The fine comic actor Louis Nye died on October 9, 2005 and I posted this obit here. Then the next day, I posted the story you're about to read (I hope) about him and my father. Mr. Nye, by the way, was buried the following day…at Hillside Memorial Park, the cemetery where my father was buried.
Part of this piece is about Yarmy's Army, a social club to which I still belong and I should mention this: Since this article was first posted, every single member of the group who is named in this piece has passed away. And almost everyone on the current roster turned out last week for the funeral of our member Budd Friedman…at Hillside.
Louis Nye was that rare kind of comedian — a guy who was always funny even when the material wasn't. Lots of comedians can be funny with sharp lines and clever dialogue. But on various old Steve Allen Shows, they used to stick Mr. Nye in sketches and situations with none of that and he still managed to amuse. One time, in fact, they deliberately put him in a bad sketch with zero to do. Allen tipped the audience beforehand that, as a prank and an experiment, they'd rehearsed one version of the skit that afternoon, then done last minute cuts and rewrites (which were not rehearsed) to remove everything Nye had that was even vaguely amusing. Incredibly, Louis Nye managed to wring a fair amount of laughs out of his part anyway…and then at the end, when Steverino revealed to him what was up, he threw a mock hissy-fit that was hilarious.
There's a quote sometimes attributed to Ed Wynn that differentiates between a comic and a comedian: "A comic says funny things. A comedian says things funny. A comic will open a funny door. A comedian will open a door funny." I'm not sure that Mr. Wynn had the right nouns there — comic and comedian seem pretty interchangeable in my experience — but he had a point. There are some performers who are just funny brushing their teeth or carving a turkey. Whatever that kind of funnyman is, that's what Louis Nye was.
I speak as a lifetime watcher of Mr. Nye. Even as a small boy, he was required viewing in our household. My father went to school with Louis Nye back in Hartford, Connecticut, and I need to make the point that they were not close friends. They were just in the same classes, occasionally playing baseball or handball at lunchtime. After about age eleven or twelve, they went their separate ways but he was still my father's closest connection then to Show Business so he became an unabashed Louis Nye fan.
No matter what Nye was on, Dad had to watch it…which, since we only had the one TV, eventually meant I had to watch it. This was no hardship as Nye was usually on the hippest, funniest shows on television, including all those Steve Allen programs and, sometimes, Sid Caesar's Your Show of Shows. (A few months back when our pal Howie Morris died, I directed you to a video link for the funniest sketch that ever appeared on Mr. Caesar's weekly extravaganza. Many people think it's the funniest sketch ever done on television. Louis Nye was also in that sketch.)
I'll tell you how much my father enjoyed watching Louis Nye. When Nye became a semi-regular on The Beverly Hillbillies, my father even watched a few of them. That's devotion.
My father passed away in 1991. Shortly after that, I was attending a play and at intermission, I spotted Louis Nye in the lobby, signing autographs for others who'd recognized him. I decided I should introduce myself and tell him some of what I just told you. I hovered around, waiting as he signed and bantered with admirers but there wasn't time. The lights began to blink to signal the start of Act Two and I didn't get to talk to him then, nor could I find him after the play. Three or four years later, almost the exact same thing happened again at a restaurant. He and his party were waiting for a table, me and my party were waiting for a table…and just as I positioned myself to interrupt and introduce myself, his table was ready and I again failed to meet Louis Nye.
Five years ago, I was at a meeting of Yarmy's Army. This is a club comprised of comedians — mostly older comedians — founded in memory of the late Dick Yarmy, a much-loved character actor. Much of the original group has drifted apart, in part due to internal squabbling and in part due to so many of its members passing away. One recently said to me, "We don't need to have monthly meetings. We see each other now at monthly funerals" and that's true. Most charter members were present for the recent Pat McCormick memorial. Most were present one month to the day later in the same theater for the memorial for Don Adams (who was Dick Yarmy's brother, by the way). They'll all see one another at the Louis Nye memorial.
But when it was at its peak, Yarmy's Army was a great place to hang out and you were very honored if you were invited to do so. The last meeting I attended, the "round table" included Shelley Berman, Howie Morris, Tom Poston, Don Knotts, Pat Harrington, Gary Owens, Chuck McCann, Harvey Korman, Jerry Van Dyke and about a dozen others of that breed…and Louis Nye. When there was an opportune moment, I practically ordered Gary Owens to introduce me to Mr. Nye.
I told him that he wouldn't remember my father — like I keep reminding you, they weren't close buddies — but that they'd gone to school together in Hartford and as a result, Louis Nye Watching had been an important part of my childhood. I gushed a bit and told him about one sketch in particular that had me howling for days. It was a parody of the movie, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? with him and Steve Allen in drag as Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. This was around '62 when the film was current, and they'd done a spoof that had careened wildly off-script with Nye devouring scenery and alternately readjusting his wig and fake breasts while Allen literally rolled on the floor, laughing too hard to get his lines out. For sheer laughter, it was a close runner-up to that Your Show of Shows sketch I just sent you scurrying to watch again.
Mr. Nye said he was very flattered and amazed that I recalled it after so many years…but then he did me one better when he asked my father's name. I said, "I'd bet a year's pay you won't remember him."
He said, "I won't bet you but try me."
I told him my father's name was Bernard Evanier. He thought for about ten seconds and then said, "I went to school with a Beryl Evanier."
I don't gasp often but I gasped then. My father's birth name was Beryl. He changed it to Bernard when he was eighteen.
When I got home, I did the math. My father was born in 1910 but entered school late. Louis Nye was born in 1913. A reasonable guess would be that they were in class together somewhere between 1922 and 1927. The Yarmy's Army meeting of which I write occurred in 2000.
Louis Nye had remembered my father's name for more than seventy years.
I think that says something about him more than just that he had a great memory. It says something about caring about people and the world around him, and he also took the time to ask me about my father — what he'd grown up to be, when he'd died, how he'd died, etc. Before that meeting, I knew what a tremendous performer Mr. Nye was. Standing there, seeing how touched he was that his work had meant so much to someone else…well, I just couldn't help but think what a genuinely nice man he must have been. What a genuinely nice, funny man.
