Originally published in New Times, January 1978. Reprinted here with the author's permission.
Martin Mull's manager has forgotten to make a reservation, so we stand in the entrance to the Universal commissary waiting for an empty table while stars like Lily Tomlin and Sly Stallone march past us to immediate seating. "I guess I'll have to do some speed eating," he says." "Just run my fingers over the food." Ten minutes into our wait, a departing couple approaches and hands Mull their lunch checks and a $10 bill. He politely explains that he is not the cashier. "When I met Martin Mull he was accepting cash and checks at the Universal commissary," he says wryly. "There's your opening line."
Through six years as a singer of loony tunes that found inspiration in the mundane ("Dancing in the Nude," "Noses Run in My Family") and earned him a diminutive but devoted following, Martin Mull maintained a mighty sense of self. If no one showed up at his gigs, it was their loss, not his. Out of a combination of defensiveness and egomania, he created a stage persona that exuded a smug arrogance totally out of proportion to the degree of success he had achieved—a character superficially similar to, but significantly smarter than, the one Steve Martin is currently overexposing. So when he was offered a part in Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, a show that exalted the banal, he certainly wasn't about to let his total lack of acting experience stand in the way.
In the role of wife-beating PR man Garth Gimble, Mull developed one of the most odious characters since Cagney smashed a grapefruit in Mae Clark's face in Public Enemy. The damage Garth inflicted on his wife, Patty, was psychically as well as physically brutal: for Christmas he gave her a mop and pail—early, so she'd have plenty of time to use them. When a shirt button came off, Garth insisted that Patty fix it before she left for work. While she was sewing, he strolled out of the bedroom fully dressed. "You wore another shirt!" she said, to which he ad-libbed condescendingly, "A topless executive, Patty? I think that's years away!" When Garth was impaled on an aluminum Christmas tree, he was mourned by no one but Mull fans.
Six months later Mull was back, hosting Norman Lear's talk-show parody, Fernwood 2-Night, as twin brother Barth Gimble, a small-time hustler who had fled Miami on a morals charge, then pointed out that he has "a pretty darn good case of entrapment." Barth Gimble was the perfect comic symbol for the seventies, a con man who revealed his ignorance even as he thought he was being incredibly hip. Here he is coming on to a nubile youngster who has been the spankee in a demonstration of corporeal punishment:
B: You have quite a talent there, Debbie. You know, we have "Rocket to Stardom" here on the show. Would you wanna be on that?
D: Well, the only thing I know how to do is sing our school song.
B: Sing! Perfect, you can come back and sing your school song. I love it.
D: It's in Latin.
B: OK. Latin music. You guys know Latin music, huh? (The band goes into a samba.) That's the stuff.
In the space of one year, Martin Mull brought to life two personalities who could be put into any situation and react true to character.
Martin Mull is almost famous. In the last few months he has done Merv, Dinah, Tom Snyder, the Rock Awards, Wonder Woman and Hollywood Squares. He is currently playing a disc jockey who gets laid on the air for in his first film, FM. (An appearance in Oh, God!, in which he briefly stepped in for John Denver—whom he has called "the Poland of music"—was cut from the final print.)
He is also finishing up work on his new album, I Haven't the Vegas Idea, and a best-of collection, No Hits, Four Errors, has just been released. Next month he begins taping 13 more weeks of Fernwood 2-Night for an early-April air date. Time said he has the best sense of timing "since Jack Benny passed age 39." Playboy wants him for the interview. So when, as he wolfed down his shrimp cocktail and beer before rushing back to the FM set, I told him that a random sample of 20 Californians turned up only five who knew who he was—plus one who thought he was "that guy who says 'Excuse me,' with the arrow in his head"— Martin Mull laughed. "That's terrific," he said. "When I walked into the house last night, everyone knew me."
"Martin always had the demeanor of a star," says his manager, Larry Bresner. "He'd go out and buy $200 shoes when he couldn't pay the rent."
"We don't take on a lot of performances," he continues. "You can only handle so much, and you're really not interested in handling somebody who can't go to the full limit of their potential, because it's not fun. You book them into 50 dates a year and it's boring. With Marty, there's no such thing as boring. I've never met anybody that's got a brain that's full of more ideas. The man could be the number-one advertising executive in the country." (When Earth Shoes recently asked him to do an ad for them, Mull came up with "Shoes: Fetish or Necessity?")
