第 1 章
From Brooklyn to Hollywood: The Remarkable Life of Mel Brooks
The world of comedy has few true living legends, but Mel Brooks stands as one of its undisputed kings. His autobiography "All About Me!" offers a front-row seat to nearly a century of American entertainment history, told through the lens of a man who transformed comedy forever. When President Obama presented Brooks with the National Medal of Arts in 2016, he remarked that Brooks' "unique brand of humor has served to challenge our beliefs, confront our fears, and shatter our assumptions." Indeed, Brooks' willingness to tackle taboo subjects-from Hitler to racial prejudice-has made him not just a comedic genius but a cultural force whose impact extends far beyond laughter. What's particularly fascinating is how Brooks' comedy has remained relevant across generations, with younger viewers discovering his films decades after their release and finding them just as subversive and hilarious today. His journey from impoverished Brooklyn kid to EGOT winner (one of only 18 people to win Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony awards) represents the quintessential American success story-one built on relentless creativity, fearless risk-taking, and the profound understanding that sometimes the best way to address life's darkest aspects is through laughter.
第 2 章
Brooklyn Beginnings: The Making of a Comic Mind
Growing up in Depression-era Brooklyn as Melvin Kaminsky, my world was shaped by the absence of my father, who died when I was just two years old. My three older brothers-Irving, Lenny, and Bernie-stepped into the paternal void, while my mother Kitty became both parents to me. Despite crushing poverty, she nurtured my imagination and somehow scraped together pennies for movie tickets-even borrowing that final penny from neighbors when we were short. For just one thin dime, I'd escape into a magical world of feature films, serials, newsreels, and cartoons that transported me far from homework and reality. My mother would send me with a salmon and tomato sandwich wrapped in wax paper "cause it's a long day."
My heroic mother's resilience was remarkable. At thirty, she found herself widowed with four sons to raise alone. Though extremely short in stature, she showed tremendous love in countless small ways-warming my clothes on the radiator and dressing me under the covers on cold winter mornings. With help from my Aunt Sadie, who worked as a "floor lady" in the Garment District and shared her income, we eventually upgraded to a front apartment with an actual street view instead of just clotheslines and cats.
This modest improvement in our living situation led to one of my earliest comedic moments-an incident where I peed out the window while my brother Bernie was in the bathroom, resulting in my innocent brother taking the blame and a slap from my mother. I didn't confess this truth until decades later.
My father's side came from Gdansk, Poland, where my grandfather Abraham and his brother ran a herring business they later established on Essex Street in Manhattan with a hundred pushcarts. Family gatherings introduced me to the power of humor through my favorite Uncle Lee, who would translate my grandfather's Hebrew prayers into baseball play-by-play commentary during Passover seders, much to Grandpa's confusion. These early experiences with comedy as both escape and connection would shape my entire life's trajectory.
The Brooklyn of my youth wasn't just a place but a comedic sensibility-a blend of Yiddish humor, street smarts, and the ability to find laughter in life's hardships. This foundation would later inform my unique brand of comedy that fearlessly tackled subjects others considered off-limits. As I often say, comedy is a defense mechanism against the pain of reality-and growing up poor in Brooklyn during the Depression provided plenty of material.
第 3 章
Finding My Voice in the Borscht Belt
My comedy education truly began in the Catskill Mountains, where I worked as a teenage busboy at Butler Lodge. My primary duty involved rushing massive bowls of sour cream between kitchen and dining room for guests who put it on everything-blintzes, potato pancakes, vegetables-or sometimes ate it straight with tablespoons. In my later stand-up routines, I joked that it wasn't the sour cream that killed these Jewish vacationers, but singing "Dancing in the Dark" in the wrong key. They'd start too high, and when they reached "together," it was fatal-"Bam! Stroke!"-sending them toppling from their rocking chairs.
