Jamie Portman on David Steinberg's new memoir, Inside Comedy
If Canadian comic's memoir drops a lot of names, he's earned the right to
There's a tinge of sadness to all this. Steinberg may be known and loved by old friends and colleagues, but for the wider world he is too often a forgotten man.
Inside Comedy: The Soul, Wit, and Bite of Comedy and Comedians of the Last Five Decades David Steinberg Knopf
On the night the FBI came calling, Canadian comic David Steinberg was in his dressing room at Manhattan's Plaza Hotel, getting ready for a choice gig — opening the venerable hostelry's much-vaunted new Persian Room.
But then came the knock at the door. “Mr. Steinberg, could you please open up? This is the FBI.”
Steinberg, now 79, remembers admitting “two tall nondescript guys in identical nondescript suits.” But there was nothing nondescript about the phone message the hotel switchboard had received. “Somebody out there says he'll be in the audience and he'll shoot you if you do your Nixon material”
The year was 1972, and the career of Steinberg — the Winnipeg kid who intended to become a rabbi until he was seduced into the world of standup comedy — was on a roll. Barbra Streisand and playwright Neil Simon were among the celebrities in the audience that night, waiting for him to sling more of his celebrated arrows at a favourite target, then-U.S. president Richard Nixon.
In his witty, engaging and sometimes exasperating new memoir, Inside Comedy, Steinberg delivers an amused, cleareyed appraisal of the hotshot youngster he was back then. Sure, he had a growing fan base “and they thought I was a sensitive, politically astute entertainer/activist.” And the truth? “Actually I was still just a cocky, insensitive young putz.”
Indeed he was so insensitive that he had no idea he had alienated so many Americans when he appeared on Johnny Carson's fabled Tonight Show and told viewers that “Richard Nixon has a face that looks like a foot ...”
Steinberg writes now of the “stark raving terror” he felt that night in 1972, followed by his conclusion that if he should chicken out and censor himself, his career would be over. Maybe, FBI guys gently suggested, he might eliminate the Nixon stuff ? “Nope,” Steinberg responded, opening the dressing room door where a dozen more FBI agents were waiting to escort him onstage — where he performed without incident.
Anecdotes like this enliven a book that seeks to offer both personal memoir and an insightful look at an elusive subject — the nature of comedy. Steinberg is writing from the vantage point of his own hugely successful career — the early years at Chicago's famed Second City, working alongside the likes of Joan Rivers, Mike Nichols and Elaine May; a record-breaking 140 appearances on Carson; the A-class director of some of the most successful sitcoms in TV history (Seinfeld, Mad About
You, Friends); his friendship with a Who's Who of celebrities ranging from Groucho Marx to Robin Williams. Within the world of comedy, he seemingly knew everybody who was anybody.
Hence, Steinberg is in a position to share many memorable moments. Such as the one, during the run of Steinberg 's hit TV show, when he dropped by the dressing room of guest performer Milton Berle to say hello, and found Berle naked with a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from an unprintable projection of his anatomy.
There are times when this is a lazy book. A substantial number of pages are devoted to Steinberg's Showtime cable series, Inside Comedy, and his interviews with a host of celebrities ranging from Whoopi Goldberg and John Candy to Jim Carrey and Will Ferrell. Unfortunately, there's the recurring impression we're getting just regurgitated
chunks of transcript that are often in need of context and thoughtful editing. There are greater rewards elsewhere, where you find valuable and always entertaining memories of legendary figures like Groucho Marx, Lenny Bruce, Mel Brooks. Carol Burnett and — with particular poignancy — Robin Williams.
It's easy to dismiss this as a self-serving, name-dropping book, with Steinberg frequently placing himself centre stage.
But in truth it is difficult to find a celebrity memoir that is not self-serving in some way, and Steinberg is scarcely the worst offender. The bottom line is that he knew all these people, frequently worked with them and revered them.
A warm-hearted man, he leaves scandal to the tabloids. It's a reflection of his own decency that he examines comedic superstar Richard Pryor's notorious, profane-riddled meltdown at a 1977 Human Rights gala with understanding and compassion. His inclination is to see the positive in people, but sometimes you can read between the lines.
Conan O'Brien gets a lot of space in this book, but the ego-driven Jay Leno, who treated O'Brien so abominably, gets scarcely a mention. And despite Steinberg 's forbearance, you get a pretty good idea of what he thought of Bob Hope and Bea Arthur.
Still, there's a tinge of sadness to all this. Steinberg may be known and loved by old friends and colleagues, but for the wider world he is too often a forgotten man. He has a rueful comic awareness of his current situation, so one can scarcely blame Steinberg for writing a book that, among other things, serves as validation for the person he once was.
“It's difficult being a semi, quasi or — this hurts — formerly famous person,” he writes.
“One guy in a bookstore a few months ago stared at me for a few minutes, scratched his head, walked over, and said, `I know you from some place.'
“I pulled out the always embarrassing `You probably know me from television.'
“`No, that's not it,' he said and walked away.”