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内容简介:
They were the unlikeliest of pairs—a handsome crooner and a
skinny monkey, an Italian from Steubenville, Ohio, and a Jew from
Newark, N.J.. Before they teamed up, Dean Martin seemed destined
for a mediocre career as a nightclub singer, and Jerry Lewis was
dressing up as Carmen Miranda and miming records on stage. But the
moment they got together, something clicked—something
miraculous—and audiences saw it at once.
Before long, they were as big as Elvis or the Beatles would be
after them, creating hysteria wherever they went and grabbing an
unprecedented hold over every entertainment outlet of the era:
radio, television, movies, stage shows, and nightclubs. Martin and
Lewis were a national craze, an American institution. The millions
(and the women) flowed in, seemingly without end—and then, on July
24, 1956, ten years from the day when the two men joined forces, it
all ended.
After that traumatic day, the two wouldn’t speak again for twenty
years. And while both went on to forge triumphant individual
careers—Martin as a movie and television star, recording artist,
and nightclub luminary (and charter member of the Rat Pack); Lewis
as the groundbreaking writer, producer, director, and star of a
series of hugely successful movie comedies—their parting left a
hole in the national psyche, as well as in each man’s heart.
In a memoir by turns moving, tragic, and hilarious, Jerry Lewis
recounts with crystal clarity every step of a fifty-year
friendship, from the springtime, 1945 afternoon when the two
vibrant young performers destined to conquer the world together met
on Broadway and Fifty-fourth Street, to their tragic final
encounter in the 1990s, when Lewis and his wife ran into Dean
Martin, a broken and haunted old man.
In Dean & Me, Jerry Lewis makes a convincing case for Dean
Martin as one of the great—and most underrated—comic talents of our
era. But what comes across most powerfully in this definitive
memoir is the depth of love Lewis felt, and still feels, for his
partner, and which his partner felt for him: truly a love to last
for all time.
书籍目录:
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作者介绍:
JERRY LEWIS and Dean Martin sandwiched sixteen money-making
films in between nightclub engagements, recording sessions, radio
shows, and television bookings during their ten-year partnership.
Over the following years Lewis remained in the spotlight as the
groundbreaking creator and star of a series of hugely successful
movie comedies, and scored triumphs in stage appearances in Europe,
where he has been hailed as one of the greatest
director-comedians of the twentieth century. He was
nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, and has received numerous
other honors for his tireless efforts in the fight against the
fourty neuromuscular diseases.
JAMES KAPLAN has written novels, essays, and reviews, as well as
over a hundred major profiles for many magazines, including The
New Yorker, the New York Times Magazine, Vanity Fair,
Esquire, Entertainment Weekly, and New York. In 2002
Kaplan coauthored the autobiography of John McEnroe, You Cannot
Be Serious, which was an international bestseller (and #1 on
the New York Times list). He lives in Westchester, New York,
with his wife and three sons.
出版社信息:
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书籍摘录:
Chapter One
In the age of Truman, Eisenhower, and Joe McCarthy, we freed
America. For ten years after World War II, Dean and I were not only
the most successful show-business act in history–we were
history.
You have to remember: Postwar America was a very buttoned-up
nation. Radio shows were run by censors, Presidents wore hats,
ladies wore girdles. We came straight out of the blue–nobody was
expecting anything like Martin and Lewis. A sexy guy and a monkey
is how some people saw us, but what we really were, in an age of
Freudian self-realization, was the explosion of the show-business
id.
Like Burns and Allen, Abbott and Costello, and Hope and Crosby,
we were vaudevillians, stage performers who worked with an
audience. But the difference between us and all the others is
significant. They worked with a script. We exploded without one,
the same way wiseguy kids do on a playground, or jazz musicians do
when they’re let loose. And the minute we started out in
nightclubs, audiences went nuts for us. As Alan King told an
interviewer a few years ago: “I have been in the business for
fifty-five years, and I have never to this day seen an act get more
laughs than Martin and Lewis. They didn’t get laughs–it was
pan?demonium. People knocked over tables.”
Like so many entertainment explosions, we happened almost by
accident.
***
It was a crisp March day in midtown Manhattan, March of 1945. I
had just turned nineteen, and I was going to live forever. I could
feel the bounce in my legs, the air in my lungs. World War II was
rapidly draw?ing to a close, and New York was alive with
excitement. Broadway was full of city smells–bus and taxi exhaust;
roast peanuts and dirty-water hot dogs; and, most thrilling of all,
the perfumes of beautiful women. Midtown was swarming with gorgeous
gals! Secretaries, career girls, society broads with little
pooches–they all paraded past, tick-tock, tick-tock, setting my
heart racing every ten paces. I was a very young newly?wed, with a
very pregnant wife back in Newark, but I had eyes, and I looked.
And looked. And looked.
