Jackie Gleason: An
Intimate Portrait
ISBN 0425137104
Since the author had written biographies of heavy hitters
such as Salman Rushdie and James Baldwin, I was expecting a substantial biography
with sociological, political, or cultural asides. But, alas and alack, for all
its pleasing readability, it’s nearly insight-free and lightweight, unlike its
subject. On the positive side, he’d
actually met Gleason, in 1961, and they hit it off enough to go out drinking
together a couple of times. Another plus is that Weatherby interviewed the
important figures in his professional life such as Honeymooners veterans Art Carney and Audrey Meadows as well as
Milton Berle, Frank Sinatra, Mickey Rooney and Paul Newman.
In the biography, Weatherby tells about Gleason’s father
abandoning the family when Jackie was nine and the loss of his mother when she
was only 49 and he was 19. The young Gleason worked like mad in night clubs and
other venues honing his formidable power at improvisation. When figure skating
star Sonja Henie entered a club where he was working, he handed her an ice cube
and said, “Do something.” Rejected by
the military since he was 100 pounds overweight, Gleason spent the Forties on a
treadmill of supper clubs, night spots, and joints. After a dissatisfying stint in Hollywood,
which didn’t know what to do with him except cast him in lousy movies, he
returned to New York and the stage, eventually breaking into TV in its early
days. He was the star of Life of Riley and Cavalcade of Stars.
In the Fifties he created The Honeymooners, the legendary
sit-com in which he played Ralph Kramden, the bus driver with outsized dreams,
living in a dreary apartment with his long-suffering wife Alice. Even the
premise was hilarious - that somebody
with such an evil temper would be a bus driver in Brooklyn for more than a week
without having a massive heart attack. What a hoot. His co-star, Art Carney, was also a
masterful comic as Ed Norton.
When I was a kid and saw this show in re-reruns in the
late Sixties, I thought it always had too much yelling. "I'm the
boss!" Ralph shouts at Alice. "You're nothing!" At which
never-nonplussed Alice throws it right back, "Big deal. You're boss over
nothing!" This kind of thing seemed realer than real to me, ever easy to
influence, and I was mightily impressed with Gleason’s spontaneity and
vitality. I’m positive that Ralph Kramden was the role model for the blustering
fool persona that I’ve used now and then for laughs and for real since I was
teenager.
Anyway, when The Honeymooners was murdering the
competition with stunning ratings, after only one season, Gleason said he felt
he was running dry and walked away from the show. Fans, not to mention network
executives who saw millions of dollars go out the window, were not happy at his
decision. But he went on to do memorable work in movies such as The Hustler and
Gigot.
Readers born in the Fifties will remember that Gleason
owned Saturday nights from 1962 to 1970 when CBS broadcast his hour-long
variety show The American Scene Magazine.
I remember my young self respecting
Gleason’s creative development of a wide variety of characters more than his
ability to make me laugh with those same characters. With a straight face, I
always wondered why somebody didn’t help Rum Dum. Even at ten, I thought The Poor Soul to be
mawkish; I must not have the gene for bathos.
Reginald Van Gleason III and Joe the Bartender were out of
my experience, not being a rich kid or barfly.
Rudy the Repairman and Charlie Bratton reminded me too
much of how adult males in my white working class town really acted. Keeping it
real, yeah, you bet.
Gleason, whose weight fluctuated from 220 to 280 pounds, was
a member of the Fat Comics Club founded by Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle in the
silent era. Like Arbuckle and Curly Howard, Gleason mastered goofy facial
expressions and over the top body language. Like Arbuckle and Oliver Hardy to a lesser extent, he moved so effortlessly as to be unexpected and hilarious
in a stout guy. In keeping with many comedians of bygone days, Gleason was a
master of all kinds of comedy from slapstick clowning a la Lou Costello to wacky
quips and cracks like Jonathan Winters. “I'm at the age where
food has taken the place of sex in my life,” he once said. “In fact, I've just
had a mirror put over my kitchen table.”
Similar to Chris
Farley and John Belushi, Gleason was a walking advertisement for indulging to
the max one’s appetites for gorging, guzzling, smoking, carousing and
dallying, all night partying, gabbing and
throwing money around for lavish gifts and huge tips. “I'm no alcoholic,” he claimed. “I'm a
drunkard. There's a difference. A drunkard doesn't like to go to meetings.”
But like all comics, fat or thin, Gleason lived at least
part-time in Crazy Land. He needlessly brooded about ratings. He couldn’t sleep
and had massive midnight snacks. He had a fear of flying. Though a believing if
not practicing Catholic, he still read avidly about the paranormal,
parapsychology, and UFOs. He actually wondered about issues like the value of
gaining the world if it meant losing one’s soul. Like Bert Lahr, he was an
affectionate man who craved intimacy but seemed emotionally inept. He himself said he was a lousy husband and a
lousy father.
Gleason was a victim of the changes in pop culture of the much-maligned Sixties. In 1970, in efforts to attract the younger generation with urban dramas and updated comedy, the network axed his show, along with long-standing heart-warming knee-slapping shows like Red Skelton and Petticoat Junction. He made movies like the legendary flop Skidoo in 1968, which I’ve unfortunately not seen, and Smokey and the Bandit, which I’ve unfortunately seen more than once. Hard living didn’t kill him young like it did Farley and Belushi – suffering diabetes and phlebitis, Gleason died of liver and colon cancer at 71 years of age in 1987.
No comments:
Post a Comment