Sweet, brilliant and sometimes even more befuddled off-screen than on, Imogene Coca has left us. She was 92 and had been in and out of a Connecticut rest home, trying to fashion an autobiography between flare-ups of Alzheimer's. We hear so much — rightly so — about the comedic genius that is Sid Caesar. We hear not nearly enough about the lady who could do everything he did, plus go out and do a strenuous, hilarious dance routine while Sid, Carl and Howie were backstage changing for the next sketch…which she was also in. All three men agreed that she had the hardest job on Your Show of Shows and the toughest constitution. She may even have been the funniest. I was fortunate enough to work with Imogene a few times. She was a true delight and way too unassuming for her own good.
Once, when she was showing me around her New York apartment, I noticed an Emmy Award that was broken in two. I asked how long it had been in pieces and she said, "Oh, it came that way." She'd had it more than 40 years. I told her that, during that time, she could have called the Academy and gotten a replacement. She shrugged and replied, "Oh, I didn't want to bother them. I figured I might win another one someday."
It was said without a scintilla of ego. It just wasn't that important to her.
This was in 1994. I had arranged while I was in Manhattan to take her to see the on-stage version of Laughter on the 23rd Floor, the Neil Simon play that referenced his days writing for Your Show of Shows. Since I was bringing her, it was arranged for us to sit in Mr. Simon's house seats.
A few days before, Imogene began to worry that her attendance would be exploited for publicity purposes. She was bothered, she told me, that all the articles and retrospectives about Your Show of Shows were giving less than proper credit to Lucille Kallen, who — in Imogene's opinion — wrote her best material. She said, "I'd feel bad if I were used to promote a play that didn't give Lucille her due." To prevent this, I called the theater's manager (or someone in his office) and was assured that Ms. Coca could attend, quietly and without fanfare.
That was insufficient promise for Imogene, who told me she was developing a "bad feeling" about it. She asked if we could go to some other show and I did some reshuffling. The night after, I was going to take another friend — cartoonist Carol Lay — to see Crazy For You, so I swapped dates. I took Carol to Laughter on the 23rd Floor, with Nathan Lane brilliantly playing Jackie Gleason and calling him Max Prince, who was supposed to be Sid Caesar. At the close of the performance, an obviously-professional photographer scurried down the aisle and began searching the front rows, looking in vain for Imogene Coca.
The next night, I took that very person to Crazy For You. We dined first at Sardi's, where the reception could not have been more regal, had I arrived with Princess Margaret on my arm. Mr. Sardi himself came over, kissed her and told me I was with the most talented woman in the business. Yeah, like I didn't already know that. Then, at the show, an array of fans approached her, endorsing that view. One was a tall, skinny young gent who insisted on serenading her with the entire theme song of It's About Time, a short-lived situation comedy she did in the sixties. Another was an even younger man who asked if she was — quote: "the old lady in National Lampoon's Vacation." When she said she was, he asked with genuine curiosity, "Have you done anything else?"
After a few such folks, she turned to me with a genuine amazement and said, "You know, I think this is the first time I've been out in public and nobody's mentioned Sid Caesar." But then the next fan to approach spoiled that record.
Following the performance, she asked if we could walk around the theatre district, where she hadn't ventured in many years. We walked past the St. James Theater wherein, in '78, she scored a triumph with her performance in On The Twentieth Century. We walked past Mamma Leone's restaurant and she recalled some wonderful parties that were held there, back in the Caesar days. We stopped in front of a video store where there was a display from the Vacation movie and she said, "You know, I don't remember a thing about making that film…and when I saw it, I didn't have any idea what was going on. I died in it and it was supposed to be funny. I don't think that's funny."
She died this morning for real and I don't think that's funny, either. One of the very few times she wasn't.