A death unforseen is never welcome, but when one occurs in the midst of producing a major television special, it can be devestating. Here are two instances where Bob Hope was blind sided.
One Fall during the early eighties, we taped a Halloween special at the NBC studios in Burbank. The show’s final segment, a sketch we had written parodying the popular sitcom “Cheers,” featured an actress named Cassandra Peterson who had become well known as a Charles Addams like character named Elvira.
In our sketch, Cassandra entered the bar (an exact replica of the set used on the sitcom) and approached Hope, drying glasses behind the bar in his role as “Coach.” She looked him up and down, and said “Nice costume. Who’s you’re undertaker?” Hope, of course, had some equally insulting response and the verbal jousting match was on. After the sketch was approved next day by Hope, it was included with all the footage we had already shot. The master was sent by satellite to New York from whence it was scheduled to air the following Sunday.
On Friday evening, Nick Callesandro, the actor who played “Coach” on Cheers, suffered a massive heart attack at his home in Burbank and was rushed to the ER at Saint Joseph’s Hospital where he was pronounced dead. Minutes after the grim news was broadcast, my phone rang. It was Hope with instructions to call the writers and have them begin working on a replacement line that could be dubbed onto the master tape. In the meantime, he said, he would notify Cassandra to meet us at the sound studio in Hollywood for the emergency-looping session.
The line we were to come up with not only had to make sense in the context of the sketch, but it also had to match as closely as possible the actress’s lip movements. We tried five or six replacements until everyone settled on “Nice job. Did your makeup man quit?”
The syllables matched perfectly and even on a large studio monitor, it was virtually indistinguishable from the original. It was only six syllables, true , but Hope had gone to the trouble and
expense of changing them, knowing that failure to do so would make him appear crass and unfeeling to many viewers unaware that segments of so-called “live” shows are often taped well in advance. The show aired with a short remembrance of Nick Calesandro inserted into the final credits. No one (until now) was aware of what had happened behind-the-scenes as a result of the unexpected death.
But “catastrophic” best describes the result of the second death which precipitated by far the most ill-fated special Hope produced during my tenure. The program was taped before Sweden’s King Carl Gustav and Queen Sylvia in February 1986. Hope had agreed to emcee the black-tie gala entitled Bob Hope’s Royal Command Performance from Sweden the proceeds of which would go to the king’s favorite charity, the Children’s International Summer Village.
But even before the Scandinavian Airlines 747 had been loaded with our luggage at LAX, the hex kicked in. As my writing partner Gene Perret and I sat in the executive lounge putting the finishing touches on a Viking sketch we were confident would have the Swedes in hysterics from Goteborg to Lapland, producers Elliott Kozak and Dick Arlett came in and hit us between the eyes with the news that Sweden’s Prime Minister, Olaf Palme, had just been assassinated while walking his dog on a Stockholm street.
The room fell silent. Glen Campbell, who had been sitting across from us noodling a few licks, put down his guitar and stared ahead blankly. Only moments before, we had entered the lounge filled withexcited anticipation of what promised to be a fun-filled and interesting journey to a land few of us had visited. Two other guests who were scheduled to appear on the show, Shirley Jones and Emanuel Lewis, looked on in shock as transatlantic phone calls were hurriedly put through to decide if the show would be canceled. Our departure was pushed ahead an hour while we all sat biting our collective show business fingernails.
Shortly, word arrived directly from the palace — since preparations for the gala were set and invitations sent out, postponing the performance, ruled the monarch, would cause world-class headaches all around. The show, as they say, must go on. Where this old saw originated, I have no idea, but there are instances where it flies in the face of common sense, and this was, undoubtedly, one of them. Picture, if you will, taping the Colgate Comedy Hour just three days following the death of John Kennedy. Same problem — similar reaction. The entire Swedish nation had been plunged into mourning. On our drive from the airport, we could see people lining the street, carrying candles and placing bouquets of flowers at the spot on the frozen sidewalk where the popular prime minister had fallen.
A leaden pall hung over the capital — literally and figuratively. Ships in the harbor stood at anchor, rigid and icebound — prisoners of a climate that almost half the year chills the bones and, one suspects, is no small contributor to the highest suicide rate in all of Scandinavia. But forget all that. The assembled glitterati applauded dutifully as the king and queen were escorted to the royal box. The show began with a rambling, largely incomprehensible introduction of Hope by Swedish actress Liv Ullman. It was obvious that she would have preferred being somewhere else, and who wouldn’t?
Hope did his best to deliver his monologue, but had about as much luck getting laughs as an athiest at a Southern Baptist Convention. The evening’s slate of performers — Boy George and the Culture Club, Omar Sharif, Dolf Lundgren and Scott Grimes as well as Glen, Emanuel and Shirley — carried on like the pros they are, but the project was doomed from the start. It was like watching the lounge act on the Hindenburg. It was a wake with entertainment.
We had written a sketch that cast Hope and Emmanuel Lewis, dressed in reindeer pelts and horned helmets, as a pair of Vikings on their annual spring plunder. As Gene and I stood offstage, puzzled why our pillage jokes were drawing gasps, one of the Swedish technicians pointed out that we had named Hope’s character, Olaf. In the confusion, no one had caught what now appeared to be an insensitive joke. During a break, we told Hope what had happened and he immediately called a halt to the proceedings and apologized to the audience.
When our Swedish fiasco finally concluded and we were winging
home to a much warmer Los Angeles, I remember thinking back — I should have known from the start that the trip would turn out to be jinxed. Excited over my first junket to a Scandinavian country, I arrived at LAX without my passport!
A messenger from the Hope office was dispatched to deliver it, but to avoid a delayed departure, a representative from the airline soon arrived and announced that my California drivers license would do the trick! My passport would follow on the next flight — without me. I learned later that Sweden had waived their usual customs requirements because I was on a special assignment for the king! Proving once again that it helps when you’re employed by someone who’s close to kings.
