Mr. Television

MILTON BERLE attended many funerals at Hillside Cemetery here in Los Angeles over the years for his brethren. This is "brethren" in two senses. Hillside is a Jewish cemetery and, in case you didn't know or couldn't guess, Berle was a Jew. Also, though, most of these funerals were for a subset of his other brothers, comics. They're all there at Hillside: Benny, Burns, Cantor, Jolson, Jessel, Youngman, and so many others--dozens of the greatest entertainers of the greatest era in the greatest country, craftsmen who operated at a level of honed ability no society will ever see again.

And at all the funerals of these brightest of stars, Milton was always asked to speak, and he always accepted, and he always opened with the same bit. Let's say it was Jack Benny's funeral. Milton would get up at the podium in the chapel, look around solemnly, nod to the family, compose himself, and say, "I never liked Jack Benny." Then, after the laughter settled, he would softly add, "I loved him."

Last Monday, April 1, Milton attended one more funeral at Hillside, but this time he didn't speak, because, of course, it was his. So others spoke for him. Norm Crosby, Jan Murray, Larry Gelbart (the great writer/producer), Red Buttons, and Don Rickles, just a few of his brothers, but, oh, they loved him, too. So did I. You couldn't know Milton and not love him. I was there. I thought you might like to hear about it. Even now, with so much evil in the world, so many lies, so much cowardice, so much sorrow. Maybe especially now, let's take a moment away from our shouts of support for Israel, from our cries to our president to stop listening to limp advisors and listen to his heart, from our steely refusal to back down from the filthy job ahead of our blessed soldiers. Yes, especially now. Let me tell you some stories. Let me tell you about Milton Berle.

I met him sixteen years ago at the Hollywood Improv. I had performed, and afterwards Budd Freedman, the owner, introduced me to Milton and his wife, Ruth. They had seen the show and wanted to say hello. Of course, I was thrilled. The three of us sat down for a drink, he said some very flattering things, asked a few questions, and I must've grinned for the whole hour. Then he asked for my phone number, said goodnight and left, and I went upstairs to the big, round comics' table and told my brothers all about it.

He called the next day. Just like that, and I couldn't have been more surprised if Christy Brinkley had dived through my window and dragged me to the couch. (I was single then. Not that that changed the odds against Christy leaping into my arms, but, like all single men, I clutched tightly to the thought, "Yeah, but it could happen.")

So now I'm on the phone with Milton Berle. He was having a drink and a cigar at the Friars, and he said he was putting me on a show with him that week at a big benefit in Hollywood. (Note: He didn't ask, "Would you like to be on a show?" He was putting me on the show, and that was that. As he told me later, "Do your work, pal, so when they call, you're ready.")

And he took me there, and he put me on, and Nancy Sinatra was in the audience, and she asked Milton about me, and he said something wonderful, and when she got home she called her dad. And the next day I got another pretty wild phone call--that's right, you guessed right--and it was then that I learned the meaning of the word "floored," because when I heard that voice I sat right down, and there was no chair there. The voice said, "Do you have a tuxedo, kid?" And my voice said, "No, sir," and his voice said, "Rent one," and the day after that I flew to Las Vegas to open for Frank Sinatra.

The week I spent working with Frank Sinatra is a great story, but that's for another time. See, coincidentally (or maybe not?), Milton was in Vegas as well, starring in a show with Sid Caesar and Danny Thomas called "The Three Kings Of Comedy." My first night, Milton called my dressing room and invited me to see his late show. Sid was great, Danny was magnificent, and then Milton came on and blew the room apart at the seams, and it was a beautiful thing to watch. He was 78, and he had the most stunning rhythm and timing I have ever seen to this day. You know him from TV and movies, but if you never saw him work live, you don't know him. He was the best. He built and built and pummeled us with pleasure. (Bill Cosby is another example of this. Yes, his TV shows and movies and commercials are great, but please, if you get a chance, give yourself a gift and go see him work live. He's the greatest storyteller our country has ever produced.) But Milton was the best. You don't know. Comics know. I know.