47 years ago today, Groucho Marx passed away — an event that did not come as a surprise to anyone who'd seen him in the last few years of his long, monumental life. I had visited his home in the Trousdale area not long before for a surreal — and in many ways, sad — afternoon. Groucho's secretary/assistant Steve Stoliar was almost certainly there that day but somehow, I did not meet Steve, who has since become a good friend.
That home had an "open house" feel to it that day with people — some very famous — dropping by, some staying only long enough so that they could say, "I was there." Some left hurriedly when his companion/guardian/I-don't-know-what-to-call-her Erin Fleming put the moves on them to hire her for acting work because Groucho, she said, would appreciate it.
There really wasn't much to do there that day for them except to avoid her, talk to each other and partake of the snacks and beverages. A conversation with Mr. Marx was almost impossible…as I found when someone (I dunno who) led me over to him, introduced me as a young comedy writer and plunked me down to baby-sit a Comedy Legend.
Sadly, there wasn't much of him left by that point. I said things to him about how much I loved him and his movies and the quiz shows. He said things to me in a voice that was weak and hard to hear. I laughed and nodded, pretending I understood every word he said but I didn't. Fortunately, that was not the only time I met the man.
One earlier afternoon at Hillcrest Country Club, we had an actual conversation when he was able to have an actual conversation and I said all the respectful, affectionate things I wanted to say to him then. I got the feeling that he really liked that a kid my age — then, mid-teens — knew all his work and loved it and was also aware of the brilliance of George S. Kaufman, Alexander Woollcott and others of his world.
If I'd had more time with that Groucho, I would have elaborated on why he and his work meant so much to me — the wit, the fearlessness, the sheer funny in just about everything he said, everything he did. I also talked with him a tiny bit when he visited the set of Welcome Back, Kotter when I was working on that show.
That evening, he was so "out of it" that he could not tape the wordless cameo appearance he'd come to do. It did not occur to me that evening that he really wasn't up to even coming there but that the controversial Ms. Fleming had pumped him full of some sort of drug just to get him there…for her purposes more than his. In hindsight, I kinda wish my contact with the man had ended in that big dining room at Hillcrest.
So it was not a shocker when he died; only that a gent known for his masterful timing had mistimed his exit. It came too soon after the death of Elvis Presley for Groucho to get his proper press coverage and national mourning. Happily though, it was not the end of the man born Julius Henry Marx. His influence is still everywhere — in movies, on TV, in cartoons and especially in the way some of us talk. He left a few generations of admirers who can't help but incorporate bad Groucho impressions (or at least, attempts at his rhythms) in their everyday speech.
You probably do that. I know I do. I've done it many times with people who for one reason or another, were never exposed to the genuine article. My lady friend Amber has heard plenty of inept Groucho mimicry, much of it from me, but she's never seen a Marx Brothers movie, nor have I taken her to experience the expert Groucho replication of my pal, Frank Ferrante. One reason is that I want her to see the real Groucho before she sees the faux guy.
And I want her to see the real thing in one of his best movies not via a DVD in my den but in a real movie theater with a real audience watching and laughing at…oh, any of them. It could be Monkey Business or maybe Horse Feathers or Duck Soup or A Night at the Opera or A Day at the Races. Hell, she'd even love him in The Big Store if she had nothing to compare it to. Only then will I take her to see Frank and only then might she grasp how important this Groucho Marx guy was to nurturing what passes for my sense of humor. In some ways, a lot of us are Groucho impersonators. Frank just does it better than anybody and gets paid for doing it.