Something About George

SOMETHING ABOUT GEORGE

GEORGE SMILOVICI story by Allison O’Donoghue

Interviewed in Bondi - 1997

There is something beneath the deep chiselled crevices that run across George Smilovici’s face. There’s something lurking underneath those clear lived-in laugh lines that define his heavily hooded eyes and broad smile. It is a sadness that many comedians seem to share. It’s a familiar melancholy that seems to plague even the best comedians, like Peters Sellers, Bill Murray and Ellen to name a few. George is no exception. The twinkle of sadness for Smilovici may have been set in motion from early childhood. Or maybe it was his father’s prophetic warning of the perils and pitfalls of the entertainment industry befitting a popular figure. What goes up, must come down. 

So what drives a man like Smilovici to be funny and make people laugh? Maybe it’s the punch line - boom, boom. Or the final pithy remark that nails the humour, keeping his audience buckling over that sustains him. And in that moment, that old familiar melancholy vanishes in an instant. 

George exudes confidence, but that could be an act. Fake it til you make it, right? Well, he’s made it so he doesn’t have to fake it anymore. He is constantly joking. He gives great one-liners that end with an exclamation mark. He wants to make you laugh or smile at the very least. He watches intently to see if the joke has landed, and if not, he’ll tell you another one that’s sure to get a laugh. Maybe he’s testing out new material on me, regardless he’s already got me laughing. Mission accomplished. 

He says he gets his material from everyday life, by watching people interact and all the horrors occurring around the world. Does he struggle sometimes to find humour in all the horror? “Yes,” he admits, “I have to work hard to get some ideas happening. Sometimes it comes easily, but sometimes you’re in a tundra, there’s nothing, absolutely nothing and you feel like you’ve got no brain.” And I suppose you have to be careful not to offend… “Impossible,” he retorts, “There's always the potential to offend with comedy… always.”

Born in Havana, Cuba of Jewish-Romanian parentage, his family had to flee in a hurry. “We left Cuba for El Salvador when I was about four or five years old. We were leaving Cuba with the sound of gun fire in the background,” he says, looking behind him, as if having a flashback. “Bay of Pigs,” he continues, “I had to decide whether to take my air-rifle or my collection of Golden books, which I knew off by heart anyway.” So what did you take? “I took my rifle of course! Ya never know it might come in handy. Well, that’s what I thought at five.” He’s rubbing his left eye to the point of redness, it looks sore, I beg him to stop digging and offer him my eye drops but he ignores me and keeps digging. “We got to El Salvador then the revolution broke out, so we had to leave. Then we went to Guatemala, where it was just as bad. My parents were on a revolution crawl.”

His father Dan, knew all about the perils of the entertainment industry, he owned several nightclubs in Cuba in the 1940/50’s, and according to Smilovici was a “big, big, big shot”. He would regale George with great stories, like the time when he turned Errol Flynn away, “because he had two street whores hanging off each arm. My father said ‘you can’t come in with those two’, so Errol told him to wait while he went and got two high-class hookers. True story!” Endless stories like this pepper his work, and yet for some reason no one believes him. They think he’s making it up, like it’s a part of his act. “My father was a musician, he had his own radio show, and his own TV show. He used to rub shoulders with Desi Arnaz…I’ve got the photos to prove it,” half expecting me not to believe him, “Dad with Spencer Tracey… dad with Earnest Borgnine and the list goes on.” He rattles off the names like he’s said it a thousand times and doesn’t expect me to believe him either. I believe him. Why make it up?

It’s not surprising then that George would follow in his father’s glamorous, interesting footsteps, although, “it was the last thing he wanted me to do.” So he set about pleasing his dad by getting a degree in education, majoring in English and history and teaching fulltime. Exactly the path his father wanted him to travel. “I wish I still had that picture.” And there it is, that sadness, it envelopes his face like a mask. I want to ask him - what picture? But the memory looks too painful. “When I was a teacher, I’d work at night as an entertainer and teach during the day, but after two years of that I decided to quit teaching. I told my mother and she told me to keep it quiet from my father.” He takes a long, slow sip of his black coffee and continues his train of thought. “So for over a year I didn’t tell him. I would go over for dinner and he’d ask about teaching and I would bulshit on, make up stories, which wasn’t hard coz it’s what he wanted to hear. He didn’t find out until he saw me on TV. When he found out, he drew me a picture – half of me was a teacher smiling and content - the other half was of me as an actor with tears streaming down my face. I’ll never forget it.” He looks away and we sit in silence for what feels like ages before he breaks the silence. “I wish I still had that picture,” he says softly. Ah right, that picture!

Did his father’s prophetic picture come true? “Well, I’ve had as much joy from entertaining as I would have as a teacher. Teaching has its rewards, but I hated the routine of it, to me it was misery working from 9 to 5, guaranteed misery. Whereas with entertaining, you just never know how its gonna go and there’s no way of preparing yourself. It’s hit and miss, and it could happen at anytime, good or bad. I never know how a gig is gonna go and that’s what I like about.”

We order more coffees and quietly watch the passing parade of freaks, geeks, surfer dudes, bikini babes and mothers with designer prams trying to navigate the narrow footpaths of Bondi. 

