DEAN AND ME(I***N=9780767920872) 英文原版 pdf 下载 极速 mobi txt pdb lrf 网盘

　　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 medi*** 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 milli***

(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 f***e 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

*** 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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　　JERRY LEWIS and Dean Martin sandwiched sixteen money-***

films in between nightclub engagements, recording sessi***, 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 s***.

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　　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 ***y 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 explosi***, 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 *** dogs; and, most thrilling of all,

the perfumes of beautiful women. Midtown was swarming with g***eous

gals! Secretaries, career girls, society broads with little

pooches–they all ***d 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 fo***hat 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 ***el 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 ***el. 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 ***ed 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 *** 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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　　“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 gr***s 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 *** 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 medi*** 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 milli*** (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 f***e 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 *** 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.