Jerry Stiller, the legendary comedian and entertainer, died this month, at the age of ninety-two. In the nineteen-sixties, Stiller performed in a comedy duo with his wife, Anne Meara, appearing frequently on “The Ed Sullivan Show” and travelling the country on comedy tours. Then, in his mid-sixties, he reached new audiences with his turn as George Costanza’s irascible, voluble father on “Seinfeld.” A genetic basis for comedy is yet to be proved, but the couple’s two kids both joined the family business: their daughter, Amy, is a comedian, and their son, Ben, became one of the biggest movie stars of the past two decades, starring in films such as “There’s Something About Mary,” “Meet the Parents,” and “Zoolander,” which he directed. (Tad Friend profiled Ben Stiller for The New Yorker, in 2012.)
I recently spoke by phone with Ben, who was in his home in Westchester, New York, about his relationship with his father and both his parents’ comedic legacies. (Meara died in 2015.) In our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, we also discussed what it was like to grow up with famous comedians as parents, the roots of his father’s “Seinfeld” character, and how his father saw Ben’s career.
Were you able to spend some time with your dad before he died?
Yeah. My sister and I were able to be with him. And, just due to the fact that he didn’t have a coronavirus-related illness, and he had been ailing for a while, we were able to be with him, which I’m very, very grateful for.
What were the last few weeks like? Was his sense of humor there at the end?
He was just slowing down a lot, and he was dealing with a lot of issues. And so the last week or two were tougher for him. But he went peacefully, and he had a sense of humor, for sure, until the end. I hesitate to call it a sense of humor. He was just funny, and so he was always himself. He was almost ninety-three, and I think his body was kind of at that point where it was time.
When did you realize that your parents were really funny?
Wow, that’s a good question. Growing up with them, we were always around their process of working together, because they worked together at home. And so I don’t ever remember a moment of thinking, Oh, they’re funny. I remember watching them onstage and seeing them perform and get laughs, and do their act. I remember, as a kid, enjoying watching that and thinking, Oh, this is kind of cool that everybody thinks my parents are funny. And it was exciting.
My sister and I really enjoyed watching them perform. But, as parents, they’re always your parents. I think we had our progression of the relationship that you have with your parents, as you go through childhood and adolescence, and all the different aspects of it. But, honestly, when I think about it, it’s really when I got a little bit older, when I was a teen-ager, that I was able to really appreciate their humor. And then, really, as I got much older and was able to have a perspective, I was able to really see outside of the lens of just being their kid.
Did you ever feel, “I’m just a fourteen-year-old kid. I don’t want humor. I just want parents who are normal”? Was that ever hard?
No. [Laughs.]
O.K., cool.
What that makes me think of is just that they really both had separate attitudes toward the work, and they both took it very seriously. So it wasn’t really them cracking jokes around the house. My memory is of my mother feeling the stress of it. My dad really liked to perform and do comedy more than my mom. It came to her very easily, but it was always work for her to put herself out there like that. My dad was always working at it and thinking about things. If something came to him, like, “Oh, that’s funny”—he was always writing stuff down. He was always keeping notes and writing journals, and somehow thinking about how he could use it. And then, eventually, my mom wrote plays, which really took a lot of her personal experience. I think she used a lot of what was going on in her relationship with my dad. I think they were taking it in and then translating it themselves, on their own.
Was a big part of their offstage relationship based on comedy? Or was it the family business and, when you get home, you’re not necessarily talking about the shoe store you own?
It was the fabric of our lives. And I think that’s because they worked together, and there weren’t really lines drawn, in terms of, like, “Oh, when we get home, we don’t talk about it.” Because there weren’t really regular hours. Sometimes, they were playing night clubs, or they were on the road, or they were doing a TV show. We hardly ever sat down to have dinner together as a family. But, by the same token, I think we were a pretty close family. And it was just not your typical, traditional setup. And they had a room in the apartment, on Riverside Drive, where we lived, where they would work, whether they were writing together or improvising together, because they wrote radio commercials a lot in the seventies.
