Forty years ago today, Julius "Groucho" Marx died at the age of 86. His passing got way less notice than the death of Elvis Presley, who'd passed three days earlier — a source of great frustration to those of us who were way more influenced by Mr. Marx than we ever were by Mr. Presley. Then again, maybe it's understandable that Elvis's death at the age of 42 was far more unexpected and shocking and therefore newsworthy. Groucho, at more than double that age, had been in poor health for some time and was sadly past his performing years.
I met him three times and saw him perform (sort of) on stage once. I wrote about these brushes in this column and the one that follows it. A few years ago, I realized that I got the dates and sequence wrong and I've finally revised the columns so they're right.
The last encounter took place at Groucho's home on Hillcrest Road in the Trousdale section of Los Angeles. The visit was short — a friend and I were there about a half-hour — and Groucho didn't say much. It occurred a month or two after he showed up on the set of Welcome Back, Kotter when I was working on that show so it was around Christmas of '76. He was in such poor shape that I'm still amazed he lasted another eight months.
The friend who took me there had me along because he thought Groucho would enjoy being with a relatively young person (I was 24) who knew everything about his films and career. This seemed to be true. Groucho wasn't able to muster much in the way of answers to the questions I asked him but he liked that I knew all the names and all the films.
The most interesting thing I recall of that afternoon was that I got to see Erin Fleming in her native environment. She was the controversial actress (largely of the aspiring variety) who kept company with Groucho in his last years, doing some good for him and some bad as she attempted to do a lot of good for herself. She'd accompanied Mr. Marx to the set of Kotter where he was supposed to tape a cameo appearance but was too ill to do more than pose listlessly for some photographs. It was pretty obvious that the show's invite to appear was accepted not by Groucho, who couldn't have cared much less, but by Erin, who thought it might somehow lead to her making an appearance on a (then) hit TV show.
In Groucho's home, she stage-managed a series of celebrity drop-ins, getting stars (including Groucho) to get up and perform. At least during the thirty minutes or so I was at one of them, Groucho looked like he'd rather be in his bedroom, sound asleep. I suppose though there were times when he appreciated the company and attention.
That day, I did not meet a young man who worked in the house as a kind of secretary-archivist. His name was Steve Stoliar and if he was there, no one introduced us. A few decades later, we encountered one another and became good friends. If you're curious about what went on in The Last Days of Groucho, I recommend an utterly-accurate and quite entertaining book by Steve called Raised Eyebrows — My Years Inside Groucho's House. And if you're the kind of person who follows my recommendations — God help you — here's an Amazon link for it.
In a way, I wish my memories of Groucho stopped with the first time I met him. He was still lucid then, still able to stand on his own, still able to say witty things in a way that reminded you of the smartass in the movies and on the game show. That smartass was highly influential in a lot of our lives. He emboldened us. He inspired us. And he made us laugh to an extent that would make him a legend even if he hadn't emboldened and inspired us. He sure mattered a lot more to me than Elvis ever did.
