A Stranger in the Mirror By Sidney Sheldon

“Playing golf. Do you play golf?” Rainger asked.

“No.”

The two writers looked at each other in dismay. “There go all the golf jokes. Shit!”

O’Hanlon picked up the telephone. “Bring in some coffee, will you, Zsa Zsa?” He put down the phone and turned to Toby. “Do you know how many would-be comics there are in this quaint little business we’re in?”

Toby shook his head.

“I can tell you exactly. Three billion seven hundred and twenty-eight million, as of six o’clock last night. And that’s not including Milton Berle’s brother. When there’s a full moon, they all crawl out of the woodwork. There are only half a dozen really top comics. The others will never make it. Comedy is the most serious business in the world. It’s goddamned hard work being funny, whether you’re a comic or a comedian.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A big one. A comic opens funny doors. A comedian opens doors funny.”

Rainger asked, “Did you ever stop to think what makes one comedian a smash and another a failure?”

“Material,” Toby said, wanting to flatter them.

“Buffalo shit. The last new joke was invented by Aristophanes. Jokes are basically all the same. George Burns can tell six jokes that the guy on the bill ahead of him just told, and Burns will get bigger laughs. Do you know why? Personality.” It was what Clifton Lawrence had told him. “Without it, you’re nothing, nobody. You start with a personality and you turn it into a character. Take Hope. If he came out and did a Jack Benny monologue, he’d bomb. Why? Because he’s built up a character. That’s what the audiences expect from him. When Hope walks out, they want to hear those rapid-fire jokes. He’s a likeable smart-ass, the big city fellow who gets his lumps. Jack Benny—just the opposite. He woudn’t know what to do with a Bob Hope monologue, but he can take a two-minute pause and make an audience scream. Each of the Marx Brothers has his own character. Fred Allen is unique. That brings us to you. Do you know your problem, Toby? You’re a little of everybody. You’re imitating all the big boys. Well, that’s great if you want to play Elks smokers for the rest of your life. But if you want to move up into the big time, you’ve got to create a character of your own. When you’re out on that stage, before you even open your mouth, the audience has to know that it’s Toby Temple up there. Do you read me?”

“Yes.”

O’Hanlon took over. “Do you know what you’ve got, Toby? A lovable face. If I weren’t already engaged to Clark Gable, I’d be crazy about you. There’s a naive sweetness about you. If you package it right, it could be worth a fucking fortune.”

“To say nothing of a fortune in fucking,” Rainger chimed in.

“You can get away with things that the other boys can’t. It’s like a choirboy saying four-letter words—it’s cute because you don’t believe he really understands what he’s saying. When you walked in here, you asked if we were the fellows who were going to write your jokes. The answer is no. This isn’t a joke shop. What we are going to do is show you what you’ve got and how to use it. We’re going to tailor a character for you. Well—what do you say?”

Toby looked from one to the other, grinned happily and said, “Let’s roll up our sleeves and go to work.”

 

Every day after that, Toby had lunch with O’Hanlon and Rainger at the studio. The Twentieth Century-Fox commissary was an enormous room filled with wall-to-wall stars. On any given day, Toby could see Tyrone Power and Loretta Young and Betty Grable and Don Ameche and Alice Faye and Richard Widmark and Victor Mature and the Ritz Brothers, and dozens of others. Some were seated at tables in the large room, and others ate in the smaller executive dining room which adjoined the main commissary. Toby loved watching them all. In a short time, he would be one of them, people would be asking for his autograph. He was on his way, and he was going to be bigger than any of them.