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vs. Larry Flynt. Norton was Lynne’s first choice too. When she saw Flynt, the moment Ed Norton walked onscreen she leaned over to her friend Wave and said, “If they ever make a movie about Andy, that’s who should play him.” Danny DeVito wanted Jim Carrey, whose box-office appeal would be sure to open the film big. I personally wanted Nicolas Cage to play Andy. There was something about Cage that reminded me of my best friend. Besides, at the time, Cage had a list of stellar performances such as Leaving Las Vegas. Somehow Cage got my number, and he and I spoke quite often. I assured him that he had my vote. As Andy’s writer, best friend, and now co-executive producer on the film, I knew my voice as to who should play Andy was a significant one, and I wanted Cage. Period. Nothing and no one was going to change my opinion.

      It wasn’t long before I got the phone call I dreaded most. It was from Jim Carrey. I knew Jim previously, but only briefly, when he was still an up-and-comer and shot a vignette for me a few years prior for the Comic Relief charity that I am the president and founder of. Now Carrey was a major star, the highest-paid actor in Hollywood—$20 million a pic. Jim’s own story of success could be a movie itself. He’s Canadian, never finished high school. His family was poor, his dad a sax player whose career never really took off, but a great guy. His mom and sister filled out the rest of the clan. From the time he was very young, they all knew Jim had a special talent. He could impersonate anyone. Not just celebrities like Elvis and Clint Eastwood, but the typical guy off the street. It was sort of uncanny how he did it. He has this physicality to his impressions that are spot on. You can sit with him in a restaurant and point to any one of the patrons and say to Jim, “Do him,” and within seconds his whole physical being morphs into that person. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it. When young people come up to me today and ask how to get into show business, especially stand-up, I always tell them the Jim Carrey story. How he worked at Mitzi Shore’s The Comedy Store on Sunset in Hollywood for eight years—two shows a night—for FREE! It was only when he befriended the Wayans Brothers, who themselves were just starting out and they got a show on Fox called In Living Color with an all-black cast, that things happened for him. They needed a “token white” and Jim was their choice. Remember Fire Marshall Bill? Every time he was in a sketch, he killed.

      Soon, he caught the eye of a young director named Tom Shadyac. Shadyac was looking for the lead of a film he was about to direct, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. They risked everything on Jim’s scene-stealing, over-the-top, broad physical comedy, which no one was doing at the time and didn’t want to. The gamble paid off and Ace Ventura was a monster hit, with half of America quoting Jim’s lines from the movie, such as, “Allllll rightteeee then!” He followed it up with other films (such as Dumb and Dumber, Liar Liar, The Truman Show, and my favorite, The Cable Guy, produced by Judd Apatow) and now he had his heart set on playing Kaufman.

      Jim was still a struggling comic at the Store when Andy and I would come in and test new material on the audiences. Comics would sit in the back of the room, mouth agape in awe of Kaufman’s antics that left audiences either loving him or hating him. Either way made no difference to Andy. He was operating from a whole other gearbox. Carrey would later say, “The comics would watch Kaufman and say, ‘Just make a statue of the guy already. He’s a god!’” The chance to play his comedy hero would be a dream come true. Somewhat spookily, added to that, he had the same birthday as Andy, January 17. He was going to play Kaufman come hell or high water, and now he was calling me.

      B: Hello?

      J: Hi, Bob, it’s Jim Carrey.

      B: Jim. How are you?

      J: Fantastic. You probably can guess why I’m calling you. I made the audition tape and before I embarrass myself and show it to Milos, I wondered if you could come and take a look at it.

      B: I’d be happy to. [I wasn’t happy at all about wanting to see it.] When?

      J: How about right now?

      B: NOW!?!

      J: Yeah, if that’s OK.

      B: Yeah, sure. What’s your address?

      On my way out to Brentwood, I kept saying to myself, “No matter how good it is, don’t say anything that he could take to the bank”—i.e., don’t say, “That’s great.” Say something like, “Very interesting.” Remember, I didn’t want him. I wanted Nic Cage for the role.

      Jim’s house in Brentwood is fab-u-lous! Although modest by movie-star standards, Jim’s digs made my humble home in Burbank look like a hovel. Jim greeted me at the front door. We walked through his house out into a back yard that had one of the best swimming pools I’ve ever seen, designed out of natural rock. It had a waterfall pool on a top level that also served as a Jacuzzi that cascaded into the main pool. Off the pool was a pool house that housed a bar and various arcade games.

      He led me into another building that was his own movie theater. Jim’s costumes from all his films (Ace Ventura, The Mask, The Riddler from Batman Forever, The Cable Guy) lined the walls, sealed behind Plexiglas. The room was designed to impress and it did. Besides hiring a projectionist just for me, he had a fully stocked concession stand with everything your tummy could desire: candy bars, popcorn, soda, ice cream, etc. Jim said, “Bob, excuse me, but I have about ten minutes of phone calls to finish up. Then I’ll be back with my audition tape. Help yourself.”

      He pointed to the candy counter and left. As soon as he was out of sight, I greedily started filling my pockets with SweeTarts, M&Ms, licorice, Nestlé Crunch, Butterfingers—you name it. I figured I might as well stock up—I’d never hear from Jim Carrey after today. I was going with Nic Cage.

      With pockets bulging with goodies, I nestled into my cozy theater chair, my buttered popcorn and Coke overflowing onto the thick-carpeted floor, waiting for Jim to return with the “audition tape.” Jim had playing on the large screen old clips of Andy on Taxi and SNL. I stared at the real Andy Kaufman and thought how surreal this whole experience was and wondered if Andy was going to forget his thirty-year deadline, cut it short, and show up at the premiere. For all I knew, perhaps Andy was already sequestered away somewhere on Jim’s palatial estate.

      Ten minutes later, as promised, Jim walked back in, carrying a small brown paper bag. He stood next to me and said, “And now for my audition tape.” Next, he reached inside the bag, fishing around for something. A puzzled look came upon his face, as if it was lost. And then he violently tore the bag open and started laughing like a mad man. It was empty. His laughter grew, to me, more sinister and in the dark theater, with only him and me, I got creeped out. I thought, “Who’s to say a movie star couldn’t also be a serial killer?” Then in a grand gesture, he pointed to the movie screen. The old clip was of Andy playing the congas on SNL, and he said, “So, what do you think of my audition tape?” At first, I hadn’t a clue what he meant. And then it hit me: Oh my God, that wasn’t an old clip of Andy on SNL. It was Jim. I had been watching the clip from SNL for five minutes and just assumed it was Andy. Instead, it was Jim, and he nailed it.

      Get this: He had his buddy, director Judd Apatow, shoot the scene. They rented a studio and matched up the SNL set to a T. Jim had even taken conga lessons four times a week for three weeks just to learn how to play them for the “audition tape.” He hadn’t even been given the role yet. That’s Jim Carrey. When he wants something, he goes for it full steam. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe he had bamboozled me and in such a Kaufmanesque style. I must admit my eyes moistened as I watched my best friend come alive through the talent of Jim Carrey. I told him right then and there, “As far as I’m concerned, you got the role.” A broad smile appeared on his face. He knew he had it anyway. I would find out later Jim’s like that. He knows what he wants, goes for it, and gets it every time. He’s the second-most driven person I’ve ever encountered in my life, the first being Andy, of course.

      I didn’t hang around for long now that he had sold me on his performance. I refilled my pockets with goodies and left. He was ready for stage two. As soon as I drove off the property, he must have had four deliverymen on motorcycles with audition tapes in hand peel out and scatter in all directions:

       1. To Milos, staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel

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