The mountains became my comedy classroom as I visited famous resorts like Browns, the Nevele, and Grossinger's to watch established comedians perform. I borrowed jokes from greats like Myron Cohen, whose salt salesman bit always got laughs. My big break came when an actor sprained his ankle, and I stepped in as the district attorney in a play called "Uncle Harry." Despite memorizing my lines perfectly, I spilled water during the performance, breaking the glass. After a frozen moment, I removed my makeup, confessed "I'm only fourteen!" and got an enormous laugh-discovering my true calling as a comedian rather than a dramatic actor.
Recognizing my potential, the hotel owner made me a "pool tummler"-entertaining guests to keep them from falling asleep after lunch. My signature bit involved wearing a derby and alpaca coat, carrying rock-laden suitcases to the diving board, yelling "Business is no good! I don't wanna live!" and jumping in. The suitcases would drag me down while my derby floated, getting huge laughs (though nearly drowning me in the process).
I developed my comedy skills with both borrowed jokes and original impressions like James Madison ("Dolley! Hurry! Set out the fruit salad!"). I even created my self-congratulatory introduction song: "Here I am, I'm Melvin Brooks, I've come to stop the show..."
Most importantly, the Borscht Belt taught me that failure is vital for growth. As I tell aspiring comedians and writers: failure stays with you like corned beef hash, while success burns quickly like sugar. My son Max was right when he told college graduates: "Go forth and fail." Nothing helps you succeed like failure-a lesson that would serve me well throughout my career as I took increasingly bold creative risks.
These formative experiences in the Catskills shaped not just my comedic style but my understanding of audience psychology-what makes people laugh, how timing works, and how to recover when jokes fall flat. The mountains were my laboratory, where I experimented with different personas and approaches until I found my authentic comedic voice.
第 4 章
From World War II to Television's Golden Age
By 1943, I knew I wanted to pursue show business, but Hitler had started a war. After joining the Army Specialized Training Reserve Program at seventeen, I found myself at Virginia Military Institute in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley-a dramatic change for a Brooklyn boy. Beyond academics like electrical engineering, I learned to ride horses and wield a saber while cutting flags off bamboo poles, feeling like Errol Flynn in "They Died with Their Boots On."
When I turned eighteen, the Army sent me to Fort Sill, Oklahoma for artillery training. Despite my electrical engineering background, the Army in its wisdom assigned me to field artillery. I was trained as a radio operator, which thankfully kept me away from the incredibly loud cannons. Basic training involved close-order drills, learning to shoot (I earned an expert marksman badge), and enduring long exhausting marches.
In February 1945, I boarded the Sea Owl, a liberty ship at the Brooklyn Navy Yard with hundreds of other soldiers. Life aboard was miserable-the ship pitched violently in the North Atlantic, creating a never-ending cacophony of seasickness. I volunteered to write for the ship's newspaper, creating a column called "My Floating Day" that chronicled our miserable voyage.
After training, we moved through Belgium to Alsace-Lorraine. Attached to the Seventh Army, we cleared captured territories of mines and booby traps as the Germans retreated. One day while on patrol, we found German Mauser rifles and had a shooting contest at ceramic insulators on telephone poles. I'd won about twenty-one dollars when we received an urgent radio call to return to base-Army communications had been severed because telephone wires had been destroyed. When we realized we were the destroyers, I gallantly offered to take my men out to search for the "enemy snipers" who had sabotaged the phone lines.
After the war ended, I remained in Europe with the Army of Occupation. My entertainment background proved useful when a Special Services lieutenant asked if anyone could sing, dance, tell jokes, or play an instrument. I immediately volunteered for all of the above, joining his variety show touring Army camps. I performed so well that I was permanently transferred to Special Services in Wiesbaden, made acting corporal, and put in charge of entertainment at noncom and officers' clubs-a dream assignment that included a twelve-cylinder Mercedes with a gorgeous blonde violinist named Helga as my chauffeur.
After receiving my honorable discharge in June 1946, I returned to civilian life with new confidence and experiences that would later inform my comedy. The Army didn't rob me of my youth; if you don't get killed, you actually learn a lot-including how to stand on your own two feet.