"Martin is one of a kind," says Al Burton, one of Norman Lear's creative supervisors who caught Mull's show at the Roxy in Los Angeles and signed him for Mary Hartman. "He has this unique hateful quality while still being an appealing performer."
"Martin was a joy to work with," he adds. "He is one of the quickest-thinking wits since the old days of wits. The nuances that he got out of those lines were incredible. I know very few actors who can make a written word sound as if it's ad-libbed. I like Steve Martin, but I don't think I would have gone after him the way I went after Martin Mull."
In fact, Martin and Mull are good friends and have worked together on several projects. "There was a time when Martin and Steve seemed to osmose off of each other a little," says comedy writer Harry Shearer, whose credits include Fernwood 2-Night. "I think Steve picked up a little of Martin's arrogance, and I don't know what Martin picked up from Steve—three or four good lines probably. With Steve it's so obvious that he's putting it on, but with Martin it's a lot closer to home. You can never quite be sure whether he's doing a character or whether that's the guy, which is interesting."
Eugenie Ross-Leming, co-producer of Forever Fernwood, is another Mull fan. "The Garth character was so grim that it was really hard on Martin," she says. "The real tribute was that he carried it off." How he did it, though, she's not sure. "I don't know, maybe Martin's past is incredibly sordid and warped—we can hope."
Martin Mull was born in Chicago in 1943 and grew up in Ohio towns not unlike Fernwood. "Up until the age of 16, I was the same as Taft," he says. In 1959 the family moved to Connecticut, where Martin was the star place-kicker for the New Canaan High football team. He went on to become an honor student at the Rhode Island School of Design and receive a Master's degree in painting in 1967. That same year, he made his acting debut before the Providence draft board.
Slicking his hair back with Vaseline and sporting a lumberjack shirt several sizes too small, Mull prepared a lunch of carrots, celery and a tuna fish sandwich. Each carrot stick and celery strip was individually wrapped in aluminum foil, as was the lump of tuna fish and each slice of bread. He carried it in an oversized grocery bag with his name scribbled all over. He claimed membership in every Communist group he'd ever heard of. After his hearing test, he pretended to be locked in the booth. When the psychiatrist asked him what he thought of the draft, Mull, chewing on his hand all the while, said, "Well, actually, I think it's sort of chilly in here. Would you mind closing the window?" The Army brought on the hook.
By this time Mull's interests were divided between art and music. He joined a conceptual-art group whose most notorious project was Flush with the Walls (Or, I'll Be Art in a Minute), a 1971 exhibition in the men's room of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
"We wanted to have a show at the museum," he says. "But generally you had to be dead to be chosen. This was a price we didn't really want to pay. So at 8 p.m. sharp, six of us, women as well as men, went in there and put up our work with masking tape while there were still people in there using it. In a matter of minutes we had over 300 people in the men's room, including film crews for the 11 o'clock news. It was a terrific success."
The following year, The Umbrellas of Pitchburg (mais oui serve vous) was sponsored by the Boston Institute of Contemporary Art. The show consisted of hors d'oeuvres in the shapes of great works of 20th-century art, such as "Picasso on Rye," which were eaten by the guests. (One doggie bag remained for years in the Institute's freezer.)
Mull continued to produce his Fantasia-esque paintings, and was making some money—"I priced them very much like merchandise," he says. "It wouldn't be $500, it would be $499.99."—but his career as a musician began to take up more of his time. In his senior year at RISD, Mull had formed a group called Soup, a band remembered less for its musical abilities than for its demented stage show. Mull, in a chef's hat, was Captain Soup; the other costumes ranged from pajamas to a giant cigarette carton. The group recorded one unmemorable album before disbanding.
After getting his degree, Mull moved to Boston, where he lived in a basement apartment while working at a small recording studio. He was writing songs and thinking seriously about performing. When he married artist Kristin Johnson in 1970 (they are currently getting a divorce), he quit his job, collected unemployment and hired a manager with a special talent for securing nonpaying bookings.
"We had no money," Kristin recalls. "Martin had to take public transportation to the gigs carrying his guitar, and not get paid, and play to an empty house. But he has a very large ego, and that sustained him for a long time."
His songs would take a bizarre premise (What if I married a midget?) and extrapolate the logical results ("Walking hand and ankle/she's got her arm around my sock"). They were strange but basically sweet—when he poked fun at something, it was good-natured. But when he began performing, another character developed between the songs, a character from which Barth and Gimble is a direct descendent. "I first started making music during the folk music scare of the sixties," he says, "and I always felt that messages should be sent by Western Union, not by music. I would get in front of the audience and try to play these little alternative songs, and they'd look at me like I was half-baked. So I realized I'd have to introduce the tunes, and my tongue sort of went into my cheek, because that's who I am. And out of that, certain things got great laughs and cumulatively built into an act."
