Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny (29 page)
Read Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny Online
Authors: Marlo Thomas
A
fter my father died, I brought my mother to New York to stay with me and Phil for a while. She didn’t want to sleep alone in a room, so we thought it would be good for her to invite her old friend, Marge Durante, to come along with her.
Jimmy Durante, the legendary comedian, had left Marge widowed many years before. She and my mother had always been close friends, and now Marge was a great comfort to Mom.
We took walks in Central Park, Mother and Marge in their boxy mink coats, looking every bit like that other era they came from. We even took a carriage ride. They loved it, but Mom felt sorry for the horses.
One day, they disappeared from our apartment for a few hours, and I became worried. When they finally got back, I asked them where they had been.
“We walked over to the Copa, just to take a look at it from the outside,” Mom told me. I was very touched by that.
“Did it look like it used to?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Mother said. “Back then, we only saw it at night.”
A few days later, Phil invited Mother and Marge to a taping of his show. He said he’d also like to introduce them in the audience. Mother was against the idea. She didn’t want a fuss—she just didn’t feel up to it. Phil tried to persuade her by telling her that people would love to see her and Marge—they had been married to men who many people remembered with great affection.
Mother remained reluctant, so I told Phil not to push her. She’d been doing pretty well, and I didn’t want her to get upset. Phil agreed, and off they all went to 30 Rock. I was working, so I wasn’t able to go with them, but I heard all about it when I got home later. Phil told me that once they got to the studio, and Mom and Marge felt all the excitement of the audience, they decided that it was all right for Phil to introduce them. I was delighted.
“How was it?” I asked my mother.
“They stood!” she said, proudly.
You can take the girl out of the club . . .
Not long after that, I decided it would be a good idea to take Mom to the movies, as another distraction. I scoured the paper for a film that wouldn’t bring up any sad memories for her. No love stories, no showbiz stories, no family stories. I finally found a lightweight comedy that I thought she might get a laugh or two out of; and even if it wasn’t any good, at least it would be harmless, and not anything that would make her emotional.
We bought our tickets, settled into our seats and the movie began. Just as I had hoped, the film was pretty bland, and I was feeling good about my choice.
Then suddenly, Mother burst into tears. I was dumbfounded.
“Mother, Mother, what is it?” I frantically whispered.
“These people are so untalented,” Mother wailed, “and
Daddy’s
dead!”
He’s got wit, charm, savvy and bottomless smarts. But there’s one thing Jon Stewart doesn’t have: a fourth wall. He’s removed it. He looks right at us, rolls his eyes, shakes his fists and plays the joke directly to us, as if we were sitting across the desk from him. And because of this rapport, we feel we can trust him. We know he’ll call the game the way he sees it. His
Daily Show
fan base has come to depend on him for their nightcap of laughter, whether he’s cracking wise or expressing outrage. But he’s also a comedy guy who is taken very seriously, often hailed as a dominant voice in 21st century America. But he sure doesn’t take himself seriously. From our first “Hello,” I felt I was talking to an old friend. One who can always make me laugh.
—M.T.
M
arlo:
Do you have any idea how many comedy addicts adore
The Daily Show
?
Jon:
Actually, we try to keep ourselves in as much of a bubble as possible. If I start feeling like,
Oh my God—people like me!
, I’ll start screwing up for sure.
Marlo:
Most comedians found their comic voice in their childhood, some of the older ones in their immigrant neighborhoods. What about you?
Jon:
My childhood was different from the days of the old comics. I grew up in the suburban Seventies, and the stories about it are so banal. In the old days, there was much more romance. More character. People spoke with old world accents; there was more of a connection to our roots.
Marlo:
I know, my grandma used to spit on my head when people said I had beautiful eyes.
Jon:
See, I never got that! Why wouldn’t anyone spit on my head?
Marlo:
Clearly you were deprived.
Jon:
Exactly.
Marlo:
Was there anyone in your childhood who could make you laugh?
Jon:
My grandfather possessed this really dry sense of humor. Everybody has two weird sides of their family. One is the loud, screaming, Lower East Side family; the other is your stereotypical, newspaper-reading, quiet side. It’s sort of like the two Jews—the Sephardic and Ashkenazic, you know?
Marlo:
Right. So you made your grandfather laugh?