My big break in television came through Sid Caesar, whom I met in late 1947 when my friend Don Appell invited me to his opening night at the Copacabana. Sid's performance was absolutely terrific-completely different from anything I'd seen, showcasing an amazing range of talent. We bonded immediately over our shared approach to comedy-not one-liners but satire of the human condition.
When Sid was approached by Max Liebman to star in The Admiral Broadway Revue (which later evolved into Your Show of Shows), he insisted I be his personal writer, paying me from his own pocket. After a heated argument between Sid and Max Liebman, I received screen credit for "Additional Material" and a $150 weekly salary.
Writing for Your Show of Shows was both wonderful and terrible. The wonderful part was hearing audience laughter from my jokes. The terrible part was staying up until 2 or 3 a.m. thinking of characters and situations, making me chronically late for morning writing sessions. The pressure eventually got to me-I began having anxiety attacks and vomiting between parked cars.
Creating the weekly show was herculean-the script with music, dancing, and six original comedy spots had to be finished by Wednesday to air Saturday night. Despite meticulous preparation, live broadcasts produced memorable blunders. Once, Sid entered a business meeting sketch wearing a Roman costume with helmet and sword due to a dresser's mistake. Sid brilliantly recovered with "Sorry I'm late, but I just came from an all-night costume party."
Our funniest sketch was probably the "This Is Your Story" parody of This Is Your Life. When Carl Reiner as the host surprised Sid in the audience, Sid improvised brilliantly, refusing to go on stage and swatting Carl with his raincoat before running through the theater. The sketch's highlight was Howard Morris playing Sid's "Uncle Goopy," who leapt onto Sid's leg and refused to let go, with Sid carrying him around as if Howie was always part of his leg.
Even after Sid's television career ended, I cast him in my movies whenever I needed a touch of genius. He remained my mentor and lifelong friend until his passing in 2014. I've said it many times: If there was no Sid Caesar, there would never have been a Mel Brooks.
第 5 章
The 2000 Year Old Man and Finding My Creative Voice
By 1960, I'd gone from being a highly paid TV writer to unemployed and nearly destitute. Carl Reiner saved me from sleeping on park benches. The 2000 Year Old Man character was born during a lunch break in the Caesar's Hour writers' room when Carl began interviewing me with a wire recorder. I immediately responded in character, and when he asked if I knew Jesus, I replied, "Thin lad, right? Wore sandals? Hung around with twelve other guys? They always came into my store. Never bought anything. They just asked for water."
Carl wasn't just my friend-he was the best friend anyone could have. He supported me completely during my early years on Your Show of Shows until I developed my own confidence. As I often said, "On this Jew from the Bronx, Carl Reiner, I founded my church."
Carl was a natural comedian and nurturer of talent who could case any room like a creative cat burglar. His mission was bringing out the best in his partners, whether it was Sid Caesar, me, Dick Van Dyke, or Steve Martin. He was the perfect straight man, providing the framework while I took the comedy bait and surprised him with unplanned tangents.
After performing at a Hollywood party where we killed, Steve Allen convinced us to record an album despite my concerns that the material might be too inside or potentially offensive. Our first album, 2000 Years with Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks, was released in 1961 and became a hit, leading to television appearances.
The 2000 Year Old Man character preserved the Yiddish dialect of my grandparents-a feisty, tough survivor representing the Eastern European immigrant Jew struggling in America. Our improvisations produced classic exchanges about Shakespeare's lost play "Queen Alexandra and Murray," Paul Revere's supposed anti-Semitism, and the Ten Commandments that didn't make the final cut ("thou shalt not squint").
In one bit, when asked about the greatest discovery of all time, I insisted it was fire: "Fire was the hottest thing going... Fire used to warm us and light up our caves so we wouldn't walk into a wall, so we wouldn't marry our brother Bernie." I explained how cooking was discovered when a pet chicken accidentally walked into the fire, and when they took it out for burial, "we all went...hey, that smells good."
In another famous routine about cave anthems, when Carl asked about our national anthem, I explained each cave had its own anthem, then sang mine: "Let 'em all go to hell except Cave Seventy-six!"
