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By Marc Peyser
My Oscar prediction: no matter how long Kate Winslet burbles and beams at her little gold man tonight, she's won't get the evening's biggest ovation. That honor will go to Hollywood's longest-serving court jester, Jerry Lewis. Tucked in among all the other coronations, Lewis will be given the royalest of treatments: the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. Never mind that this is something of a consolation prize—the Academy has never bestowed an actual Oscar on the man in his six decades of work— Hollywood is still delirious over having him for the evening. My guess is that he'll commandeer a good 10 minutes of camera time, wherein he will: A) cry; B) bellow, "Hey, Lady!" at least once; and C) remain utterly emotionless at the mention of the name Dean Martin, his longtime comedy partner and almost-as-longtime enemy, who Lewis believed pushed him out of their comedy spotlight.
Far be it for me to tarnish such a joyous occasion, but I have two words for those tuning in to see Lewis honored: Be afraid. Actually, make that three: Be very afraid. This is, admittedly, an irrational thing to say. Lewis hasn't self-destructed on camera for almost two years now, since he referred to an audience member as a "f-g" during the 18th hour of his 2007 Labor Day telethon. (He called cricket a "f-g game" the next year, but that doesn't count; he was in Australia.) But I base my fear on more personal experience. I have been terrified of Jerry Lewis for 13 years, ever since the first—and last—time I met him.
He was in previews to make his Broadway debut in "Damn Yankees," a notable achievement for a man almost 70 years old. I was escorted to his dressing room at the Marquis Theater by a burly, bodyguard-type guy. Jerry seemed nice enough, though a bit distracted by his pre-show preparations. He was perfectly charming for the first 15 minutes or so, talking about how proud his father would be to see him finally make it to the Great White Way. And then I dared ask him about another musical, one called "Hellzapoppin."
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"Hellzapoppin" was the show that was supposed to be Lewis's first Broadway vehicle, in 1976. It was in previews in Boston when all hellz broke lose: the book was a mess, the director was fired and Jerry was unhappy. So unhappy that he refused to even rehearse with his co-star, Lynn Redgrave. "Hellzapoppin" never made it to New York, and the show's producer blamed Lewis for sinking it, and for the $1.2 million it had cost.
Naturally, this is the kind of back story a reporter would be interested in. When I asked Lewis about it, he just stared at me with his trademark eye-popping look. "I don't talk about anything negative," he insisted. But surely that show influenced your desire to make it to Broadway after all, didn't it? Another stare, followed by a loud bark: "You want to talk about Auschwitz? Is that interesting to you?" Then he bellowed for my burly escort. "Get him out of here!" Lewis demanded. I barely had time to pick up my tape recorder.
It's not every day that you get thrown out of a superstar's dressing room. In fact, it's never happened to me since. So you'll excuse me if I sit a little farther away from the TV when Lewis gets his star turn tonight. You never know what the nutty professor might do.
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