Jon:
I tried desperately. But I think it was him who made
me
laugh. Billy Crystal always talks about how he used to perform in front of his family, but I think the suburbs were a more isolating existence. For me, there wasn’t this sense of the family hearth, with everybody sitting around, and Aunt Sylvia flapping her arms and telling stories. That was much more of a traditional Billy Crystal–Sid Caesar way to grow up.
I grew up more as an outsider. I was the only Jew in the neighborhood, as opposed to, you know, living in a family of people who got chased out of their homeland by the pogrom and were now living in Massapequa. I guess it’s a generational thing.
Marlo:
Still, being the only Jew in the neighborhood had to help make you funny.
Jon:
Well, being small and Jewish is a good recipe for developing a wit. Most of my laughs came from my classmates.
Marlo:
So you were the class clown.
Jon:
Actually, my friend was voted class clown. I was voted best sense of humor. And I take great pride in that distinction.
Marlo:
You should.
Jon:
I did. My fart humor back then was very sophisticated. I did top-notch stuff. But what passes as wit when you’re younger is really just obnoxiousness. Then you slowly learn the difference between something that will make people laugh and something that will get your ass kicked. There’s a very fine line there.
But, yeah, the stories of my childhood lack any real magic. I was very much like a bad
ABC Afterschool Special
. Latchkey kid, basically unsupervised, most of the time thinking up ways to entertain my friends. It all feels so clichéd. Even the way my family got divorced. My dad got laid off and then had an affair with a secretary. It was Philip Roth, you know?
Marlo:
Conan O’Brien told me that he spent his entire childhood making fun of himself so nobody else would.
Jon:
That’s exactly right. If you had the best Jew joke in town, or the best short joke in town, at a certain point nobody wanted to compete with you. I mean, my last name is Leibowitz. Just about every fun curse word for a little kid rhymes with that. “Tits.” “Shits.” So unless you could top the other kids material-wise, they’d be relentless.
Marlo:
Did you have a couple of standard lines that you defended yourself with?
Jon:
No, it was all situational. We didn’t write stuff back then. It wasn’t the Orpheum Circuit. But you did have to be quick on your feet. In some respects, that was good training for stand-up comedy, because it’s all in the moment. You’re just trying to deflect things.
Marlo:
You do that a lot on your show.
Jon:
Yeah. In some ways I think you’re always the kid you were when puberty first destroyed your life. That sense of esteem you were searching for is always a part of you, no matter what happens. I remember my life before I got on television, and how much harder it was to get laid then. So believe me, I have a decent sense of my own self-worth.
Marlo:
Maybe you weren’t getting laid, but you were always getting laughs.
Jon:
Yeah, well I gotta tell you, getting laughs was cold comfort to getting laid. The one thing I can remember from high school was that being the funny guy got you access to the party, but typically in some sort of advisory or service role.
Marlo:
Meaning?
Jon:
Meaning, the first time I got to second base with a girl, I was actually driving and watching my friend do it.
Marlo:
Really?
Jon:
Yes—that was the first time I saw a breast: as my better-looking friend felt someone up in the back of my Gremlin while I drove.
Marlo:
That’s hysterical.
Jon:
But I was a great lure. Have you ever seen the old angler fish lure? It’s got that weird little thing coming out of its head. That was me. I would do the dance and draw in the people. Then they would come in and say, “Wow. Now, can we go fuck your friends?”
Marlo:
Ah, so you were the pimp, really.
Jon:
That’s right. Or the carnival barker. You sort of bring people in for the ride, and then they say, “Oh, you’re so funny. Now . . . is there anyone we can actually go out with?”
Marlo:
You mention being the only Jew on the block. When I was growing up, all the best comedians were Jews. But look around now: There’s Letterman, Colbert, Leno, O’Brien. You’re the only Jew.
Jon:
But that’s always been the case on a national platform. You know, the Jews were the tummlers, they were the guys in the clubs battling it out. But when it came to national TV, they wanted the guy from Nebraska. They wanted Johnny Carson, not Joey Bishop.
Marlo:
So how did you sneak through?
Jon:
Basic cable, baby! The world changed when basic cable came around, and suddenly you didn’t have to appeal to the widest swath of people anymore.
Marlo:
You know, my dad was Lebanese, which made him an unusual looking choice to play a father on prime-time TV, especially in the era of
Father Knows Best
and
My Three Sons
.
Jon:
Yeah, that was shocking. Back then, the image of family was
Ozzie and Harriet,
then your dad comes along and shows the real face of America. The immigrant face.
