Despite being one of the most loathed figures in Hollywood history, when Harry Cohn, head of Columbia Pictures, died in 1958, his memorial service was filled to the rafters. Observing the crowd, the late comedian Red Skelton famously remarked, “Well, it proves what Harry always said: ‘Give the public what they want, and they’ll come out for it.’”
Skelton’s comment was made in jest, but what was true then is doubly so now: When a Hollywood dignitary passes away, he or she doesn’t go down without playing it up to the hilt. Indeed, Tinseltown memorial services—not to be confused with more somber funerals—are often as well choreographed as major movie premieres. Guest lists are meticulously curated; VIP sections are roped off; commemorative ads are taken out in Variety; “talent” is lined up. The result, according to former Paramount chairwoman Sherry Lansing, is entertainment worthy of an admission price. “Because of the unique talents of the people involved, there’s often great humor,” she says.
Lansing recounts when, in 1981, at the memorial for television and screen writer Paddy Chayefsky, Bob Fosse got up and explained that he and Chayefsky had a dare about what each man would do at the other’s memorial. Fosse then rose to the challenge by executing a flawless soft-shoe shuffle.
Not to say that death is taken lightly on the Left Coast, but putting on a show, after all, is what this town does for a living. “It’s easier to focus on a memorial than a funeral, because I have my feet planted in the world of show business. I know what I’m doing,” says Lorne Michaels, the producer of Saturday Night Live, who last August, with Paramount chairman Brad Grey, organized the much talked-about memorial service for legendary manager and producer Bernie Brillstein. According to one celebrity publicist, the event—which was held in UCLA’s Royce Hall and drew a crowd of 1,200—quickly became an It invite and the cause of many “fluttering e-mails” asking, “How do I get a parking pass at UCLA? Is there a reception? Is there a VIP section?”
Among Brillstein’s clients were Martin Short and Jim Henson. Michaels, also a longtime client, says that his first thought in planning the service was, “The Muppets should close, and Marty has to open.” As predicted, both delivered. Kermit the Frog’s closing words, “Bye, Bernie,” said with the Muppet’s characteristic soulful humility, after he’d warbled through a rendition of “The Rainbow Connection,” were the perfect ending to a show that combined poignant memories from Dan Aykroyd, David Spade, Rob Lowe and Jon Lovitz, among others, with Friar’s Club–like wit.
Grey, too, brought down the house when he told the story of how, a few days before Brillstein was to be buried, his widow, Carrie, called Grey in a panic. The cemetery, she told Grey, was “sold out,” meaning its burial schedule was booked solid. Grey, a past partner of Brillstein’s, did what any former manager would do: He made some calls, the first of which was to Michaels, who told him, “Well, bump someone.”
