Free Dean and Me: A Love Story by James Kaplan, Jerry Lewis Page A

Fantasyland when the two of us were ushered onto the Paramount lot for our initial meetings with studio brass and our director-to-be, George Marshall. Mr. Marshall, who had directed W. C. Fields in
You Can’t Cheat an Honest Man
and Bob Hope in
Monsieur Beaucaire
, was not only a terrific filmmaker but a wonderful person (and, ultimately, a dear friend and confidant). He was to direct us in our screen test first thing the next morning.
    The 5:30 A.M. wake-up call came as something of a shock: Normally, that hour was one my partner and I only saw when we were turning in! For the first time, we began to realize what moviemaking held in store for us. Shooting generally begins around nine in the morning, but with travel, breakfast, makeup, and wardrobe, you’d better get rolling at half past five or you’ll have a couple of dozen people understandably pissed. So we learned right away that being on time was a top priority.
    We sat down in canvas director’s chairs, and a crafts-service gentleman gave us coffee. At about five after nine, George Marshall and his assistant director walked onto Stage 9, along with Marie Wilson and Diana Lynn. Introductions all around—matter-of-fact for Marie and Diana, not so for Dean and me. My God, we had seen them on the huge screen at the Paramount in New York, and here we were standing next to them, getting ready to
act
. To be
directed
. Two little things we’d never done before.
    Neither Dean nor I knew anything about Mr. Marshall’s career. And “Mr. Marshall” was what everyone called him—until you knew him much, much better, and then it was “Bones.” That was the nickname for anyone who had
funny bones
: a deep-down, world-class sense of humor, the kind you’re born with, the kind that can never be learned. George Marshall had the funny bones of Laurel and Hardy—in fact, he had directed some of their earliest work, which I didn’t learn until much later. Had I known that morning, I’d have died from fear.
    The set was Irma’s apartment. Dean was up first, to play a scene with Diana Lynn as Jane’s boyfriend Steve, an aspiring singer. Paramount had signed Diana to replace the woman who’d played Irma’s sidekick on the radio, feeling that as a known box-office quantity, she might sell a few more tickets. The studio was certainly still unsure that Martin and Lewis would mean anything on the big screen. This test was supposed to give them a clue.
    In Dean’s scene, he was to ask Diana’s character to please understand that he couldn’t just get a job—that he loved singing, that was his life. She was to ask him why he couldn’t do both: “Sing
and
work like a regular person.”
    The scene went very well: Dean was terrific for his first time. In fact, most of the crew and people around the set that morning were a bit surprised, as was I, at how comfortable he looked doing the scene, how relaxed. The camera doesn’t lie. It takes what you give it—no more, and very often a little less. Dean was my hero that morning: He was giving me a leg up (I thought) on being a movie star. Everybody was ecstatic, and before we knew it, it was time for lunch.
    I was to do my test after we ate. I’ve never been less hungry in my life.
    Oh, well—off to the Paramount commissary. Pauline Kessinger, head of the commissary and a power broker in her own right (imagine the world’s most exclusive restaurant—seating is everything), gave us a big greeting at the door and steered us toward a good table. Herb Steinberg, head of the P.R. department, had publicity stills taken of us as we entered. Then we sat down. If you craned your neck, you could see Cecil B. DeMille and his entourage at his huge table in the back. As Dean and I ordered our lunch, we stared around the place, trying to see everyone. (A couple of weeks in, after we got comfortable at the studio, we’d be treating the place the same way we treated any nightclub we played— breaking up the joint.) We spotted Bing Crosby,