Ask anyone who knows me at all and they will be able to tell you of my love and fascination with Groucho Marx. I am a Marx Brothers enthusiast and would rather spend half an hour watching an episode of
You Bet Your Life than just about anything that’s on TV today. Much of my humor stems from that enchantment. Much of my character (good and bad), conscious or not, owes a debt of gratitude to Julius Marx. He has been more than an influence … in some ways he has been an authority.
How is it that I, a fellow who was born and raised as a Protestant in Texas, would feel such a kindred spirit to a Jewish comedian from New York who passed away when I was only seven years old? How is it that a legend whose mother called him “the jealous one” would, in many ways, be the progenitor to an unsuccessful actor living alone in North Carolina?
It all started, like so many things, in childhood. Many of my happiest memories with my father were watching re-runs of
You Bet Your Life. It was a show we both enjoyed. We both relished the intelligent, witty banter and even had fun playing the quiz right along with the contestants. I learned most of what little geography I know from the show (geography, for some reason, was a popular category) and from my father telling me what had changed in the years since the show first aired.
You Bet Your Life was one of the few things that really bonded us … it was something that only we shared.
And I became curious about this little mustached man who smoked the cigars.
When, in the sixth grade, we were assigned the task of writing a book report on an autobiography and presenting it to the class as the historical figure, my choice would be both obvious and novel. While other student gave presentations as George Washington, Abe Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin and Napoleon … I would take on the mantle of my hero. At the library I found two books listed as autobiographies on Groucho Marx. “Wow! He wrote two himself?” The books were titled
Groucho & Me and
Memoirs of a Mangy Lover. I chose the latter … how could I not?
Little did I realize (and apparently, neither did the library) that
Memoirs of a Mangy Lover is not an autobiography at all, but rather a collection of humorous essays he wrote … the majority of which are about his escapades with the fairer sex. Since I wouldn’t have time to paint on a greasepaint mustache, I used some of Dad’s shoe polish to blacken two stretched out cotton balls that I would tape to my upper lip. I found Granny’s old horn-rimmed glasses (just frames really, the lenses long since lost) and taped two more cotton balls on top of them to resemble the eyebrows.
With my outfit complete, I marched in front of that class with a small cigar in one hand and my copy of
Memoirs of a Mangy Lover in the other. Needless to say, I gave the most amusing (and in retrospect, shocking) book report any sixth grader at Bowie Elementary had ever given. I got laughs and I got an A … and I got invited to return to an all-school assembly (this time with greasepaint mustache painted on) a few months later to do it all again. I was a hit. I was a comedian. I was Groucho Marx.
I mentioned how Groucho had been part of a bond with my father, but he was also part of a bond with my mother. A year or so after my
Mangy Lover presentation, a small restaurant opened on 50th Street called … Groucho’s. It had a wonderful mustache, eyebrows, glasses and cigar logo and served these delicious burritos the size of my head. The restaurant only lasted a couple of years (and I never figured out what burritos had to do with Groucho) but for a time it was a favorite place for my mother and I. We had our own little private lunch there on many joyous occasions.
I didn’t don the greasepaint for another fifteen years or so, but Groucho was constantly with me. As I began to pursue a theatrical career I would often turn to old Marx Brothers movies for inspiration … especially when doing comedy. I recognized that, on stage at least, I took myself way too seriously and I would need the sweet release of a
Monkey Business or
Horsefeathers to bring me back to reality … or lack of reality, as the case may be.
Then, in my late twenties, I began to toy with the idea of writing a play about Groucho. I had been inspired by Arthur Marx’s play about his father (I had seen Gabe Kaplan perform it on cable as a teenager) but thought it lacking in terms of his relationships. Sure, it featured lots of fun Groucho moments, but the love of his brothers and particularly (and perhaps with good reason) his love of his children seemed to have been glossed over.
So I set about jotting down ideas that might one day become a script. For a while I toyed with the idea of having Groucho and T.S. Eliot stuck on an ocean liner. Then, having read about how Groucho and Laurence Olivier (another inspiration) had once shared a dressing room at a performance honoring T.S. Eliot’s memory (Eliot had recently passed), I toyed with the idea of having these two very different performers share their anxieties and insecurities with each other in that setting.
