reporté a surgery.” The bit went on into five minutes of two doctors killing a patient, leaving a watch in his stomach. “Una Malangara in de la Bonza.”

Club Candee was on the outskirts of Syracuse, near Solvay, New York. I took a long bus ride, and in a pair of sneakers I auditioned for the owner while he sat in the back eating a bowl of spaghetti. Without ever looking up or saying hello, he informed me, “You got the job.” It was for one weekend. I was to be paid $25 a night plus a percentage for every student I brought in. To make a long story short, I filled the place, and was held over the following week. I was ecstatic. I did one-liners stolen from Robert Orben’s joke book. I did the impressions of Chevalier, Lorre, and Durante that I’d been doing since I was fifteen and had done in
Girl Crazy
. The audience, mostly my fellow students, loved it.

Three weeks later the owner asked if I’d perform on a Sunday night for civilians following the headliners, a team called “Jerry and Turk.” I said yes. I came out, did the same act, and bombed. What had happened? My student fans were missing.

I continued my education, but I kept working on new material, waiting for another crack at the clubs. I felt that the clubs were ready for something different.
Dragnet
was a big hit on TV, and I decided to parody it. For a booking at the Casablanca, a club on Genesee Street, I wore a detective hat and found a recording of Grieg that sounded a little like the
Dragnet
theme. In full view of the audience, I put the needle on the record, which skipped, and I did my Jack Webb imitation.

To my amazement, the audience was listening to me. They weren’t laughing, but listening. I considered this a triumph. I closed with my three impressions, and once more escaped with my life.

Between shows I’d retreat to the cellar, where I’d now rigged up a device to make the record skip a little more. This added a few laughs, and I was held over for a second week. I attracted many hoods and hookers,
who seemed to like my originality. I’m still convinced I was the first comic ever to do a
Dragnet
takeoff.

I now felt confident enough to ask Professor Falk and his wife to come down to see me. I’d realized Falk was gradually becoming my father, and Kay, my mother. I wanted them to see me in front of people who paid. I wanted him to know I wasn’t just a college actor. To my surprise, he and Kay agreed to come. There they were, sitting before me in the audience.

I did my
Dragnet
. When it was over, I took a lot of bows and knew the audience loved me. The lights went up. A three-piece band played. People danced. I went over to Professor Falk’s table. I didn’t say anything. He looked at me and said nothing.

“Well, what did you think?” I finally asked.

“You’ve got to get out of this place,” Professor Falk said.

“Why? I did great,” I said.

“Bad habits.” It was like the voice of God. “This place will get you into bad habits. You can’t play here anymore.”

I wanted to laugh. I had just conquered Everest, and he wanted me to quit.

“I’ll see you in class Monday,” he said, as he and Kay got up and left.

God, he really cares about me, I thought.

On Monday he called me into his office and said he’d like me to produce and direct a musical revue. Revues were often discussed in class. “You could star in it,” he said. “Anyway, that’s your next project. I don’t want you in nightclubs.”

I stood wide-eyed.

“I don’t want you in nightclubs,” he repeated.

I didn’t have time to argue. I was in charge of a university production. I was responsible for putting on a revue.
Long Live Love
was born.

The weeks that followed were consumed in writing sketches—both words and music—plus casting. I assembled the best talent at Syracuse. They included Leo Bloom, Evelyn Feldman, Vince Gerbino, Rudy Marinetti, Hal Venho, Jackie Wenz, and the very gifted Arnie Duncan, who would much later re-enter my life.

The first rumblings of discontent over my newly created position came from Professor Schweppe, who headed the Musical Comedy Department. My appointment by Professor Falk had hopscotched Professor Schweppe completely. I was now the nominal head of a musical comedy production. This created the seeds for the near demise of the
Long Live
Love
student production. Another revolution was in the offing when the students who wrote the music and lyrics disagreed with my staging of the curtain call and insisted that the cast storm up the aisles and hiss the audience. I violently disagreed, whereupon they took their music and left the show.

Professor Falk, hearing of this, was awakened from his sleep and arrived at the theater. It was past midnight. The actors, who remained loyal, gathered around awaiting his words. I expected to hear the death knell to the show. Then he quietly asked me what I wanted to do.

“We’ll need music,” I said, as if it were an easily replaceable part.

Suddenly the rear doors of the theater opened, and Professor Schweppe, every inch an impresario, stormed down the aisle. He, too, had heard the news and was here to put the pieces back together again. Without waiting to be asked to speak, he suggested that the dissenters be taken back. He would take over and direct the show.

Professor Falk listened, then quietly said, “I run this school and Stiller’s directing the show.” It was as if an ax had fallen on Professor Schweppe’s head. He was in shock and so was I. I couldn’t think straight or begin to examine my feelings.

Professor Schweppe, totally devastated, turned and strode out of the theater. “I’m resigning,” he said. Once he was out the door, I asked myself what the hell was going on. Was this my fault? A professor leaving the university on account of me?

Falk said, “Jerry Stiller’s directing the show,” and he left.

