What do you get for the comedian who has everything?
“I had always wanted a chin,” admits Carol Burnett, in her latest almost-autobiography.
Nothing is impossible, though, so she got one, in 1981, when an oral surgeon in Hawaii added 3 millimeters to her weak spot. “I was very thrilled. I could feel the Maui rain without having to look up.”
There was only one problem. After the surgery, Burnett was called back for reshoots on the big-screen musical “Annie,” in which she played tipsy orphanage director Miss Hannigan. Before a closeup, Burnett nervously approached the director, John Huston.
“Uh . . . John . . . excuse me, but two months ago, when we shot this scene, I went into the closet with no chin, and now I’m coming out of the closet with a chin. I just want to call that to your attention.”
Huston considered that for a moment. “All right then, dear,” he said. “Just come out looking determined.”
Has any entertainer had more fun with their face than Carol Burnett? Frozen in mock seriousness as Scarlett O’Hara, descending the staircase in a dress made out of drapes (complete with rod). Twisted into a full-throated Tarzan yell (perfected by scaring off a Manhattan mugger). Tugging at her ear as a secret “I love you” to her grandmother (“Later,” she writes, “it also included ‘your check is on the way.’ ”)
“Carol Burnett is almost very pretty,” comedy writer Larry Gelbart once said.
“That was almost very nice of him,” Burnett replied.
Hapless, awkward, hilarious, an ugly ducking (who is actually pretty), Burnett was Tina Fey long before “30 Rock,” starring in a series of successful specials with friends like Julie Andrews and fronting her own variety show for 11 seasons on CBS.
“This Time Together” is less a life story than a series of anecdotes, longer versions of tales she told during the Q&A sessions of “The Carol Burnett Show” and more recent stage tour. Don’t go in looking for dish. Divorces are dispatched with a sentence, drunken family members with a “he was good-natured.” No Hollywood legend is surly or untalented. Well, there is a brief moment where Harvey Korman is grumpy with the crew. But when Burnett threatens to fire him, Korman unwinds the tension by agreeing to whistle while he works (literally). He even affixes a plaque on his door: “Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky.”
Of course, what does Burnett have to be upset about? Though undeniably talented, her career benefited greatly from a series of improbable good fortunes. A wealthy benefactor sees her perform at UCLA and gives her $1,000 to move to New York, on the condition that she pay the money back, help others and never reveal his name. Once there, she accosts Eddie Foy Jr. outside “Pajama Game.” Though she admits she can’t sing or dance, he refers her to his agent anyway. The agent suggests she start her own show, which she does with her roommates, then gets more wealthy people to pony up the $200 needed to rent two nights at the Carl Fischer concert hall on West 57th Street.
What follows that is perhaps the strangest ticket to fame — a love song about a secretary of state.
Burnett contacts writer Ken Welch to write some musical material, and he comes up with a comedic song that begins, “I made a fool of myself over John Foster Dulles.” It becomes a novelty hit, and Burnett gets booked on Jack Parr’s “Tonight Show” and “The Ed Sullivan Show.” Can’t sing. Can’t dance. But can be damn funny.
Burnett also benefited from perfect collaborations. There was Korman, Vicki Lawrence (cast for her resemblance to Burnett, she later got her own sitcom “Mama’s Family” based on her most famous character), handsome announcer Lyle Waggoner and, of course, Tim Conway.
Those who love Conway (look up the dentist sketch on YouTube. Go ahead, I’ll wait) will be pleased to discover he was just as kooky in real life, or “nuts,” Burnett says. On a trip to Australia, Conway has Burnett and her husband meet him in his room, where they find him in bed, bare-chested and smoking a cigarette next to a stuffed sheep. “Don’t wait up, Barbara,” he says, kissing her head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Looking at Burnett, he adds, “I know you’ll keep this to yourself.”
One night at a party, Conway wraps his entire head in toilet paper, a la “The Invisible Man.” Someone takes a Polaroid, which Conway clips and attaches to his driver’s license. Still wrapped up, he drives home and deliberately runs a stop sign so he gets pulled over, and hands over the license. “The comedy gods were smiling that night,” Burnett says. “The cop had a sense of humor.”
Other highlights:
n The writers of the variety show used to watch older comedy programs for inspiration. But one day when Burnett came in to visit, they pranked her by putting on a porn film instead. “Omigod! Th-That’s the worst thing I’ve ever SEEN!” she stuttered.
“Well gosh, Carol,” one of the writers replied. “He’s doing the best he can.”
n Before a show honoring President Johnson in 1964, Burnett was up drinking hot chocolate with Julie Andrews. The two were expecting Mike Nichols to come down for a nosh, so they sat in front of the elevator and pretended to kiss. Instead, Lady Bird Johnson and her Secret Service entourage got off on their floor. “Aren’t you Carol Burnett?” she asked. “Yes ma’am,” Burnett replied, “and this here is Mary Poppins!”
n Meeting Laurence Olivier in 1975, the esteemed actor said “Wuthering Heights” was his least favorite film role. When Burnett objected, saying he was so romantic, Olivier said he could recreate the entire performance in a moment. “He walked over to the large fireplace, turned his back to us, and leaned his hands against the mantel, letting his head drop in an oh-so-melancholy way. Finally, in a whisper, he said, ‘Cathy.’ ‘Cathy . . .’ He said ‘Cathy’ one more time, then turned back to us. ‘That’s about it. My performance in a nutshell. Bugs Bunny could’ve done it.’ ”
n On a flight to New York in 1974, “The Front Page,” in which Burnett co-starred with Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon, was featured. Burnett, who thought she was awful in the film and in fact preferred television her entire career, asked the stewardess if she could address the plane. “This is Carol Burnett . . . and I want to take this opportunity to apologize to each and everyone of you for my performance in the film you just saw,” she announced to applause.
n And what might be the best: When the National Enquirer said that Burnett was romping around drunk in a Washington, DC, restaurant, accosting patrons like Henry Kissinger, she decided to sue. During the trial, Burnett visited her doctor and found herself sitting across from aging star Barbara Stanwyck. “You’re going to whip the Enquirer’s ass,” Stanwyck said. Burnett laughed and thanked her. “Look, I’m not making this up,” Stanwyck said. “I KNOW you’re going to win this case. My leprechaun told me.”
Burnett, not surprisingly, couldn’t respond. “Oh they exist all right,” Stanwyck said. “I have this one who’s never wrong. He’s seen me through thick and thin.” You’ll never watch “Double Indemnity” quite the same way.
If there’s anything bittersweet, it’s that the success Burnett enjoyed isn’t likely to be repeated, at least not the same way. Even if the variety show returned to network telelvision, could you do it with “dancers, singers, elaborate sets, 50 costumes a week” by Bob Mackie “and a full LIVE 28-piece orchestra”? Unlikely.
“I’m just grateful,” Burnett says, “that my time happened when it did.”
This Time Together: Laughter and Reflection
by Carol Burnett
Harmony Books