Andy Kaufman Revealed! : Best Friend Tells All

by Zmuda, Bob; Hansen, Matthew Scott; Carrey, Jim

• ISBN13: 9780316681230
• ISBN10: 0316681237
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 1999-09-01
• Publisher: Little Brown & Co (T)

Summary

Andy Kaufman, best known for his portrayal of sweet-natured Latka on Taxi, was one of the most ingenious and controversial entertainers of his time.
Now, for the first time, Andy's closest friend, writer, and coconspirator, Bob Zmuda, breaks his twenty-year silence about the truth behind the headlines. He paints an illuminating portrait of a complex, often misunderstood loner who seldom ventured out of his room unless it was to jar millions of television viewers with his calculated lunacy or to satisfy his myriad sexual fetishes. Zmuda describes how Andy made his living straddling the thin line between genius and insanity and how he influenced the likes of such comic luminaries as Robin Williams, Jim Carrey, David Letterman, Lily Tomlin, and John Belushi. Zmuda finally confesses what really happened between wrestler Jerry Lawler and Andy to cause Kaufman's hospitalization for a life-threatening neck injury and elucidates the notorious confrontation that followed on Late Night with David Letterman. In a great testimonial to the appeal of the antihero, he also relates the origin and rise of Tony Clifton, an obnoxious lounge lizard whom Andy metamorphosed into when his dark side felt playful.
Zmuda offers rare and intimate perspectives and compelling behind-the-scenes stories about Elvis Presley, Andy Warhol, Richard Burton, the cast of Taxi, Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson, and Gilda Radner, among many others. And through deeply personal diary entries, Zmuda chronicles Andy Kaufman's disturbing last days, his heroic struggle to cheat terminal cancer, and the public hysteria that continues to this day over the possibility that Andy faked his death.

Excerpts

Chapter Two

"It wasn't an act it was a happening."

--Carl Reiner

That night as I cozied up to my vodka I watched an array of young, talented unknowns named Jay Leno, Richard Lewis, Elayne Boosler, Joe Piscopo, Richard Belzer and Larry David take the Improv's stage. (Larry would later co-create, write and produce a little show called "Seinfeld.") During breaks between acts, a shaggy-haired young foreigner could be heard from the back of the room begging, then demanding Budd Friedman to let him on the stage. The strange young man with the odd accent soon got the attention of everyone in the packed house as he and Friedman went back and forth about letting him onstage. I didn't know Budd Friedman but I thought he was being overly patient with this sad loser.

Finally, near the end of the evening, after numerous noisy discussions between Friedman and the weirdo, the club owner threw up his hands and relented. Taking the microphone, he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome a visitor from afar, Mr. Andy Kaufman."

I didn't know much about comedy clubs but I did know that going last was an honor and yet this kook with the thick, unplaced accent had begged his way on as the closing act. I figured it was better than a real act because the volleys between Budd Friedman and this guy alone were worth the price of admission. I was also reminded of the law of the street for both a comedian or an aspiring actor: pushiness works. I, along with the rest of the audience sat back and waited for the schnook to bomb.

It didn't take long for him to do just that. Walking out into the spotlight, this goofy guy with eyes wider than the Hudson began a few extremely lame impressions, or "emetations" as he called them. He started with Archie Bunker, slid into Ed Sullivan, and finished with our president, Tricky Dick Nixon. Even though each "emetation" was worse than the one it followed, I had to admit he emanated a rough charisma that began to grow on me. But despite that, the sorry impressions, exacerbated by this guy's indefinable accent, made me figure Friedman would be reaching for the hook in about two seconds. To my surprise he didn't and this man continued with his hopelessly amateurish act, a routine I was beginning to think he'd only slightly polished in the cabarets of Budapest or Prague.

As his "act" painfully continued, some of the audience could not contain themselves and began snorting. But they were not laughing with him, they were laughing at him. Some of the more sensitive present shot the laughers disapproving glances, embarrassed by the discomfort this poor yutz had visited on himself and now the congregation. When he announced he was now going to do "De Elbis Presley" there was a collective groan from the house. Given this was 1973, years before Elvis impersonations would be in vogue, nobody gave a rat's ass about Elvis. I looked to Budd Friedman in the back, expecting him to rush forward to put this bonehead out our misery, but he just stood there, arms crossed, calmly awaiting the train wreck.

This poor iron curtain comedian then fumbled around in a tired little valise, found a comb and began raking his hair into an Elvis coif. Then he reached back in and pulled out some props. He combed his hair again. I had been trying to suppress a laugh, for fear of hurting his feelings, but now I couldn't help it: amazingly, this guy was making the act of combing his hair funny. I started to pull for him at this point, excited that he'd managed to get the audience laughing with him. Suddenly the house lights went down and a single follow-spot illuminated the man on stage. The organized theatrics of that one light instantly indicated that perhaps all was not what it appeared to be.

After a few more hair combs--just enough to whip the crowd into a laughing frenzy--this weird young foreigner began an amazing transformation. Accompanied by the strains of Strauss' famous opening from the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey," he donned a spangled jacket, popped up the generous collar, hefted an acoustic guitar and I was damned if he wasn't starting to really look like Elvis. Then he curled his lip in that perfect Elvisian arc, and the crowd screamed.

As I was asking myself Who the fuck is this guy? I first sensed we all may have been had as the classical music segued into a rock 'n roll riff and he launched into a stage strut in that patented Elvis prowl. After a couple of passes it seemed as if the very act of stalking back and forth and bowing repeatedly in such brilliant mimicry was actually manifesting some sort of "Elvis life-force" out of the ether. After a few circuits across the stage, arms flourishing in some air karate and those commanding eyes leveled on us, he grabbed the microphone and spoke, only this time, the poor foreign soul, the cringing little man we had admired and mocked for having the guts to stand before us, was gone. This voice was now rich, sultry... and deep south, as in America.

"Thank yeh verra much... you can just stare at me while ah catch mah breath."

My jaw dropped. This was no impression, this was Elvis. Then as the trademark lip twitch went out of control he deadpanned, "There's somethin' wrong with mah lip." That brought a big laugh, partly because it was very funny, but probably more so because we were all still in shock. Satisfied that this was pretty impressive--that his tribute to Elvis was so good even if he wasn't really going to sing--what happened next blew my mind.

Suddenly lights began to flash and he launched into "Treat Me Like a Fool." Actually singing instead of lip-synching, he wasn't good, he was great. Following that first number with a killer rendition of "Jail House Rock" that brought the house down, at the end of the act, this person, who or whatever he was--I still wasn't sure--nodded politely, eyes agog, and said, "Dank you veddy much."

Copyright © 1999 Bob Zmuda. All rights reserved.