The laughs came at the audience's expense. If they couldn't appreciate a song like "Partly Marion" ("She was only 17/when she cut them off in the washing machine/she just reached for the wringer/and zap went the fingers/it was no consolation that they come off so clean"), it was their fault.
"Initially it was defensive," he says. "I'd been told for years by my folks that I could not sing, and that's quite a lot, to go on stage doing something you've been told you cannot do."
He signed a contract with Capricorn Records and was soon on the road more that he was home. Then came Martin Mull and his Fabulous Furniture. "Standing up there in front of a stack of amps wasn't really satisfying," he says. "And when I'd sit around my living room and play with some friends, that did seem satisfying. I thought, 'Maybe the catalyst here is furniture,' so I figured, why not try it? It made me feel more at home, which would make the audience feel more at home. So I brought my home. It was literally my real furniture." When he couldn't schlep his own things, he rented old tables, chairs and lamps from local Salvation Armies.
The Mulls were then living in New York on Riverside Drive, and Martin's career began putting a strain on the marriage. "He demanded an audience no matter where he was," says Kristin. "Even if it was just me and him. It was, 'Listen to this, no, wait, listen to this, what do you think of this?' If there were more people, eventually we'd just be sitting around listening to Martin's tunes. At one point I told him, 'Martin, we're living in a two-bedroom apartment and you've got a six-bedroom ego. I feel crowded.' But I think that's why he's where he is now, because he's so proud of what he does."
Mull recorded four albums for Capricorn, and although he became close to the president of the company, Phil Walden, Mull claims the label had no idea how to market them. ("They were putting them out in fields and hoping people would find them," he says) He had one near-hit, a single called "Dueling Tubas," the Deliverance theme hilariously rendered by out-of-tune tubas. He was working steadily at colleges and clubs like the Boarding House—San Francisco and Boston have always been his best markets. But he wasn't making any money, until he signed with Rollins & Joffe, the firm which also manages Woody Allen and Robert Klein.
"At that time he was traveling around with tap-dancers, a band, horns, craziness," recalls Larry Bresner. "We could always get him work, but if he was getting paid $2,000, it cost him $4,000 to do it. We insisted on getting rid of everybody in the band. That wasn't Martin Mull. Martin Mull was what he did sitting in a chair. The whole key was being able to expose him on a mass level."
Mass level equals television. Mull did a couple of Cher shows and was offered the position of band leader on Saturday Night. "At that point, I didn't feel it was quite enough for me to do, to sit there and say two or three lines a night," he says, and turned it down. That may be one reason he has never been asked to host the show; another is more obvious.
A few years ago, Mull went to see the National Lampoon Show in New York. He sat right up front and talked with his friend, Peter Boyle, throughout the performance. When he went backstage afterward to congratulate the cast (which included John Belushi, Gilda Radner and Bill Murray), Murray went berserk. He grabbed Mull around the neck and tried to choke him, screaming, "I'LL KILL HIM, I'LL KILL THAT FUCKER, HE TALKED THROUGH THE WHOLE THING, I HATE HIM!"
"As I recall, Bill had to be restrained by John Belushi," says Michael O'Donoghue, who worked with Mull on an aborted project titled Lincoln: The Man, the Car and the Tunnel. "When Martin left the dressing room, Billy kept screaming after him, 'Medium talent! Medium talent!' Of such things show business legends are made."
"I feel very bad about that show," says Mull. "I'd had a bit to drink" (he doesn't smoke grass), "and quite frankly, it was more amusing at that point to talk to Peter, whom I hadn't seen in a long time. I confess to having been extremely rude, though not quite as rude as Bill Murray trying to strangle me afterward."
Then came Mary Hartman. "I thought they hired me because I was a comedian," Mull says. "I was kind of surprised when all of a sudden we got all this Virginia Woolfish high drama. I didn't like the character at all. I don't care for violence, and wife beating is particularly repugnant to me, so it was quite hard."
When Garth was killed off, the plan was to bring Mull back as a twin brother later in the season. But Al Burton saw him as the ideal host for Fernwood 2-Night. Norman Lear, however, had never seen Mull's stage act, so a special night at the Roxy was arranged. In the middle of his act, Martin stopped and said, "Well, Norman, do I have the job?" He did.