At that moment my life took a new turn. It was up to me to make good on my dream of being an actor, the dream that had brought me to this place. For whatever it was worth, for the next few days I cut all my classes and searched for a student composer. I remembered that while living out at the state fairgrounds I’d met an ex-GI named Ross Miller, a fine arts music major. I called him and he played me a trunkful of beautiful ballads he had written while overseas. End of story. Three nights later, we opened to rave notices. I was recognized by everyone on the campus.

Soon after, Professor Schweppe resigned. Weeks later, he informed me he would be teaching at the University of Iowa and he would get me a scholarship there if I’d leave Syracuse. Iowa had a great reputation in drama, but I refused the professor’s offer. I never mentioned this to Professor Falk or anyone. I love both my teachers to this day.

In class, Professor Falk discussed student productions he might direct.
He asked me to prepare to read Tesman in
Hedda Gabler
. I said sure. Ibsen seemed so much simpler than trying to be funny. So, a couple days later, in a class where I had been lauded for my willingness to make a fool of myself, I now read a major role in Ibsen.

After ten minutes, Falk stopped the reading and proceeded to attack me. His comments were biting. I tried not to appear devastated as one barb after another pierced my sensibilities. When it stopped I couldn’t believe I had once had the reputation of fair-haired boy on the Hill. It seemed like Dr. Jekyll had become Mr. Hyde.

“How long did you work on that?” Sawyer Falk finally asked.

I thought a moment. “A lot, I guess.”

“How much time?” he asked.

I couldn’t supply a specific answer.

“How long on that last speech?”

“Fifteen minutes,” I said.

“Hours!” he exclaimed. “Actors spend hours on a single speech,” he said, as if I were now the pitiful example of a hack actor.

Some weeks later, Amram Nowak, a friend and dramaturge, informed me that he’d suggested the professor allow me to read for Molière’s
Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme
. I knew this would be an audition, and I spent many hours on the part. After my reading in class, Falk announced that the final university production would, in fact, be
Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme,
with myself as Monsieur Jourdain. And so I got to play one of the great classic roles in theater.

After weeks of rehearsal, we opened to much campus publicity. The hoopla, however, exceeded my performance. I was a dull Monsieur Jourdain. I had not made the transition from nightclub comedian to actor. The
Daily Orange,
one of whose staffers was an undergraduate named William Safire, ran a front-page headline: S
TILLER
D
ISAPPOINTING
.

I had gone from campus hero to total flop. When I signed into some new classes, “Ha-ha” was scribbled next to my name. The show drew very small audiences, and the school pressured Falk to close it. Falk insisted on keeping it open.

When I asked why, he said, “This play will someday help you become an actor. That’s the reason I’m keeping it open.”

As graduation day drew near, I had cut so many classes during
Long Live Love
that I failed three subjects and lacked credits to graduate. A Quaker teacher in my Comparative Religion class permitted me to take a
makeup exam with an open Bible in front of me. I wrote down all the answers word for word straight out of the Old and New Testaments. I’ll never forget that teacher. He was a true Christian. My ASTRP credits put me over the top, and I received my degree, Bachelor of Science in Speech and Dramatic Art.

On graduation day I overslept. I can only guess that it was because I didn’t want to leave college. At any rate I ran out to the field where the ceremony was already in progress, and rather than disrupt the proceedings by running across the field to where the School of Speech and Dramatic Art students were seated, I joined the school nearest me—the School of Forestry. When my name was called I raced from among the trees, mortarboard hat flying, tripping on my black robe, then grabbed the diploma and joined my classmates in the proper school.

At the end of the ceremony I asked Professor Falk if I could walk home with him. He said yes. It seemed like something out of Mickey Rooney and Lewis Stone in the “Andy Hardy” series.

We started walking toward his house at 128 Circle Road, a good distance away. For ten minutes I said nothing. I knew I didn’t want to leave the safety net of the university but also knew that telling him this would not please him. I remembered him once saying, after he and Kay and I had watched
Inside USA,
a Broadway revue, that I was funnier than one of the show’s stars, Jack Haley, the great Tin Man of
The Wizard of Oz
. I was thrilled, because I knew Sawyer Falk would never lie. He believed in me, and now I had to go for it.

We reached his house, and I stuck my hand out to say good-bye. I wanted to hug him, to thank him for all he had done for me. But I didn’t. He looked at me squarely.
This is all I can do,
he seemed to be saying.
The rest is up to you.

At that moment I vowed that I’d live up to the belief he had in me. He’d be with me in the wings every time I went on.

“If I write, will you answer?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

I turned and started back. That night I left Syracuse University.

While still at Syracuse I had written letters to professional stock companies, asking for work as an actor. I received a reply from the Shady Lane Playhouse in Marengo, Illinois, offering me $35 a week to apprentice and
play small roles. My first summer out of school, and I landed a job in an equity stock company. Not bad, I thought.

Marengo was a town in the middle of some cornfields fifty miles west of Chicago. Great trees shaded the streets and the little houses. I had a room in the home of Brenda Peterson, a handsome woman who liked theater people and was glad to house some of them. My rent was $8 a week, which included a huge breakfast.

The company’s director was a silver-haired gentleman named Harry Minturn. He staged a new play every week, bringing in the lead while rehearsing the resident company.