Another day, another obit. Neil Simon — arguably the most successful playwright of the last century or two — died early this morning in New York. The cause is being given as complications from pneumonia but Mr. Simon had been in failing health for some time…since 2004 when he wrote an update on his most famous play and gave us Oscar and Felix: A New Look at the Odd Couple. It ran briefly at a playhouse in Westwood and he never wrote another play. If he wasn't writing plays, you know he had to be sick.
The man's output was staggering. If you read all the obits, you'll see a lot of different counts as to how many stage plays, how many screenplays, etc. That's how prolific the man was. His byline appeared on countless scripts…and he even "doctored" hit shows without credit, including A Chorus Line. My favorite would be The Odd Couple, of course, but I remember many wonderful times in the theater because of him. I never laughed as hard in my life as I did at a production of The Last of the Red Hot Lovers that starred Jack Weston…and that's not even considered one of Simon's best works.
And if you read all those obits, you don't need me to tell you the details of his extraordinary life. Here are links to ones at Playbill, in the Los Angeles Times, the Hollywood Reporter and the New York Times. All tell the tale of this amazing man who first distinguished himself writing for Sid Caesar on Your Show of Shows. And almost all of the obits on the 'net will give you inaccurate lists of the other writers who worked on that TV program.
What none of them can possibly convey is how many productions there have been around the world of Simon plays…how many actors learned and earned being in Simon plays…how many people learned to love live theater at Simon plays. These all will continue for centuries to come.
I had two encounters with Mr. Simon, neither of which will mean a lot to you but they meant a lot to me. One was after an outta-town tryout of his Broadway-bound play, Chapter Two. It was down at the Ahmanson and my date and I were exiting the theater after the performance, long after the rest of the audience had departed. I think she had a problem that necessitated an extra-long stay in the Ladies Room. Anyway, we're walking out and there's Neil Simon, who at this stage was attending all or most performances, deciding what to change. As he explained in almost every interview, his plays weren't written. They were rewritten…again and again in tryouts until he was satisfied.
I saw him there and had to say something to just, you know, "connect." I said, allegedly to my date but for his ears, "You know, the guy who wrote this might have a career some day." Knowing I'd said that to get his attention, he stopped, extended his hand for shaking purposes and asked me, "What did you really think of it?" And I suddenly found myself in one of the scariest moments of my life.
I said — and this was not at all a fib — "If I paid top dollar to see this on Broadway, which I probably will, I'd be happy I'd spent the money."
He said, "Good. Now, tell me something you didn't like about it."
Consider that for a moment. Here's the most successful playwright in the world asking a total stranger — and he didn't even know I was a writer, albeit one way, way down on the food chain from him — to criticize his work. There were hints to his success sprinkled all throughout him asking me that.
Thinking as fast as I could, I said something like, "There were moments here and there where I felt Anita Gillette's character was a little too clever and funny. She's supposed to be aware that she's not as quick-witted as her new husband and now and then, she seemed very quick-witted."
Mr. Simon thought for a second and said, "You're probably right. I don't think I'm going to change it but you're probably right." Then he thanked me, shook hands again and turned to go in a way that I think was intended to say politely that he was done with me and had no interest in a continuing conversation. Okay, fine. I was happy. My date wasn't.
As we turned to go, she said, "You didn't introduce me!" I replied, "I didn't introduce me, either." I heard a snicker and glanced over to see it had come from Simon, who gave me a look of amusement. I kept waiting for our exchange to turn up in something he wrote later but I guess it didn't make the cut.
In my other encounter with him, I was actually introduced. It was in 1996 at the Writers Guild Theater in Beverly Hills — an event taped for TV called Caesar's Writers. Sid was there and so were a bevy of men (all men) who'd written for his TV shows and all gone on to great success. Along with The Great Caesar, the dais was Mel Tolkin, Carl Reiner, Aaron Ruben, Larry Gelbart, Mel Brooks, Danny Simon, Sheldon Keller, Gary Belkin and Neil, and it was hosted by a pal of mine, Bob Claster. This was a sold-out-immediately event and I think Bob got me in because I'd persuaded Belkin to participate and because I'd brought as my date, Sid's old sidekick, Howard Morris.
Howie introduced me to everyone and when we got to Neil Simon, it was…well, for me, on a par with meeting Stan Freberg or Jack Kirby or Groucho or anyone else whose work I'd incessantly admired. Nothing particularly quotable was said. It was just important to me and I felt that Mr. Simon knew it was important to me (Howie had introduced me as a writer) and…well, what I remember is a warm feeling that I was standing there for maybe five minutes talking with the guy who wrote some of my favorite things in the world. For a half-second there, I wanted to say but didn't, "Oh, thank you for treating me like I belong on the same planet as you and for not being an asshole. That means a lot to me."
Howie Morris was also my ticket for hanging around with those guys a lot before and a little bit after the event…though Neil hurried out right after, concerned for his brother. In the midst of the on-camera conversation, Danny took sick and walked off the stage. The video was skillfully edited to remove his exit and to call no attention to his sudden disappearance…and it turned out he was okay.
Before the show, I don't think I've ever been in a room with such sharp, witty people — especially Larry Gelbart, who said something brilliant and hilarious with each breath. I said almost nothing…and I couldn't help noticing that Neil Simon said almost nothing. Like me, he just happily played audience for the others.
Comedy writers sometimes don't like to laugh at the quips of others. They don't like admitting that even for a moment, someone thought of something funny that didn't occur to them. Not Neil Simon. He laughed as much as anyone…maybe more than me, even. I didn't say anything because I had absolutely nothing to add. He didn't say anything because he had absolutely nothing to prove. Nothing at all.