This week, Andy Kaufman made headlines when his brother claimed he was still alive. At this year’s Andy Kaufman Awards at Gotham Comedy Club, he introduced Andy’s supposed daughter, 24—who explained that the late comedian/performance artist faked his death 27 years ago.
No one with a passing familiarity with Kaufman could have been surprised that the news of his reincarnation turned out to be greatly exaggerated. Or to be more precise, fabricated: The Smoking Gun revealed that the woman introduced as daughter Kaufman was actually an actress named Alexandra Tatarsky (whose theater bio states that her work is inspired by “Russian absurdism”). Kaufman's brother now says he'd been duped.
The stunt evoked a Kaufman-esque mixture of confusion, skepticism, and credulity. But Kaufman himself would have probably done it better. He remains in the public imagination as a hoaxter, but for those born after his death, it might be difficult to understand just how effectively he messed with people’s minds.
I myself got suckered by Andy Kaufman back in 1982. I vividly remember watching a professional wrestling show as a kid when the Taxi star appeared at the Mid-Atlantic Coliseum in Memphis, Tennessee. “I’m from Hollywood,” he sneered, pointing at his cranium as he mouthed off about his higher intelligence and how southerners were stupid. After he went too far with his shtick, I cheered when wrestler Jerry Lawler stepped in and shoved him to the ground.
“Lawler, you think you’re really being smart,” Kaufman ranted. “Look, I’m from Hollywood. That’s where we make movies and TV shows. ... I’m not from down here in men-fus ten-uh-see, okay?” What a total jerk, I thought. Kaufman kept needling the crowd about how his matches with women were real and that professional wrestlers were phonies. I seethed. Andy Kaufman is such a jerk, and I really, really hate him. I even stopped watching Taxi because of it.
Eventually, this ugly display overflowed into another favorite show of mine. “On April 5th, 1982, in Memphis, Tennessee,” David Letterman said, introducing the Late Night segment, “Andy Kaufman—the actor-comedian and Intergender Wrestling Champion—had his first wrestling match with a member of his own sex.” In true Kaufman form, the segment descended in chaos. Lawler eventually slapped him across the face, which unleashed a torrent of expletives and coffee thrown in the direction of the wrestler.
I had never seen anything like that on television, and my adolescent mind was blown wide open. In my defense, I only knew Kaufman as the affable Latka Gravas character on Taxi and had no clue about his previous history of trickery. I was too young to have seen his offbeat Saturday Night Live performances in the 1970s, nor did I witness his other surreal televised acts.
It took me years to catch on, and only then did I realize Kaufman’s hijinks had body-slammed my consciousness. It all came into focus long after his death, when his friend and collaborator Bob Zmuda finally confirmed that Lawler had conspired with them. “Jerry is quite the gentleman,” Zmuda wrote in his 1999 book Andy Kaufman Revealed!, “and a helluva good sport.”
Early in Kaufman’s career as a stage performer, he sometimes opened for musicians—including, implausibly, schlock-popper Barry Manilow and R&B greats the Temptations. His inept Foreign Man routine certainly did not win over the latter group’s predominantly black fan base, who mercilessly booed him in 1972. Kaufman wept uncontrollably, pulled out a large cap gun, walked behind the curtains, fired it into the microphone, and thudded to the ground. Deafening silence followed. The audience came to hear “My Girl” and “Just My Imagination,” so this was not exactly what they paid for. The Temptations reportedly “sang extra hard that night to make up for it.”
Kaufman caused a similar stir when warming up for Barry Manilow’s white-bread audience a couple of years later. He had such an effect on the crowd that the crooner said it was all he could do “to try to bring them back from the edge of revolution.” A Barry Manilow audience on the edge of revolution!
When Kaufman appeared as the boorishly unfunny lounge lizard Tony Clifton, he was unrecognizable in a fat suit, sunglasses, wig, and prosthetic makeup. And in 1981, hell broke loose when he opened for comedian Rodney Dangerfield. After arriving 25 minutes late, the crowd grew irritated when Clifton insisted he would not perform until all cigarettes were extinguished.