I was strolling south with my pal Sonny King, heading toward an
appointment with an agent in Times Square. Sonny was an
ex-prize-fighter from Brooklyn trying to make it as a singer, a
knock-around guy, street-smart and quick with a joke–kind of like
an early Tony Danza. He prided himself on his nice tenor voice and
on knowing everybody who was anybody in show business. Not that his
pride always matched up with reality. But that was Sonny, a bit of
an operator. And me? I was a Jersey kid trying to make it as a
comic. My act–are you ready for this?– was as follows: I would get
up on stage and make funny faces while I lip-synched along to
phonograph records. The professional term for what I did was dumb
act, a phrase I didn’t want to think about too much. In those days,
it felt a little too much like a bad review.
You know good-bad? Good was that I was young and full of beans
and ready to take on the world. Bad was that I had no idea on earth
how I was going to accomplish this feat. And bad was also that I
was just eking out a living, pulling down $110 a week in a good
week, and there weren’t that many good weeks. On this princely sum
I had to pay my manager, Abner J. Greshler, plus the rent on the
Newark apartment, plus feed two, about to be three. Plus wardrobe,
candy bars, milk shakes, and phonograph records for the act. Plus
my hotel bill. While I was working in New York, I stayed in the
city, to be close to my jobs–when I had them–and to stick to where
the action was. I’d been rooming at the Bel?mont Plaza, on
Lexington and Forty-ninth, where I’d also been perform?ing in the
Glass Hat, a nightclub in the hotel. I got $135 a week and a
room.
Suddenly, at Broadway and Fifty-fourth, Sonny spotted someone
across the street: a tall, dark, and incredibly handsome man in a
camel’s-hair coat. His name, Sonny said, was Dean Martin. Just
looking at him intimidated me: How does anybody get that
handsome?
I smiled at the sight of him in that camel’s-hair coat. Harry
Horseshit, I thought. That was what we used to call a guy who
thought he was smooth with the ladies. Anybody who wore a
camel’s-hair overcoat, with a camel’s-hair belt and fake diamond
cuff links, was automatically Harry Horseshit.
But this guy, I knew, was the real deal. He was standing with a
shorter, older fellow, and when he saw Sonny, he waved us over. We
crossed the street. I was amazed all over again when I saw how
good-looking he was–long, rugged face; great profile; thick, dark
brows and eyelashes. And a suntan in March! How’d he manage that? I
could see he had kind of a twinkle as he talked to the older guy.
Charisma is a word I would learn later. All I knew then was that I
couldn’t take my eyes off Sonny’s pal.
“Hey, Dino!” Sonny said as we came up to them. “How ya doin’,
Lou?” he said to the older man.
Lou, it turned out, was Lou Perry, Dean’s manager. He looked like
a manager: short, thin-lipped, cool-eyed. Sonny introduced me, and
Perry glanced at me without much interest. But Sonny looked
excited. He turned to his camel-coated friend. “Dino,” Sonny said,
“I want you to meet a very funny kid, Jerry Lewis.”
Camel-Coat smiled warmly and put out his hand. I took it. It was
a big hand, strong, but he didn’t go overboard with the grip. I
liked that. I liked him, instantly. And he looked genuinely glad to
meet me.
“Kid,” Sonny said–Sonny called me Kid the first time he ever met
me, and he would still call me Kid in Vegas fifty years later–“this
is Dean Martin. Sings even better than me.”
That was Sonny, fun and games. Of course, he had zero idea that
he was introducing me to one of the great comic talents of our
time. I cer?tainly had no idea of that, either–nor, for that
matter, did Dean. At that moment, at the end of World War II, we
were just two guys struggling to make it in show business, shaking
hands on a busy Broadway street corner.
We made a little chitchat. “You workin’?” I asked.
He smiled that million-dollar smile. Now that I looked at him
close up, I could see the faint outline of a healing surgical cut
on the bridge of his nose. Some plastic surgeon had done great
work. “Oh, this ‘n’ that, you know,” Dean said. “I’m on WMCA radio,
sustaining. No bucks, just room.” He had a mellow, lazy voice, with
a slightly Southern lilt to it. He sounded like he didn’t have a
care in the world, like he was knockin’ ’em dead wherever he went.
I believed it. Little did I know that he was hip-deep in debt to
Perry and several other managers besides.
“How ’bout you?” Dean asked me.
I nodded, quickly. I suddenly wanted, very badly, to impress this
man. “I’m just now finishing my eighth week at the Glass Hat,” I
said. “In the Belmont Plaza.”
“Really? I live there,” Dean said.
“At the Glass Hat?”
“No, at the Belmont. It’s part of my radio deal.”
Just at that moment, a beautiful brunette walked by, in a coat
with a fur-trimmed collar. Dean lowered his eyelids slightly and
flashed her that grin–and damned if she didn’t smile right back!