They had a sketch where they hated each other. And they would just talk about how much they hated each other. And my sister overheard, and really thought that they hated each other. And then, another time, hearing them arguing and thinking it was rehearsing a sketch, and it wasn’t. So that was part of the energy in the household. They were very different people, but they were so, so devoted to each other. A very beautiful and imperfect relationship, as every relationship is. And so that was our life. And it was part of all of it for us.
Do you have a memory of when you first made your parents laugh, or your dad laugh?
Oh, man. Well, the first thing I think of is my dad coming to see me in a play at camp. I went to this camp in Maine, called Hidden Valley. And I hated it at first, and he came up there because I got homesick. He’s a very sensitive guy, a very loving dad. My mom would be kind of like, “No, Jerry, he’s got to figure out how to be on his own.” And my dad was, like, “No, I want to go up there and be with him.”
And, so, he came up for a couple of days and then left. And I got acclimated, and I remember I met a girl that I liked, and all of a sudden I didn’t want him to come back. And then he came back to see the play. I remember him watching the play. And I sang some song in it, and I remember him having this big smile. It wasn’t a laugh, but it was him just appreciating seeing his kid performing. I think he just loved seeing his kids act, and do their thing.
Do you think it was important to your parents that you and your sister turned out to be funny?
Interesting, but I don’t think so at all. When they knew that we both were interested in acting, and going into show business, I think they were both conflicted. My dad was very overprotective, and I think he was probably concerned about knowing all the rejection there is in this business. And, at the same time, I think he also was so nurturing of us, as creative people, and he wanted to try to foster that as much as he could. It’s kind of that thing where you go, “O.K., if you’re really going to go and try to do this, until you actually try to do it, you don’t know how hard it can be.” My parents were very different people. So he had one way of dealing with it. My mom had a different way.
What was her way?
A more hands-off approach. Same way with the camp attitude: “Just go there and you have got to figure it out.” Which I think is the more practical way, really, because you do have to go through that on your own eventually. But, if my dad could have been there with us every step of the way, he would pull every string that he could possibly pull, and open every door he could possibly open. And, again, he was like that with anybody. If you met somebody on the street and they said they were a fan and they were interested in acting, he’d talk to them for twenty minutes about it. For real. He was that guy. So, for me, when I was starting out, I definitely resisted that more, because I wanted to try and figure it out on my own. And so, sometimes, that caused tension between us.
Anything in particular come to mind?
Just the normal adolescent stuff. And it never was really dramatic at all. I was trying to figure out who I was. And, it’s so funny, because, when my dad died, I was looking at some old clips of the two of us on “Conan,” like twenty-five years ago. And I look at myself, like, “What was I thinking? Who is that person?” And I’m remembering that of course I wanted my dad on there with me, because I knew my dad would be funny. And I would dread the talk-show appearances, and it was like cheating to ask him to come and help.
Who were your dad’s comedic influences?
He was so much of an old-school guy in terms of show business, and in general. He grew up during the Depression, and he was very poor, and he loved listening to the radio and going to see vaudeville acts with his dad. So certainly people like Henny Youngman and Jack Benny and Burns and Allen. And that was always his dream, since he was a kid, which wasn’t my mom’s dream at all. For him it was a real thrill, as he made it in the business, to be able to actually meet those people and have friendships. They had a friendship with Henny Youngman, over the years, which I think really meant a lot to him. And him meeting George Burns was just, like, oh, he had made it.
How was your mom’s dream different?
She was more of a dramatic actor, who studied and wanted to do that. And that’s why it’s ironic, because she was amazing at comedy. But she really never had that desire to go out there and get laughs. And they did “The Ed Sullivan Show” thirty-plus times. I can’t even imagine the pressure of doing that show, because however many millions and millions of people would watch it. And he had to invite you back the next time. I know it was very tough to go out there and do that. She was so good at it, though. And I think, when I watch them, I see how my mom just naturally does it. With my dad, I see what he’s going through. And that was what their symbiosis was. They were so connected that she was always there for him in that way when they were onstage together. If you watch those sketches, usually at the end of the sketch, when it’s over, my mom will just kiss my dad. That was their relationship, and the kiss was, like, “We got through this. We did this. I love you.” And I feel like she was an underrated actor, because she really was good.
