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在他的新传记《[当凯撒为王]》（由舒肯出版社出版）中，大卫·马戈利克探讨了20世纪50年代的喜剧演员西德·凯撒（Sid Caesar）如何在电视这一新媒体中重塑了喜剧艺术。
阅读下面的节选，不要错过3月22日在《哥伦比亚广播公司周日早间新闻》中，莫·罗卡（Mo Rocca）对大卫·马戈利克的采访！
《当凯撒为王》（大卫·马戈利克著）
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弗雷德·艾伦（Fred Allen）——这位备受尊敬的广播幽默大师（也是凯撒和其他思考型喜剧演员的偶像）曾俏皮地说，电视被称为“媒体”，是因为上面没有什么东西是做得好的。但艾伦对凯撒例外。他住在国际剧院附近，经常顺道去看彩排。《科利尔杂志》（Collier’s）指出：“一个不经意的观察者可能会认为，大师艾伦是来指导学徒凯撒的。实际上，情况正好相反。艾伦当时正在筹备他的第一个电视节目，是他来向凯撒学习的。”
没过多久，凯撒就后悔当初接受了帕特·韦弗（Pat Weaver）提供的整整90分钟的时段。“那简直是浪费时间，”他称最后那段令人痛苦的半小时为“鸟儿也会觉得无聊的东西”。但正是在他最疲惫的时候，他也展现出了最具独创性、反思性、自传性和真诚的一面，与观众建立了深厚的联系，他对电视的独特适配性也因此变得最为明显。《每日指南针》（The Daily Compass）的吉恩·拉夫林（Jeanne Loughlin）评论道：“凯撒似乎是电视的理想喜剧演员。他那自然、敏捷的面部表情——在电视特写镜头中效果绝佳——在剧院舞台上可能会被忽视。他的喜剧素材主要来自对日常生活的敏锐观察，这对于电影来说可能不够夸张滑稽。在夜总会，他对一个普通人冒险经历的喜剧创作可能大部分都白费了。”但她指出，“在家里观看时，他的滑稽动作‘几乎完美无缺’。”
每一期节目开场都有印刷节目单上未提及的戏剧冲突。当凯撒介绍本周的客座主持人，或者试图介绍时，就会出现这种戏剧化的情况。当他第一次登台时——“女士们先生们，西德·凯撒！”随着《百老汇星光》（Stars over Broadway）的最后一个音符渐弱，播音员会这样大喊——他完全一本正经。他会用命令式的、几乎是专横的姿势举起手来，打断观众的掌声，这并非出于谦虚，而是因为掌声会延长他的痛苦。然后他会用一种做作的、演员式的、略带生硬的语气开始说话。尽管他极其讨厌（甚至禁止使用）提词卡——这些东西与真实性、自发性和与观众及其他表演者的连接性背道而驰——但他的声音听起来却像是在念提词卡。
“晚上好，女士们先生们，我是西德·凯撒，”他会说，仿佛在电台广播，而不是站在那里让全世界的人都能看到。“欢迎来到《你的演出秀》（Your Show of Shows）。”但这些话很少是这样说的。托尔金（Tolkin）曾收集了大约40种他们实际使用的不同开场方式，其中包括“Woolkim to the shoo”、“Wilcome to the shaw”、“Wulcum to da shee”。当介绍当晚的客座主持人时，凯撒的标准台词——正确的说法是“本周明星兼今晚主持人”——似乎是故意让他出错的。介绍嘉宾最新的履历也同样是一场煎熬。1951年10月介绍查尔登·海斯顿（Charlton Heston）时，他是这样说的：“我们今晚的明星刚刚完成了一部电影，他在其中与贝蒂·赫顿（Betty Hutton）小姐合演，这部电影是塞西尔·B·戴米尔（Cecil B. dePicture）执导的《世界上最大的秀》（The Greatest Show on Earth）。”说完后，凯撒会冲下台，表面上是去准备开场小品，但实际上是为了扮演另一个角色，而不是他自己。莱尼·里纳（Reiner）将这一切归咎于恐惧。“他觉得自己只是个普通人，父母在扬克斯开了家小餐馆，”他推测道，“我有什么资格站在这里，让所有人都看着我、听我说话？”凯撒一直在努力——他曾解释说，这是“我练习做自己的方式”——但这从未变得容易。后来被请来为凯撒分担这种痛苦的休·唐斯（Hugh Downs）将西德的挣扎比作“一个高中生在学校戏剧中表现出的赤裸裸的恐惧”。
凯撒观察到，观众实际上很喜欢这些“口误”：它们给了观众“一种参与感”。（有一周没有口误，《综艺》杂志就觉得很新奇。）他表演中的纯粹临场发挥是节目力量的一部分。正如评论家安德鲁·萨里斯（Andrew Sarris）后来所说：“他们的首演不仅是首演，也是永恒的化身”，为观看体验增添了“精致营造的情感张力”。
每一期节目都会被录制下来，但这几乎不是为了后世。与早期许多电视节目不同，《你的演出秀》被保存下来的原因是出于实际考虑，而非对不朽的憧憬：这些显像管胶片（kinescopes）允许在最后一刻重新表演旧小品——比如当某个新点子不滑稽或突然泡汤时。利布曼（Liebman）喜欢说：“宁要老段子，不要新烂活。”每当这时，他会让年轻的助手伦·坎特（Len Kanter）取出一个特定的“kinny”（显像管胶片），里面装着经过验证的有效段子，主创们会重新审视并牢记。但后世对这个节目的留存并不稳固：每隔一段时间，利布曼的另一位助手娜塔莉·古德曼（Natalie Goodman）会在胶片卷轴下的金属托盘里加水，防止胶片变干碎裂。
即使没有重播，节目也面临着可预测性的批评。早在1950年4月——节目开播仅两个月——《综艺》就称该节目“陈腐平淡”。但随着电视的普及，仍有很多人第一次看到凯撒的表演。凯撒也不断获得赞誉。格劳乔·马克斯（Groucho Marx）在图茨·肖尔餐厅（Toots Shor’s）向他表示祝贺。《展望》（Look）杂志称他是电视界最好的喜剧演员，《电视指南》（TV Guide）则称他是“威严的小丑”。《提示》（Cue）杂志将他比作卓别林和W.C.菲尔兹（W. C. Fields），并表示“任何一周的电视节目有多好，都取决于凯撒有多有趣”。人们常常把他比作卓别林，这让他在两次与卓别林见面时都变得语无伦次（有一次遇到杰克·本尼，凯撒也不知道该说什么）。