The 2000 Year Old Man also led to my friendship with Cary Grant, who became a huge fan of our records. He once approached me at Universal Studios, bought me lunch, and we developed a brief but intense friendship. While my stage version of this story ends with me avoiding his calls after running out of small talk, in reality our conversations were much deeper, discussing his struggles with studios that wanted him only in light comedies despite his desire for serious roles.
Carl was the unsung hero of our act, with a genius for asking unanswerable questions that I delighted in responding to with unexpected answers. Beyond our partnership, Carl became a wonderful movie director, creating classics like Enter Laughing, The Jerk, and All of Me. There will never be another Carl Reiner.
第 6 章
The Producers: Breaking All the Rules
I began writing The Producers as a screenplay after Broadway producer Kermit Bloomgarden advised me it would work better as a film than a stage play. The story centered on two producers who realize they could make more money with a flop than a hit by overselling shares and creating the worst show possible. With Anne Bancroft's encouragement, I composed "Springtime for Hitler" myself-a deliberately offensive song celebrating the Third Reich that would drive audiences from the theater.
I created detailed character descriptions before writing the screenplay. Max Bialystock is "a living crescendo of flesh and noise"-a force of nature who lives extravagantly, experiencing life with dramatic sensitivity. He's a Broadway producer so broke he wears a cardboard belt, seducing little old ladies for production money. Leo Bloom is "a well-mannered, curly-haired, blue-eyed, forty-two-year-old walking anxiety attack" who "desperately wants to become a real live boy" like Pinocchio. I stole the name from Joyce's Ulysses, but to me Leo Bloom meant a vulnerable Jew with curly hair who would literally "bloom" through his character arc.
I knew Zero Mostel was the only actor who could play Max Bialystock-he had the energy, brains and power for the role. Without him, I wouldn't have made the film. For Leo Bloom, I met Gene Wilder in 1963 when he performed with Anne in "Mother Courage." His radiant innocence captivated me-like Chaplin, he could be sad and funny simultaneously. I promised him the role years before we had funding.
I originally cast a young, unknown Dustin Hoffman as Franz Liebkind. He was perfect, with spot-on craziness and a good German accent. But one night, Hoffman woke me by throwing pebbles at my window to tell me Mike Nichols wanted him to test for "The Graduate" opposite my wife Anne. Though I thought he'd be rejected, Hoffman got the part, leading to my casting Kenny Mars, who proved unforgettable as Franz.
On our first day of shooting, I eased everyone's nerves by mistakenly shouting "Cut!" before "Action!" During filming, I was thrilled watching Zero and Gene seamlessly become Bialystock and Bloom, especially in the scene where they discover "Springtime for Hitler." We began filming May 22, 1967, and while most went smoothly, we hit rough spots-like when producer Joseph E. Levine furiously objected to our climactic swastika formation during the "Springtime for Hitler" musical number, threatening to shut down production. I simply told him "It's out!"-beginning my pattern of lying to studios about removing controversial elements while actually keeping them in.
I completed The Producers in eight weeks for $941,000-$35,000 under budget. Despite Joseph E. Levine wanting changes, my lawyer Alan U. Schwartz had protected me with a final cut clause. Our pre-release screening in Cherry Hill was nearly empty, but Peter Sellers accidentally saw it and was so enamored he paid for a full-page Variety ad calling it "the ultimate film" and "true genius." Though Renata Adler's scathing New York Times review had me contemplating pharmacy school, Gene Shalit's glowing review in Look magazine convinced me to stay in movieland.
Most thrillingly, I won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay, beating incredible competition including 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Battle of Algiers. I gave a memorable acceptance speech where I thanked "the Academy of Arts, Sciences and Money" and thanked Gene Wilder three times. That Oscar eventually found its home atop my mother's TV set in her Florida apartment, where she proudly displayed it during her regular Friday afternoon tea and cookie sessions with neighbors.
