Steve Stoliar - Raised Eyebrows: My Years Inside Grouchos House

1996 by Steven Stoliar. 2011 by Steven Stoliar. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved under Internationaland Pan-American Copyright Conventions. This book, or any parts therof, may not be reproduced in any fashion whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in the USA by:

BearManor Media

PO Box 1129

Duncan, Oklahoma 73534-1129

www.bearmanormedia.com

This book is not intended as a comprehensive examination of Grouchos life. It is a record of my experiences while working for him during his final years. As such, it is mostly the result of my own recollections, coupled with notes, audio and videotapes, photographs and letters that Ive held on to over the years. This is not to say that I did not welcome and receive help and guidance, in various forms, along the way.

I would like to thank Jim Bell, Bob Garrick and especially Diane Szasz Ziccardi for their foresight in saving my old letters. For helping to keep me on track, affectionate nods to Henry Golas and Nat Perrin. For helpful feedback pro and con and much-needed support, Im grateful to Woody Allen, Daryl Busby, Dick Cavett, Bobbi Goldin, Jay Hopkins, Larry Hussar, Jerome Lewis, Angela Mancuso, Mark Petty, Chris Porterfield, William Poundstone, Bill Rosen, Kathleen Rowell, Sela Seal, Melissa Silva, Nina Skahan Sheffield, Jennifer Sloan Kirmse, Pati Stoliar and Paul G. Wesolowski.

For the publication of the original 1996 hardcover edition, my sincere thanks to agent Mike Hamilburg and the Group at General Publishing.

Regarding this new, expanded paperback edition, my great thanks to Monte Beauchamp, Lon Davis, Sandy Grabman, Ben Ohmart, Brian Pearce - and especially artiste extraordinaire Drew Friedman for his magnificent cover drawing and supportive efforts.

Lastly, eternal love, gratitude and appreciation to my lovely and talented wife, Angelique, for remaining so supportive during the creation of the original 1996 edition - and for coming up with three-sevenths of the title.

A marginally talented film director named Sam Wood once complained about one of his actors, in this case, Groucho Marx: You cant make an actor out of clay. The subject of this book replied: Nor a director out of Wood.

Who would not want to meet such a man?

Steve Stoliar says that had a gypsy told him, back in St. Louis as a kid, that he was destined not only to meet his idol but to work for him in his house (italics mine; get your own), he would have told her to try some new tea leaves.

But thats just what happened.

The book tells that story. It is at once an adventure, a good gossip, an improbable through-the-looking-glass tale, a tear-jerker, a belly-laugh maker and a cautionary tale about the mixed blessing of getting what you wish for.

If, at this moment, you happen to be browsing for a good read, let me help you. If youre already a Marx fan, you need no prodding. If not, heres why you should snatch up this volume anyway.

Havent we all wished to meet someone we idolize? A movie star? A sports hero? A great writer, philosopher, religious leader, even (rarely) a politician? Steve Stoliar had an advanced case of this affliction, and in his case the luminary was born Julius Marx. The desire was so keen that he would readily have made the Faustian bargain for his soul in exchange for merely an autograph and a handshake.

He got much more.

Writing students will note (or have pointed out to them by their teacher) how form follows function. The nave wonder of the opening chapters gives way to a wiser, more mature prose style as the story progresses. The gee-whiz kid from St. Louis becomes the mature, reflective and experienced participant in the final years of one of Americas human landmarks. (A subtitle for the book might have been, Or How I Went From Wide-Eyed Innocent To Open-Eyed Realist.) Along the way, gratification, shock, hilarity, sadness and insight occur and a good bit is learned about pardon the expression Life Itself.

For me, the book has all the real page-turner qualities of a good novel. Besides the windfall of Groucho-iana and isms reported here for the first time (with which one can delight and astonish ones friends at the next dull cocktail party), there is genuine drama, psychological and otherwise; particularly from the point when the mercurial Erin Fleming enters the scene.

Thanks to Steves unique ringside seat, the court battle and other Sturm und Drang of Grouchos final years are illuminated here, and there is a trove of new and priceless anecdotes along the way, any one of which is worth the dust-jacket price.

Ill shut up for now so that you can walk over to the cashier, part with the requisite kale and delay no longer the delights that lie ahead in this well-wrought tale that is as credible as it is incredible.

As Groucho might have said in an occasional lapse into the dialect of both his youth and the vaudeville stage: Try it. You vouldnt be sorry.

And how.

Dick Cavett

For Dad

who thought I was neglecting my studies.

On a Tuesday morning in August of 1974, I stood outside Groucho Marxs Beverly Hills home and rang the doorbell. Id been working as his secretary and archivist for about three weeks and was finally allowing myself to feel as though I actually belonged there. After a couple of weeks spent testing the waters and settling in, I felt that Groucho and I were developing a genuine rapport. I was beginning to get to know him as a person and not just as Groucho Marx.

Every day in that house had been an adventure and I was eager to immerse myself in more Marxiana. I was going to put in a full days work -- if you could call it that -- and then there was going to be a small party that evening in honor of Erin Flemings birthday.

I reflected on my good fortune as I waited for the door to open. I figured I mustve been the luckiest Groucho fan in the world. Others may have seen the films more times or had a larger collection of memorabilia, but how many of them were working for him? In his home ? By any definition, it was a dream job.

My reverie was interrupted when Agnes, the maid, opened the door and said in a gentle but firm voice, Please be quiet. Mr. Marx has had a stroke.

My heart sank. He had had a stroke two years earlier and it had changed him immeasurably. He couldnt possibly handle another. I remember thinking, Please. Not yet. It had taken me so long to get there and now my coach was about to turn back into a pumpkin.

I asked Agnes if Erin was with him. To my surprise, she said she hadnt arrived yet but that Julie, one of Grouchos young nurses, was there, and had asked that I be sent to his bedroom as soon as I arrived. Warily, I made my way down the hallway, its walls covered with framed photographs of Groucho, at various ages, posing with his brothers, his family, and his famous friends. I entered his bedroom expecting to find him lying comatose, Julie hovering over him, her face filled with grave concern.

Instead, he was sitting up in bed, in his pajamas, casually browsing through the Los Angeles Times .