尽管人们谈论着要“让百老汇游行”，但这个节目还是让大苹果（纽约）的剧院感到紧张。《芝加哥论坛报》（Chicago Tribune）的拉里·沃尔特斯（Larry Wolters）报道：“这个节目的门票需求几乎和《南太平洋》（South Pacific）一样火热。”洛克菲勒中心音乐厅的经理们恳求全国广播公司（NBC）将《你的演出秀》移到周四播出。罗伯特·泰勒（Robert Taylor）抱怨说，他再也不能让妻子（芭芭拉·斯坦威克，Barbara Stanwyck）在周六晚上出门了，因为她要在家看凯撒表演，艾达·卢皮诺（Ida Lupino）也对丈夫霍华德·达夫（Howard Duff）有同样的抱怨。普通人也不得不做出调整。由于附近电影院的周六晚上人流减少，锡拉丘兹一家鞋店的老板迈伦·利普西（Myron Lipsy）在周六关门。凯撒的少数批评者也改变了看法。《纽约客》（The New Yorker）的菲利普·汉布格尔（Philip Hamburger）曾觉得凯撒在《让我们去曼哈顿》（Make Mine Manhattan）中扮演自动售糖机的表演很冒犯，但现在却称赞他是“电视上最有趣的两三位人物之一”（并认为可可[Coca]是“远最有趣的女喜剧演员”）。
凯撒是少数能给默片时代喜剧大师麦克·塞纳特（Mack Sennett）留下深刻印象的电视喜剧演员之一——塞纳特曾执导过卓别林、W.C.菲尔兹和基斯顿警察（Keystone Cops）。对于那些认为只有当“大人物”（如鲍勃·霍普、杰克·本尼和吉米·杜兰特）加入后，电视喜剧才能成熟的人，《电视指南》有个消息要宣布：“大人物们来得太晚了。”全国广播公司（NBC）暗自得意。负责监督该节目制作的乔治·麦加雷特（George McGarrett）在1950年4月写信给韦弗时说：“现在我们掌控了周六晚上。”利布曼接受了祝贺。制片人莫斯·哈特（Moss Hart）和马克斯·戈登（Max Gordon）告诉他，如果他们要付出他一半的精力，“就能对付那个有大网的家伙了”。《公告牌》（Billboard）建议：“NBC应该在洛克菲勒中心正中央为麦克斯（周六晚）利布曼建一座雕像。”
节选自《当凯撒为王》。© 2025年大卫·马戈利克。经阿尔弗雷德·A·诺夫出版社（Alfred A. Knopf，企鹅兰登书屋旗下分公司）许可节选。未经出版者书面许可，不得复制或重印本节选的任何部分。
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- 大卫·马戈利克所著《当凯撒为王：西德·凯撒如何重塑美国喜剧》（舒肯出版社），有精装版、电子书和有声书格式
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Book excerpt: “When Caesar Was King” by David Margolick
March 19, 2026 / 10:18 AM EDT / CBS News
Schocken Books
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In his new biography, [“When Caesar Was King”] (published by Schocken Books), David Margolick explores how 1950s comic Sid Caesar reinvented the art of comedy in the new medium of television.
Read an excerpt below, and don’t miss Mo Rocca’s interview with David Margolick on “CBS Sunday Morning” March 22!
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[“When Caesar Was King” by David Margolick]
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Television was called a “medium,” Fred Allen, the much-respected radio wit (and hero to Caesar and other thinking comics), once quipped, because nothing on it was well done. But Allen exempted Caesar from his broadsides. He lived around the corner from the International Theatre and would often drop by for dress rehearsals. “A casual observer might have assumed that Allen, the master, had come to instruct Caesar, the apprentice,” Collier’s noted. “Actually it was the other way around. Allen was embarking on his first television show and he had come to learn from Caesar.“