In time I had a very rudimentary script that I called
Why A Duck? (and if I have to explain
Why A Duck? the only answer you’re getting is “because it’s deep water, that’s why a duck.”) that was filled with bits and pieces of famous Marx Brothers routines but was, in essence, a one-man show. Determined to give this script of mine a whirl, I submitted it to the Livestock Second Stage community theater in Greensboro, NC for consideration. They liked it and gave me some dates. I would have three performances in downtown Greensboro … and we set to work.
That brief run was a great deal of fun and opened my eyes to what the show could be. My script, much like Arthur’s, was missing the love and camaraderie (and envy and difficulty) between the brothers because, well, the other brothers were missing. So I sat about to re-working the script to focus on Groucho but to feature all five (yes, I said five … initially Gummo would be there too) of the brothers.
It was back to work less than a year later as I lined up a performance as a fund raiser for the annual “
5 by O. Henry” presentations at the Greensboro Historical Museum. We would perform first in the ballroom at the O. Henry Hotel and then give a couple of additional performances at the museum’s theater itself. Now with actors playing Chico, Harpo, Zeppo and Gummo we had a more well-balanced show.
That is until the actor playing Gummo flaked on us and dropped out. So in our show, like in life, Gummo became dispensable. The show was a highlight in my career … at least on a personal note … because of my love of the subject matter and the joy I had working with Joe Ritorto (Chico), Vance Weatherly (Harpo), Chris Laney (Zeppo) and the lovely and supportive Renee Ashcroft. Underwritten by Quaintance-Weaver Hotels and Restaurants, that first performance found us in a standing-room only ballroom filled with smiling and laughing patrons.
Leslie Mizell, in the News & Record, wrote that I was “
very good as Groucho, aging 50 years or so and doing a fine impression rather than an imitation.” To this day it is one of my favorite reviews because I didn’t want to be a caricature but rather show a real man behind the greasepaint. I am proud of
Why A Duck? and always will be. It was my first venture as playwright, director and star. I proved that I could do it … and I had Groucho to thank.
A half-dozen or so years later, while I was writing
The Broken Jump, I felt the influence of Groucho again. Julius McGowen (the name wasn’t chosen at random) was an extension of me and the inspiration of old vaudevillian Julius Marx helped me find a home for him. In fact, one of the comedy skits performed in
The Broken Jump was originally written to be in
Why A Duck? (it was something that I fancied Groucho & Gummo doing long before there were “Marx Brothers”) but was shelved (although I did perform it along with James Langer as part of the aforementioned "
5 by O. Henry") because it neither fit nor was historically accurate in the least.
It hasn’t been just as a performer that Groucho has had influence in my life. In fact, that is what this entry was supposed to be about originally. I keep finding characteristics (both good and ill) that we share. Some I am proud of and others … well, the others, less so. Groucho was married three times and drove them all away (and to drink) because as much as he loved them (and I do believe he truly did love each of them) he was a terrible husband. I could be accused of the same. He loved and doted on his children when they were young, but seemed unable to express himself to them as they grew older … another fault I keep finding myself guilty of. He suffered from insomnia … and I should really be in bed right now. He was more proud of his written works than any of his performances and so am I. He was frequently shallow, petty and rude … and I’ve been … jeez, maybe we should just stop there.
Its true folks … I worked myself up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty … because I am a descendant of Groucho Marx.
there was no "winner," per se) ... they upped the ante and decided not to take any money, but rather donate the cash prize to Laughing for Life, a comedy benefit show staged to raise money for local families negatively impacted by cancer. They gave it away ... in a generosity of spirit and attitude ... they gave it away! Bravo! They truly are the Justice League of Comedy!
m genuinely attracted to. (And by "genuinely attracted" please don't infer that it's purely sexual ... just simply somebody who I really want to get to know, spend some time with, etc.)