Is that something you’ve tried to balance in your career: trying to do serious acting—and, obviously, directing—but also caring about getting laughs?
Yeah. My first instinct, when I was eight, nine, ten years old, was that I knew I loved movies and I wanted to be a director. And my dad really supported that. He went out and got a Super 8 camera, and got me the editing equipment, and would act in movies that I would make. He was just there, all the time, for that. And then, as I got into my teens, I was trying to figure out who I was, and I think I pushed away. I was interested in acting, but since my parents were so known for comedy I was trying to figure out, comedically, if I wanted to do that or not, because I think my first instinct was “My parents are funny, but I want to be serious.” And, obviously, that’s not the way I went. [Laughs.]
But I also found, when I was probably in my late teens or early twenties, a connection with the comedy, where I felt, Oh, generationally, this is what I get. Not that I didn’t get my parents, but they were my parents, always, at that point. And now I have so much more of an appreciation for what they did, but it was finding my own stuff, like Bill Murray and Steve Martin. I definitely was interested in doing dramatic stuff, too.
But, as it relates to my parents, I think, it’s hard to tell. Because I feel like all that stuff is so intertwined, you know? I can’t really pull out what influence my parents have had on my work, because I think they’ve had so much. Like, it’s impossible to think of doing what I do if they hadn’t done what they do.
When I was first starting out, I remember feeling, How do I find my own identity? How do I make it? Because my parents were so beloved, and are so beloved. And that’s confusing when you’re young, too. But they were always so supportive. And I think I was the one going through my own things, trying to figure out “How do I individuate?” or “How do I become what I want to become?” But my dad was so loving. His love for his kids is so strong that it didn’t matter what I was going through—he could absorb it.
I was trying to write the introduction to this interview, and I was trying, in a sentence, to describe his Seinfeld character. And it’s really hard. What did you make of that character, and do you have any insight into how he came up with it?
I have no idea, first of all. I don’t have any insight into how he did it, because he was just a unique, comedic entity that would basically have his process. I think “Seinfeld” really changed his life, because he was at a point in his career where the phone wasn’t really ringing. And he and my mom had really stopped working together. So, for someone who’s thrived on work and thrived on being funny and having an interaction with an audience, it really changed everything for him. I read in one of the obituaries that he had only done about twenty-five shows in the whole series. And, given the fact that he made such an impact, I hadn’t even realized that.
But, I think, more than anything for him, when you see the tributes that the cast members have given to him—he was so loved by those people, because his process was so connected to other actors. He loved working with those actors, and he would prepare like he was doing Shakespeare. He would break it down, a sitcom script, and figure out, “Why am I saying this? What’s the motivation for this character? What’s his history?” So it came out of him putting everything into it, and not trying to be funny. And yet, of course, it came out so funny because he was just putting everything into it. And it was just like the amalgam of who he was, as a person.
We had a small service for him, and I was talking to the rabbi about him, because I hadn’t had a chance to meet him. And the rabbi was talking about his character on “Seinfeld.” And I said, “He never once raised his voice to me, ever, as a kid. Ever.” So I watch that and I laugh, because I’m, like, “Who is that person?” Because that really was not him, but I think he was unleashing something that I think was suppressed in his real life. With my mom, he deferred to her. And he was so committed to her. And she was a really strong personality, but really loved him, but they were very different people. So I think he held a lot of stuff down, and it would come out in that character. Sometimes I think about it—it’s really like this sort of volcano coming out of stuff that was inside of him.
Yeah, and the relationship with his wife on the show is something else.