How come I never got that reaction? She gave him a lingering gaze
over her shoulder as she passed, a clear invitation, and Dean shook
his head, smiling his regrets.
“Look at this guy,” Sonny said in his hoarse Brooklyn accent.
“He’s got pussy radar!”
One look at Sonny’s eyes was enough to tell me that he idolized
Dean–whose attention, all at once, I felt anxious to get back. “You
ever go to Leon and Eddie’s?” I asked, my voice sounding even
higher and squeakier than its usual high and squeaky. Leon and
Eddie’s was a restaurant and nightclub a couple of blocks away, on
fabulous Fifty-second Street–which, in those days, was lined with
restaurants and former speakeasies, like “21,” and music clubs like
the Five Spot and Birdland. Live entertainment still ruled America
in those pretelevi?sion days, Manhattan was the world capital of
nightclubs, and Leon and Eddie’s was a mecca for nightclub comics.
Sunday night was Celebrity Night: The fun would start after hours,
when anybody in the business might show up and get on to do a piece
of their act. You’d see the likes of Milton Berle, Henny Youngman,
Danny Kaye. It was magical. I used to go and gawk, like a kid in a
candy store. Someday, I thought. . . . But for now, no chance.
They’d never use a dumb act–one needing props, yet.
“Yeah, sometimes I stop by Sunday nights,” Dean said.
“Me too!” I cried.
He gave me that smile again–warm but ever so slightly cool around
the edges. It bathed you in its glow, yet didn’t let you in. Men
don’t like to admit it, but there’s something about a truly
handsome guy who also happens to be truly masculine–what they call
a man’s man–that’s as magnetic to us as it is to women. That’s what
I want to be like, you think. Maybe if I hang around with him, some
of that’ll rub off on me.
“So–maybe I’ll see you there sometime,” Dean told me.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Go get your tux out of hock,” he said.
I laughed. He was funny.
***
Sonny King was a pal, but not a friend. I badly needed a friend.
I was a lonely kid, the only child of two vaudevillians who were
rarely around. My dad, Danny, was a singer and all-around
ent...
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媒体评论
“This is a wild, joyous book, but also a heartbreaking one. In
some ways, friendships between men can be more fragile than those
between women, something Lewis grasps intuitively. What kind of guy
laughs when you upstage his crooning with a piece of raw meat on a
fork? Whoever he is, you’d better hang onto him: he’s probably the
best friend you’ll ever have.”
—Stephanie Zacharek, The New York Times
They were the unlikeliest of pairs — a handsome crooner and a
skinny monkey, an Italian from Steubenville, Ohio, and a Jew from
Newark. But from the moment they got together, something clicked —
something miraculous — and audiences saw it at once. Martin and
Lewis were a national craze—an American institution. Then on July
25, 1956, ten years to the day after the two men joined forces, it
all ended. Their parting left a hole in the national psyche, as
well as each man’s heart.
“A perceptive and entertaining showbiz memoir that should become
a classic of its kind . . .”
—Bruce Handy, Vanity Fair
“a classic”
—Vanity Fair
书籍介绍
They were the unlikeliest of pairs—a handsome crooner and a skinny monkey, an Italian from Steubenville, Ohio, and a Jew from Newark, N.J.. Before they teamed up, Dean Martin seemed destined for a mediocre career as a nightclub singer, and Jerry Lewis was dressing up as Carmen Miranda and miming records on stage. But the moment they got together, something clicked—something miraculous—and audiences saw it at once.
Before long, they were as big as Elvis or the Beatles would be after them, creating hysteria wherever they went and grabbing an unprecedented hold over every entertainment outlet of the era: radio, television, movies, stage shows, and nightclubs. Martin and Lewis were a national craze, an American institution. The millions (and the women) flowed in, seemingly without end—and then, on July 24, 1956, ten years from the day when the two men joined forces, it all ended.
After that traumatic day, the two wouldn’t speak again for twenty years. And while both went on to forge triumphant individual careers—Martin as a movie and television star, recording artist, and nightclub luminary (and charter member of the Rat Pack); Lewis as the groundbreaking writer, producer, director, and star of a series of hugely successful movie comedies—their parting left a hole in the national psyche, as well as in each man’s heart.
In a memoir by turns moving, tragic, and hilarious, Jerry Lewis recounts with crystal clarity every step of a fifty-year friendship, from the springtime, 1945 afternoon when the two vibrant young performers destined to conquer the world together met on Broadway and Fifty-fourth Street, to their tragic final encounter in the 1990s, when Lewis and his wife ran into Dean Martin, a broken and haunted old man.
In Dean & Me , Jerry Lewis makes a convincing case for Dean Martin as one of the great—and most underrated—comic talents of our era. But what comes across most powerfully in this definitive memoir is the depth of love Lewis felt, and still feels, for his partner, and which his partner felt for him: truly a love to last for all time.
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