Before long, Caesar rued the day when he and Liebman had taken all ninety of the minutes Pat Weaver had offered them. “For the birds,” he called that last, agonizing half hour. But it was then, when he was most depleted, that he was also at his most ingenious, reflective, autobiographical, and exposed, that he bonded with his audience, and that his peculiar suitability for TV became most apparent. “Caesar seems to be the ideal comic for television,” Jeanne Loughlin noted in The Daily Compass.“His spontaneous, adroit facial expressions—wonderful in television close-up—might be lost on a theater stage. His comic material, drawn mainly from perceptive observations of everyday life, might not be broad enough buffoonery for the movies. At night clubs, perhaps much of his comic creation of the adventures of an average man might be wasted.” But “for home consumption,” she noted, his antics were “just about perfect.”
There was drama at the start of every show unmentioned on the printed program. It came when Caesar introduced the week’s guest host, or tried to. When he first appeared onstage—”Ladies and gentlemen, Sid Caesar!” the announcer would shout as the last note of “Stars over Broadway” faded— he was all business. He’d hold up his hands peremptorily, almost imperiously, to cut off the applause, not out of modesty, but because it prolonged his agony. He’d then start speaking, in an affected, actorly, slightly stilted manner. Much as he hated (and even banned) cue cards, so inimical to authenticity, spontaneity, and connectivity (to the audience as well as to the other performers), it sounded as if he were reading off one of them.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is Sid Caesar,” he’d say, as if on radio rather than standing there for all the world to see. “Welcome to Your Show of Shows.” But only rarely was that how the words came out. Tolkin once assembled the forty or so different ways they actually did, among them “Woolkim to the shoo,” “Wilcome to the shaw,” “Wulcum to da shee.” Caesar’s stock line when presenting the evening’s guest presenter—the correct phrase was “star of the week and host for this evening”—seemed formulated to trip him up. Getting through the visitors’ latest credits also proved an ordeal. “Our star tonight has just finished a picture where he co-starred wis . . . with Miss Betty Hutton, in the Cecil B. dePicture, The Greatest Show on Earth” was how he presented Charlton Heston in October 1951. Once finished, Caesar would dash off the stage, ostensibly to prepare for the opening sketch but also to play someone besides himself. Reiner attributed it all to fear. “His feeling is, I’m just an ordinary guy whose folks ran a luncheonette in Yonkers,” he theorized. “Who am I to be up here, having all these people watching me and listening to me?” Caesar kept trying— it was, he once explained, “the way I practice being me”—but it never got any easier. Hugh Downs, brought on later to spare Caesar from such agony, likened Sid’s struggle to “the stark, evident terror of a kid in a high school play.”