Yeah. But that’s what I think of when I watch the show: “Wow, that was an aspect of Jerry that was not who he was in real life, ever.” But I think he discovered it as people discovered it. In other words, he didn’t go in there thinking, I’m just going to do this, and it’s going to be funny. I think he went in there thinking, I’m going to do this because it feels right for the character. This is how I have to do it. And then, when he heard people laugh, he was, like, “Oh, O.K., this is working. This is great.”
Did you call him Jerry?
I did just call him Jerry, yeah—oh, in life? I always called him Dad.
He must have known, by the end of his life, that his primary legacy for most people was going to be “Seinfeld.” How do you think he felt about that?
I think the only thing that might have bothered him a little bit was that he wanted people to remember his work with Anne, because he loved my mom so much. I think that would be the only aspect of it. He would be, like, “But, Anne—Anne is amazing.” And I can understand that, because they did such incredible work together over the years. But I don’t think he was one of those actors who was, like, “I have to be known for something else.” I think he was grateful for the success. And I think that comes from where he came from—he didn’t have an ego about those sorts of things. He so loved being a part of that show, and he embraced it fully.
I just want to read something from an old profile of you:
What do you make of this?
I never read that before. I never heard that. I think he would write these things down. Or he would say these things, but he never said it to me—something like that. I was coming from my own point of view of trying to figure out who I was in relation to him. What I’ve always felt over the years is I wanted to do my thing, and my dad and mom did their thing—and were so good at it. And it’s, like, my dad is so funny. Like, I’ve never, ever thought I was funny like my dad. Or as funny as my dad. I’ve never really felt a competition, because I would lose, hands down.
I think, in that quote, he was saying, “I love my son.” It wasn’t, like, “I’m in competition with my son.” And I really feel that. I’m sure that he felt at times, like, “Oh, Ben’s doing a movie.” And he wasn’t. I think that’s a natural thing when you have a career. But it never was manifest in our relationship. And that’s what I think is the beauty of his career, and his life—that he had this incredibly long career that ended in a great way. And nobody has to be reminded of what he did. Like you said, his work is going to live on. To me, that’s the beauty of what he did.
Would he ever tell you if he didn’t think something was funny? A movie or something? You don’t need to give me the titles of the movies.
[Laughs.] You know what? He didn’t. My mother was the one who would be a little more critical. I think he would probably keep it to himself more. And he’s the guy who would write letters to critics. Let me put it that way.
Oh.
Yeah. Which, as a kid, could be almost as tough as your dad criticizing you. It’s, like, “Please don’t write a letter to the film critic of the New York Times.”
You’re a father now. And you are a well-known person. And you’ve laid out different ways that your mom and dad parented. You must have thought about how you should, or could, parent your own children. Are you more like a Jerry or an Anne?
I think I probably, ultimately, would have to defer to my kids to give you that answer. I’ve found, as a parent, that my perception sometimes of what I’m doing is not what the kids are perceiving at all. I know that, growing up, I was, like, “Oh, I’m not going to make that mistake.” And, of course, I made totally different mistakes, and made some of the same mistakes, too, not realizing. And I think that’s something a lot of parents probably can identify with. I have a daughter who wants to study acting, and so there are these parallels I see in my own life.
And I try to navigate my own way. But, like I said, your parents are just a part of you. And especially now, I think, having both of them gone now. I feel like what I take away from them is this deep love and support that they always had. At the end of the day, it’s what you have inside, what you feel inside of your parents, that you keep with you. And so I hope, at the end of the day, that’s what I can leave my kids. And all the other stuff is kind of, like, who knows? You try to navigate it.
Is there a single memory onscreen you have of your dad that you return to?
Yeah. One of my favorite things that he did is “The Taking of Pelham One Two Three.” He was just so good in that film. And he’s not doing a lot of comedic shtick or anything, but he’s very funny, very New York, and very real. And, in the very last scene in the movie, with Martin Balsam, I just love him. He’s in his transit-cop outfit, with his cap tilted off to the side, and a cigarette in his mouth. And he never smoked, ever, in life. But I love that image of him, and I love what he is in that movie. And kind of his alternate film career that he might have had, too. He was really good.