Marlo:
Well, he had a good agent. But let’s get back to you. You’re not only funny, but you’re incredibly ballsy. You went on CNN’s
Crossfire
and told off the hosts.
Jon:
I think that was more hypoglycemia than anything else. I’ve got to eat more before I go on these things.
Marlo:
But what’s interesting is, you weren’t trying to be funny. You actually reprimanded the hosts for being partisan hacks masquerading as genuine news analysts. If you weren’t a fan of the show, why did you go on in the first place?
Jon:
We had a book [
America: The Book
] to promote, so it was one of those odd dares, where we thought, “Wouldn’t it be kind of interesting to promote the book on the sort of show that reflected what we were writing about?” Like if Charlie Chaplin had opened his movie on Hitler at the Reichstag, you know? Like, “Hey, man why don’t we slip it right into the belly, and see what happens?”
Marlo:
But things got heated very quickly.
Jon:
Well, they began coming after me for not having enough ethics as a journalist. And my feeling was
You know what? I
have
a job. Why do I have to do yours?
Marlo:
Then one of the hosts criticized you for asking politicians softball questions. You said, “You’re on CNN! The show that leads into me is puppets making crank phone calls.
What is wrong with you?
”
Jon:
Well, I couldn’t believe they were suggesting that, by not holding politicians’ feet to the fire, I was somehow as guilty as they were. You can judge my show on many things. You can say it’s not funny, you can say it’s not interesting. But to say it lacks journalistic standards? Yeah, well, guess what . . .
Marlo:
Speaking of political analysts, tell me the one difference between you and MSNBC commentator Chris Matthews. You rag on him a lot.
Jon:
Well, obviously there’s the reach difference. His jab could probably keep me at bay. But, you know, I really don’t know him well enough, so I’d be hard-pressed . . .
Marlo:
Come on.
Jon:
Okay, put it this way: When I talk, typically the oxygen masks don’t drop from the ceiling, and people aren’t warned to put them over their child’s face first.
Marlo:
[
Laughing
] That’s what I was looking for.
Jon:
That’s what I figured.
Marlo:
I’m cheap, you know. I’m a comic’s kid.
Jon:
I hear you.
Marlo:
Your former
Daily Show
colleague Stephen Colbert became a star himself. What do you think you could teach Stephen about the art of comedy—and before you answer, you should know that I asked him the same thing about you.
Jon:
I’m going to go with . . . nothing.
Marlo:
Really?
Jon:
That man is doing something that has never been seen on television before. He’s literally rendering this character in real time as he goes along. It truly is one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen. And, you know, as good a performer as Stephen is, he’s an even better producer. I have nothing but admiration for him.
Marlo:
I’ll let him know you said that. Tell me about your kids. Are either of them starting to show signs of being funny?
Jon:
My little girl is almost three, and she’s a real performer—singing songs from
Sleeping Beauty,
dancing and spinning, putting on shows. She’s already memorized her patter. She came to the studio the other day, sat in my chair and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please turn off your cell phones and welcome to the show!” She sat for a minute longer, then looked up at me and said, “Uh . . . I don’t have any jokes.”
Marlo:
How great! Well, at least she knows the game.
Jon:
Right. I thought that comment was very prescient from someone who’s not even three, because I’ve certainly had that feeling behind that desk.
Marlo:
What I find interesting is that you’re doing satire on television. When I was growing up, people in the business were condescending about satire. The old adage was: Satire is what closes on Saturday night.
Jon:
[
Laughs
]
Marlo:
Hadn’t you ever heard that?
Jon:
No.
Marlo:
I think if those old comics were alive today, they’d be astounded that satire is actually making it on TV.
Jon:
People are so sophisticated now that you have to win them over with volume, and I think that’s the secret to it. If you can make satire part of the language, part of the culture, then it becomes a regular part of their diet. That’s how
Saturday Night Live
has been able to do it. That’s how we’ve been able to do it. It’s a volume game. You become a part of people’s digestive process.
Marlo:
But you’re also steering them. You’re educating them to understand—and appreciate—satire. I was once in a play that I thought was really funny, but then it got bad reviews. I said to a screenwriter friend of mine, “Why did the critics pan it?” And she said, “Because they weren’t clear that it was
supposed
to be funny.” It’s almost like you have to announce it to people.