Fernwood 2-Night was the perfect vehicle for Mull; he had been playing Barth Gimble since the first time he appeared on stage. The character incorporated some of the most basic comic schticks: the classic Gleason/Carney relationship between Barth and Jerry Hubbard (brilliantly played by Fred Willard, of the Ace Trucking Company), the exaggerated exasperation of Jack Benny, and the disgusted stare of Oliver Hardy, as lifted by Johnny Carson. (How long can it be before Mull is perceived as the obvious successor to Carson?)
"Martin was the one who realized that the show had to be more real," says Harry Shearer, "as opposed to just raiding the files of topics taboo for TV. There was one meeting where one of Norman Lear's vice-presidential flunkies said, 'This reality shit is OK for Andy Warhol, but we're doing TV.' That was what he was up against."
"What we didn't do, that a lot of television does do," says Mull proudly, "is we didn't say to ourselves, 'Whoops, we're missing the dumb-belt contingent, we better make sure we have more tits and ass, or more fart jokes.' Occasionally I thought I would get extremely antsy because I thought some of the acts were a little bit toward a Gong Show kind of thing, and to me, you don't have to have a grandmother who plays the tuba and tap-dances at the same time—that's not funny to me, because it's a reach. To me, just having a grandmother, period, come on and talk about her grandchildren and show photos is much funnier. It's not as obvious."
What is obvious is the appeal of the concept to Mull. Like his songs, the show started with one absurd premise—what if the town of Fernwood decided to produce its own talk show—and took the idea to its limits.
So if you'll beg my pardon
I'm goin' out and start a garden
It'll just be small potatoes
Just some lettuce and tomatoes
And if either one comes up, we'll joint the Grange
What say you and I get normal for a change.
Martin Mull's garden is a small sod lawn that cost only $38. ("It's just back from the cleaners," he says.) It is in back of the modest Malibu house he shares with his new love, Fernwood costume designer Sandra Baker, her two children and two dogs; the beach is a few hundred feet away. He clearly enjoys being normal for a change.
It's 80 degrees out in the yard, but Martin is wearing brown pants, a green turtleneck and a tan jacket with a "Bah! Humbug!" button, in preparation for a photo shoot for the cover of the Christmas issue of Ampersand, a college monthly.
"Did you hear about the three Polacks who froze to death at a drive-in?" he asks. "They went to see Closed for the Season."
His manager calls to discuss a possible book deal. "If it works out," he says, "I'll be limited to books, records, TV, movies, live performances and art."
Martin is not above poking fun at himself—the cover of his latest album for ABC, I'm Everyone I've Ever Loved, shows him reclining on a couch gazing lovingly into a hand mirror, surrounded by signed photographs of himself. He is trying to get his stage persona more in sync with his private one, which he observes, "would not totally remove the smug arrogance."
He is excited about the return of Fernwood 2-Night, mainly because the show allows him so much creative freedom. "I'm lucky," he says. "The stuff that makes me happy has enough in common with enough people that it can become a commodity. There are a lot of people who, given compete license, can have the time of their life and have the communication of a rock."
The Norman Lear organization is talking about a network sit-com after Fernwood runs its course. "I would have to have enough control over the thing that it wouldn't compromise me," he says. "I'm still very young, I'm still looking forward to making money, as opposed to trying to maintain some sort of lifestyle by selling out." His managers want him to come up with a screenplay that he could direct and star in.
"What I really want to do with my life," he says, "is take Sandra and the family to the south of France, fins a little château, set up the easel and paint."
Martin Mull is a lucky man. He is getting paid for being funny, which is like a "normal" person getting paid for breathing. He is at last getting the recognition which, in his own words, he has so desperately deserved. He is unlikely to be spoiled by success—he's been ready for it for too long.
Two women come by to shoot the photo. He walks over to the outdoor fireplace. "I could be hanging up a pair of panty hose and hoping that Santa fills 'em with the proper item," he suggests. They ask for a quote about Christmas. "I'm very hard to buy for," Martin says. "Do you want a list of things? I think I should publish my sizes. Just a simple Christmas, and if all I receive is a Mercedes-Benz 280SL, hey, I was with my folks.
Paul Slansky is a regular contributor to The New Yorker. His work has also appeared in, among dozens of publications, The New York Observer, Spy, The New York Times Magazine, The New Republic, Newsweek, Esquire, Playboy, Rolling Stone, and The Soho News. He lives in Santa Monica, California.
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