第 7 章
Blazing New Trails in Comedy
By 1971, I had the artist part figured out with critical acclaim, but the "starving" artist part was getting to me. Then came David Begelman from CMA, who introduced me to a rough draft called Tex X by Andrew Bergman. It was a Western poking fun at Westerns with 1974 dialogue in an 1874 setting-right up my alley. I assembled a writing team including Bergman, Richard Pryor, and Norman Steinberg. My only rule posted on the wall was "FIRST, WE LAUGH." We met daily, fueled by bagels, lox, and coffee, with no restrictions on subject matter-I told them, "Write anything you want. We will never be heard from again. We will all be in jail for making this movie."
We took a familiar Western plot-a crooked politician trying to run citizens out of town for railroad profits-and twisted it by sending in a Black sheriff to drive the townspeople away. But instead, "Black Bart" wins them over with help from the Waco Kid. I wanted Blazing Saddles to work on its own, even if you'd never seen a Western. I laced my movies with cultural references without weighing them down with anything too arcane. The only requirement for a Mel Brooks film is that you come in ready to laugh.
Casting was daunting. Warner Bros. rejected Richard Pryor for the Black sheriff despite my begging, fearing his erratic behavior. Instead, I found Broadway actor Cleavon Little, who was perfect-handsome, sophisticated, and winning. Even Pryor agreed he was the perfect choice. For the Waco Kid, I initially approached John Wayne at the Warner Bros. commissary. Surprisingly, he knew my work and loved The Producers. After reading the script, he told me, "This is one of the craziest and funniest things I have ever read. But I can't do it. It's just too dirty. My fans won't take dirty."
I then cast Gig Young, who had both comedy experience and an Oscar for playing an alcoholic. Despite his agent's assurances he'd been sober for a year, on our first day of shooting, Gig began vomiting green liquid mid-scene and was hospitalized with delirium tremens. In desperation, I called Gene Wilder, who arrived the next day. By Monday, without losing a shooting day, Gene was perfectly playing the role.
John Calley, head of production at Warner Bros., gave me advice that guided my entire career: "Mel, if you're gonna step up to the bell-ring it!" This emboldened me to include the infamous campfire scene where cowboys break wind after eating beans-the greatest farting scene in cinematic history. I may have been risking my career, but what good is a career if you don't risk it occasionally?
Blazing Saddles marked my first complete disregard for reality as a director. I shattered the fourth wall by pulling the camera back to reveal we were on a Warner Bros. studio lot, showing Dom DeLuise directing a Busby Berkeley dance number that cowboys crash into. The film ends at Grauman's Chinese Theatre where Cleavon and Gene watch their own movie before riding off into the sunset in a limousine.
After our triumphant screening, the head of Warner Bros. tried to gut the film, demanding I cut the farting scene, Mongo punching a horse, racial language, and Madeline Kahn's "I'm Tired" number. I took dutiful notes, then promptly crumpled them up and tossed them away. When the money started rolling in, the studio complaints vanished. Opening in February 1974 in limited release, the film expanded that summer and exploded in popularity, running through Labor Day. Despite critics' concerns it would destroy the Western genre, it became the second-highest-grossing Western after Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
第 8 章
Young Frankenstein: The Perfect Comedy
One day during Blazing Saddles production, I noticed Gene Wilder scribbling on a pad. When I asked what he was writing, he showed me the title "Young Frankenstein" and explained his concept about Baron Frankenstein's grandson-an uptight scientist who doesn't believe in reanimating the dead despite having the Frankenstein madness in his blood. Gene's dream was for us to write it together with me directing.
We knew Young Frankenstein had to be in black-and-white to properly salute James Whale's 1930s Universal Pictures classics. Our producer Michael Gruskoff, Gene and I initially pitched to Columbia Pictures, who liked the script and offered $1.75 million but balked when I insisted on black-and-white. "Peru just got color!" they protested. When Columbia broke the deal, we met with Alan Ladd Jr. ("Laddie") at Twentieth Century Fox, who immediately understood: "You're absolutely right. It should be made in black and white." He gave us Stage Five and a $2.4 million budget.
