Sid Caesar, who just died this week, in addition to being a
comedic genius, was also freakishly strong and given to fits of
temper—a nice combo for chaos. Mel Brooks tells of the time they were crossing
a New York Street and a cab almost ran them down. Caesar reached in through the
vent window and asked the cabbie if he remembered his own birth. He then threatened to re-enact the
event by pulling him out through the window. The terrified cabbie apologized and missed the chance to
literally be reborn.
But mostly Caesar was funny, thanks in no small part to his
writing staff. When a play about the writer’s room opened in LA years ago, I got to
review it. Neil Simon’s “Laughter on the 23rd Floor” featured barely
disguised versions of Caesar and writers like Brooks, Woody Allen, Larry
Gelbart and others.
I brought my son Andrew as my Plus One because a father who
doesn’t help develop his child’s appreciation for comedy is guilty of child
abuse. The house was energetic and
filled with anticipation but hushed expectantly when the lights went down. All
except someone directly behind us who nattered on to his companion as the play began. I considered turning around and shushing him but didn’t
want to cause a scene with my son present, and the guy soon piped down.
No sooner had
the Act One curtain fallen than the show’s producer came out to welcome the opening
night crowd, talk about the show’s history, and encourage everyone to stay for
the reception.
Oh and introduce a special guest.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a hand for a great man sitting
in our audience tonight— Mr. Sid Caesar!”
Applause! Applause! Applause! I craned my head right, but
couldn’t spot him. Craned my head left--nope. So I stood and joined the
standing ovation for Sid, who, as it turned out, had been sitting directly
behind me.
Never have I gotten so good a lesson to keep my pie-hole
shut. I doubt he’d have done anything physical, but my own embarrassment would
have been more than enough punishment.
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