Andy, January 17. He was going to play Kaufman come hell or high water, and now he was calling me.
B: Hello?
J: Hi, Bob, it’s Jim Carrey.
B: Jim. How are you?
J: Fantastic. You probably can guess why I’m calling you. I made the audition tape and before I embarrass myself and show it to Milos, I wondered if you could come and take a look at it.
B: I’d be happy to. [I wasn’t happy at all about wanting to see it.] When?
J: How about right now?
B: NOW!?!
J: Yeah, if that’s OK.
B: Yeah, sure. What’s your address?
On my way out to Brentwood, I kept saying to myself, “No matter how good it is, don’t say anything that he could take to the bank”—i.e., don’t say, “That’s great.” Say something like, “Very interesting.” Remember, I didn’t want him. I wanted Nic Cage for the role.
Jim’s house in Brentwood is fab-u-lous! Although modest by movie-star standards, Jim’s digs made my humble home in Burbank look like a hovel. Jim greeted me at the front door. We walked through his house out into a back yard that had one of the best swimming pools I’ve ever seen, designed out of natural rock. It had a waterfall pool on a top level that also served as a Jacuzzi that cascaded into the main pool. Off the pool was a pool house that housed a bar and various arcade games.
He led me into another building that was his own movie theater. Jim’s costumes from all his films (Ace Ventura, The Mask, The Riddler from Batman Forever, The Cable Guy) lined the walls, sealed behind Plexiglas. The room was designed to impress and it did. Besides hiring a projectionist just for me, he had a fully stocked concession stand with everything your tummy could desire: candy bars, popcorn, soda, ice cream, etc. Jim said, “Bob, excuse me, but I have about ten minutes of phone calls to finish up. Then I’ll be back with my audition tape. Help yourself.”
He pointed to the candy counter and left. As soon as he was out of sight, I greedily started filling my pockets with SweeTarts, M&Ms, licorice, Nestlé Crunch, Butterfingers—you name it. I figured I might as well stock up—I’d never hear from Jim Carrey after today. I was going with Nic Cage.
With pockets bulging with goodies, I nestled into my cozy theater chair, my buttered popcorn and Coke overflowing onto the thick-carpeted floor, waiting for Jim to return with the “audition tape.” Jim had playing on the large screen old clips of Andy on Taxi and SNL. I stared at the real Andy Kaufman and thought how surreal this whole experience was and wondered if Andy was going to forget his thirty-year deadline, cut it short, and show up at the premiere. For all I knew, perhaps Andy was already sequestered away somewhere on Jim’s palatial estate.
Ten minutes later, as promised, Jim walked back in, carrying a small brown paper bag. He stood next to me and said, “And now for my audition tape.” Next, he reached inside the bag, fishing around for something. A puzzled look came upon his face, as if it was lost. And then he violently tore the bag open and started laughing like a mad man. It was empty. His laughter grew, to me, more sinister and in the dark theater, with only him and me, I got creeped out. I thought, “Who’s to say a movie star couldn’t also be a serial killer?” Then in a grand gesture, he pointed to the movie screen. The old clip was of Andy playing the congas on SNL, and he said, “So, what do you think of my audition tape?” At first, I hadn’t a clue what he meant. And then it hit me: Oh my God, that wasn’t an old clip of Andy on SNL. It was Jim. I had been watching the clip from SNL for five minutes and just assumed it was Andy. Instead, it was Jim, and he nailed it.
Get this: He had his buddy, director Judd Apatow, shoot the scene. They rented a studio and matched up the SNL set to a T. Jim had even taken conga lessons four times a week for three weeks just to learn how to play them for the “audition tape.” He hadn’t even been given the role yet. That’s Jim Carrey. When he wants something, he goes for it full steam. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe he had bamboozled me and in such a Kaufmanesque style. I must admit my eyes moistened as I watched my best friend come alive through the talent of Jim Carrey. I told him right then and there, “As far as I’m concerned, you got the role.” A broad smile appeared on his face. He knew he had it anyway. I would find out later Jim’s like that. He knows what he wants, goes for it, and gets it every time. He’s the second-most driven person I’ve ever encountered in my life, the first being Andy, of course.
I didn’t hang around for long now that he had sold me on his performance. I refilled my pockets with goodies and left. He was ready for stage two. As soon as I drove off the property, he must have had four deliverymen on motorcycles with audition tapes in hand peel out and scatter in all directions:
1. To Milos, staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel
2. To Ron Meyer and Stacey Snider, executives at Universal Studios
3. To Michael Shamberg and Stacey Sher at Jersey Films
4. To Danny DeVito’s house in Malibu
By the time I got back to my shithole in Burbank, there were already three messages on my machine from irritated executives who lambasted me for telling Jim he had the role. He had obviously called them. Ten minutes later (after they too had viewed the tape), they all called back and apologized: “Of course he has the role.” He was Andy Kaufman. Fuck Nic Cage. I never called him back. I was as bad as DeVito was about returning phone calls.
Now here’s the punch of all punches: A year later, when the film was shot, edited, and presented, I was at the opening-night premiere. There was a grand party afterwards, and as I was consuming my alcoholic beverage of choice at the bar, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Lo and behold, it was Nicolas Cage. Before I had a chance to tense up—after all, I’d stopped returning his calls—he immediately put me at ease and said, “Bob, it’s OK. I couldn’t have done what Jim did. He was fucking great.” We shared more than a few cocktails, and as it turned out he and Jim had been close friends for years. Then I asked him, “Nic, why didn’t you make that audition tape?” “Oh yes, the audition tape. Well, the reason I didn’t make the audition tape was because my good buddy, Jim Carrey, told me, ‘Guys in our position shouldn’t make audition tapes.’” Then he broke into uproarious laughter. I just shook my head and smiled: Jim Carrey. I rest my case.
Now that Jim was cast, Universal left it to me to choose who should play me, although I did consider their suggestions. On the top of the list were Philip Seymour Hoffman and Paul Giamatti.
One Saturday night, I received this bizarre phone call from Milos at 3:00 a.m., telling me he had found the perfect person to play me: GARTH BROOKS! I was in shock. “Garth Brooks, the country western singer? Milos, he isn’t even an actor.” Milos informed me that Garth had hosted SNL that evening. Milos watched it and said the guy was terrific. Come Monday, I got a tape of the show and sure enough, Garth held his own with the Not Ready For Prime Time Players. And “Bob Zmuda played by Garth Brooks” sounded crazy enough to work. If not, at least I might get laid in Oklahoma.
Messages were sent back and forth between Garth’s people and Milos. Did Garth understand that besides playing me, he also had to play Tony Clifton, Andy Kaufman’s alter ego, just as I had done for Andy over the years? Brooks understood. In fact, he wanted the role so badly, I was told he canceled one of his sold-out concerts on a Saturday to fly to LA and have dinner with Milos. Much to Milos’s surprise, he walked into the restaurant dressed like and doing a spot-on impression of Tony Clifton. Milos loved it and wanted to give him the role, but at the last minute, Brooks’s agency had