Viewers actually enjoyed the “fluffs,” Caesar observed: They gave them “a sense of participating.” (A week without a flub was novel enough for Variety to note.) The sheer brinkmanship of his performances was part of the show’s power. As the critic Andrew Sarris later put it, “their opening nights were not only their closing nights, but also their eternal incarnations,” lending an “exquisitely wrought emotional tension” to the experience of watching them.
Every show was recorded, though hardly for posterity; practical concerns, rather than intimations of immortality, explained why, unlike so much of early television, Your Show of Shows was preserved: The kinescopes allowed for last-minute reprises of old sketches—say, when something else wasn’t funny or had suddenly fallen through. “Better a good old thing than a bad new thing,” Liebman liked to say. Whenever that happened, he’d ask his young assistant, Len Kanter, to fetch a particular “kinny” containing something tried and true, which the principals would then review and recommit to memory. But posterity’s hold on the show was fragile: Periodically, another of Liebman’s assistants, Natalie Goodman, would fill the metal tray beneath the reels of film with water to keep them from drying up and disintegrating.
Even without the repeats, there were complaints of predictability. As early as April 1950—barely two months into the show—Variety was calling the program “tired and pedestrian.” But with television spreading, lots of folks were still seeing Caesar for the first time. And Caesar kept collecting kudos. Groucho Marx congratulated him at Toots Shor’s. Look called him television’s best comic, TV Guide, a “clown of majesty.” Cue magazine compared him to Chaplin and W. C. Fields, and said that how good television was in any given week “depends on how funny Caesar has been.” That he was so often likened to Chaplin only made Caesar more tongue-tied the two times the two men met. (Running into Jack Benny once, Caesar hadn’t known what to say to him, either.)
For all the talk about joining “Broadway on parade,” the show brought jitters to the Great White Way. “Ticket demand is almost as hot for this one as for South Pacific,” Larry Wolters of the Chicago Tribune reported. The managers of Radio City Music Hall begged NBC to move Your Show of Shows to Thursdays. Robert Taylor complained that he could no longer get his wife (Barbara Stanwyck) to go out on Saturday nights because she was home watching Caesar, and Ida Lupino had the same beef with Howard Duff. Ordinary people had to make adjustments, too. Because foot traffic from the nearby movie theater had dried up on Saturday nights, Myron Lipsy, who owned a shoe store in Syracuse, closed up then. Caesar’s few detractors reconsidered. Philip Hamburger of The New Yorker, who had found Caesar’s portrayal of a gumball machine in Make Mine Manhattan so offensive, now hailed him as “one of the two or three funniest men on television” (and Coca as “far and away the funniest” of the comediennes).
Caesar was among the few television comics to impress Mack Sennett, the man who’d directed Chaplin, W. C. Fields, and the Keystone Cops. To those who said television comedy would come of age only once the “big boys”—Hope, Benny, and Jimmy Durante among them—came on board, TV Guide had some news: “The big boys are too late.” NBC gloated. “Now we own Saturday night,” George McGarrett, who supervised the production of the show for the network, wrote to Weaver in April 1950. Liebman took his bows. If they’d had to put out half what he did, the producers Moss Hart and Max Gordon told him, they’d “be ready for the guy with the big net.” Billboard suggested, “NBC oughtta build a statue of Max (Sat. Nite) Liebman” “smack dab in the middle of Rockefeller Plaza.”
From “When Caesar Was King. © 2025 by David Margolick. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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[“When Caesar Was King” by David Margolick]
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- [“When Caesar Was King: How Sid Caesar Reinvented American Comedy”] by David Margolick (Schocken), in Hardcover, eBook and Audio formats
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