We assembled an incredible cast. Kenny Mars played the crazy German policeman Inspector Kemp, with his brilliant touch of wearing a monocle over his eye patch. Oscar-winner Cloris Leachman played the loony housekeeper Frau Blucher, modeled after Judith Anderson's Mrs. Danvers from Rebecca, complete with a mole and the running gag where horses would whinny in fear at her name. Teri Garr brought her unique German accent to lab assistant Inga, delivering lines like "No, no, you mozzn't!" Madeline Kahn completed our trio of hilarious women as Elizabeth, the snooty Park Avenue socialite more interested in diamond earrings than reanimated tissue.
Gene Wilder had one request before filming: "I'll do it as long as you're not in it." He wanted my full concentration on directing, not split with acting. My direction was clear: "We're making a riotous comedy but you don't know it. At times it's gotta be touching and scary. It's got to be very real-no heightened acting. When it's funny, your character doesn't know it's funny."
Production designer Dale Hennesey created a magnificent castle on Fox's Stage Five-fifteen thousand square feet and thirty-five feet high with sweating stone walls that looked misty and wet. His laboratory was even grander than James Whale's original sets. They even secured Kenneth Strickfaden's original laboratory equipment from the 1931 Frankenstein film, complete with lightning zaps and eerie glow, adding perfect authenticity to the production.
We had only one major disagreement-over the "Puttin' on the Ritz" scene. I thought it was too silly and would tear the movie's continuity apart, but Gene insisted we film it and test screen it. I've never been so wrong in my life-it took the movie to another level beyond satire, making it uniquely ours and leaving audiences laughing uncontrollably.
Despite opening against heavyweights like The Towering Inferno and The Godfather: Part II in December 1974, Young Frankenstein thrived. We created a groundbreaking marketing campaign, including painting the entire side of the Playboy Building on Sunset Boulevard as an enormous billboard-the first of its kind, requiring 86,000 gallons of paint and fourteen klieg lights. Critics loved it, with the Los Angeles Times praising its "luminously perfect black and white" and noting it wasn't just slapstick but a "coherent whole" executed by "hugely talented comic actors."
第 9 章
From Brooksfilms to Broadway: The Second Act
After Young Frankenstein's success, I sought new challenges, including creating Brooksfilms to produce more serious films without misleading audiences who expected comedy from anything with "Mel Brooks" attached. Unlike many producers, I didn't micromanage. My motto was "Give talented people room to express their vision."
Our first major dramatic project was The Elephant Man, a screenplay that came to us through Jonathan Sanger's babysitter's boyfriend. After reading it, I was deeply moved and committed to producing it. Stuart Cornfeld convinced me to see David Lynch's Eraserhead. Though unconventional, Lynch impressed me with his artistic vision and understanding of the outsider perspective that was central to The Elephant Man.
Lynch's casting choices were impeccable, particularly John Hurt as the Elephant Man and Anthony Hopkins as Dr. Treves. Anne Bancroft delivered a transcendent performance as the actress who reads Shakespeare with Merrick. The film earned eight Academy Award nominations and won the BAFTA for Best Film. I was so successful at keeping my name off the credits that people are still surprised to learn Brooksfilms produced it.
Brooksfilms went on to produce other serious films like Frances, starring Jessica Lange in an Oscar-nominated performance as troubled actress Frances Farmer, and The Fly, directed by David Cronenberg and starring Jeff Goldblum in a body horror masterpiece that was both critically acclaimed and commercially successful.
My greatest triumph came when David Geffen convinced me that The Producers would make a great Broadway show. I partnered with Tom Meehan to transform the screenplay into a Broadway libretto, and we brought on director Mike Ockrent and his wife, choreographer Susan Stroman (Stro). When tragedy struck with Mike Ockrent's death from leukemia, Susan Stroman bravely took over directing.
Nathan Lane came on as Max Bialystock after a fateful encounter in a Paris hotel pool, while Matthew Broderick joined as Leo Bloom, creating magical chemistry that was the Broadway equivalent of Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder. When Nathan pointed out he needed a second-act star turn, I wrote "Betrayed," a five-minute raving nervous breakdown number that gave him the perfect opportunity to stop the show.
After previews at the St. James Theatre in March 2001, we opened on April 19, 2001, to some of the greatest reviews of my career. Ben Brantley of The New York Times, typically stingy with praise, called it "sublimely ridiculous" and "altogether blissful"-a stark contrast to Renata Adler's scathing review of the original film.
The show became a Broadway phenomenon, earning fifteen Tony Award nominations and winning a record-breaking twelve Tony Awards-a record we still hold today, even surviving Hamilton's challenge. With my three Tony Awards for The Producers, I became only the eighth person in history to achieve EGOT status. But more valuable than any award was the emotional currency of audiences laughing, applauding, and giving standing ovations-confirming that this was what I was always meant to do.
第 10 章
Life, Love, and Legacy: The Third Act
In 2009, I was chosen for the Kennedy Center Honors, having previously declined when George W. Bush was president due to my opposition to the Iraq War. As an honoree alongside Bruce Springsteen, Robert De Niro, Dave Brubeck, and Grace Bumbry, I brought my entire family to the White House where President Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama hosted us. During the ceremony, I couldn't resist interrupting the president's remarks about Dave Brubeck with a joke: "He never understood 4/4 time." Obama playfully retorted, "Mel, I'm trying to say something nice about you, now. Please don't upstage me!"
The 2013 AFI Life Achievement Award ceremony became a good-natured "roast" hosted by Martin Short. Hollywood legends playfully complained about how I'd lampooned their genres: Clint Eastwood on Westerns, George Lucas on Star Wars, and Steven Spielberg on historical epics. Martin Scorsese presented me with the award, eloquently praising my "anarchic spirit but loving heart" and my "disciplined mastery of the vocabulary of film."
Throughout my career, my greatest personal joy came from my marriage to Anne Bancroft. When we met in 1961 at a Perry Como show rehearsal, I was captivated as she sang "I Wanna Get Married" in a stunning white dress. I shouted, "Anne Bancroft! I love you!" and she responded that she knew me from "The 2000 Year Old Man" record. Despite my financial struggles at the time, she believed in me: "You're talented. You're gonna go places...you won't always be poor."
Anne was not only a wonderful wife and partner but also an exceptional mother. When our son Max was diagnosed with dyslexia at a time when it was barely recognized, she set aside her successful acting career to become his educational advocate. She educated herself about dyslexia, developed coping mechanisms, and found nontraditional learning methods for Max. Her dedication paid off-Max eventually became a New York Times bestselling author.
Anne possessed remarkable range as an actress, convincingly portraying everyone from Golda Meir to a mother superior in Agnes of God. Though she's most remembered for Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate, she delivered countless brilliant performances across theater, film, and television. Mike Nichols noted her unique "combination of brains, humor, frankness, and sense." She constantly pushed me, believed in my talents, and inspired me in everything I attempted. As I always say, she was truly a gift from God.
In my third act, I've continued performing, creating HBO specials and touring theaters nationwide with live shows. I've played venues from London's Prince of Wales Theatre to Radio City Music Hall, often screening Blazing Saddles before taking the stage. When audience members ask about my secret to longevity, I simply reply: "Don't die."
F. Scott Fitzgerald once said "There are no second acts," but I've proven him wrong with a great second act and a pretty good third. I've made people laugh for a living since 1938, starting as a street-corner comic in Brooklyn. I began writing my memoir during the 2020 lockdown at my son Max's encouragement, capturing nearly a century of memories that span the evolution of American comedy itself.
Looking back on my remarkable journey from poverty to Hollywood legend, I'm struck by how comedy has been both my livelihood and my salvation. Laughter truly is the best medicine-not just for audiences but for the comedian as well. As I approach my century mark, I remain grateful for the gift of humor that has allowed me to transform life's tragedies into comedy gold, and to share that alchemy with generations of fans who continue to discover my work. In the end, that's the true measure of success-not the awards or accolades, but the enduring laughter that echoes long after the credits roll.