Bondi has been Smilovici’s stomping ground for over 15 years and people watching on the streets provides him with endless material, and right on cue a comedic scene presents itself. An impatient surfer tries to get around a woman who has stopped abruptly to attend to her crying baby in its designer Rolls Royce pram, which takes up most of the footpath. Every time the surfer goes to move forward, the mother inadvertently blocks him, but she doesn’t realise he’s behind her, she is deeply immersed in pacifying her baby. The surfer gets more and more impatient. He can’t move, the road and foot traffic are just too congested and he can’t zip around her, like others filing past in single file, so he has no choice but to wait. Trapped behind her, he plants his surfboard upright, sighs deeply, rolls his eyes and shakes his head. The scene has George giggling and I’m sure his mind is busy ticking over, working out how to insert this scene into his comedy routine. Eventually the mother realises, apologises profusely then moves out of the way. The surfer takes off like a rocket. “Great scene,” he says smiling like a Cheshire cat, “What’s the story with three wheeler prams?” I think he’s on the surfer side, so am I actually. I bet he missed the best set of waves of a lifetime and if he did, its all her fault. It was a funny scene.

Finally, our second coffee arrives then George starts digging into his eye again. I hand over my eye drops, this time he accepts, it works for a minute, but because it is an embedded eyelash there’s only one thing for it - the old blow-ya-brains out trick while holding down the affected eyelid, but George is not about to do that in public.

Smilovici rose to prominence in the 1980’s with his, I’m Tuff single, which knocked Stevie Wonders, I Just Called to Say I Love you off its number one spot. This was followed by a very successful, I’m So Cool commercial campaign for Brut Faberge’. But you might be surprised to know that he is a prolific songwriter and an accomplished Latino guitarist. Recently, he serenaded an enwrapped audience at the ABC Concert Hall with his Flamenco prowess to rapturous applause, surprising those who only related him with laughter and all things funny. Every Friday you can catch him dishing out advice on the afternoon Monday to Friday show with a panel who offer solutions for viewers who phone in their problems. Currently, he is the most sought after corporate speaker and charity host in Australia.

This is all well and good but to George he has yet to crack the big time – the USA. Two years ago he had a somewhat brief brush with US fame when he was about to sign up with Paul Reiser’s (Mad About You) management, but just as he was about to sign on the dotted line he was diagnosed with Type 1 insulin dependent diabetes. “I had to come back to get well and learn how to manage and live with this disease. You have to be fit to conquer the States. I’m fit now, so I’ll live there and be in their faces. You just have get loud to be noticed, it’s a huge place with loads of talented comedians. I plan to move back next year and give it a go.”

Is he worried about our tendency to knock those who’ve made it big outside Australia? The tall poppy syndrome, which is really our national insecurity problem. “National insecurity problem, I like that, that’s funny. Mind if I use that line?” he asks. No, go for it, I say. “I wont be put down,” he says adamantly. “I’m a comedian, what can they say that I couldn’t turn into good material? The thing about being a comedian is that you can be a star at an old age.” George Burns comes to mind, but then again he’s an American icon. What happened to Eddie Murphy? His career did a nosedive and the media didn’t help, admittedly his film choices were doggy at best. And Jim Carrey, who is a great comedian but has resorted to contortionist acting, which is limited. “Yes, that’s true,” he concurs, ‘While we’re on the subject, what happened to Graham Kennedy? I’ll tell you what happened,” answering his own question, “he was too good for Australia, now he’s a recluse and never performs. A waste of a brilliant comedian.” But he had a good run, I protest, he did really well for decades… “But he’s been discarded. He was too good and you can’t be too good in this country. Australians love mediocrity, you can be good at a certain level, but then you’ve got to get out or get a day job.”

Isn’t that because it’s a small country and a tiny market to work in? “Yeah, that’s why you gotta get out. Look, Australia loves a loser. We love a loser of great proportions and to lose spectacularly.” He offer’s Greg Norman as a case in point. “He’s a great Australian loser and we love him for it. He will never win the American Masters or the Open and you know why? Because if he does he’s lost his Australian audience and the only way he can endear himself to the Australian psyche is to lose on the last hole, coz if he wins they’re really gonna hate him. They nearly hate him now coz he’s got everything, got all the American trappings, hanging with high profile people and has practically renounced all things Australian and he’s developing an American accent. It’s not good to drop the Australian strine, I tell ya it doesn’t go down well here. But he’s a fantastic loser. He loses with dignity and that’s what we love about him.” Do you really think he would deliberately lose just to appease Australia? “Ok, maybe not consciously, but with all due respect, he is the best loser Australia has produced. You can’t worry about it or you’ll go mad. Greg gets on with his fantastic life with or without our approval and that’s what I love about him.”

Appropriately, George’s latest show is entitled, George Smilovici Loses It and will showcase his loser material at the Comedy Store for two nights only on September the 25^th & 28^th.  He will then host the 1997 Carnivale’ – a smorgasbord of international food, dance, theatre and music featuring acts from nations all over the world, beginning September 6^th at Darling Harbour.

Maybe it was his ominous beginnings in Havana that has given him deep compassion and empathy for new immigrants, refugees or victim’s of war who come to our country filled with hope for a better future for their families that continues to compel Smilovici to keep us laughing, meanwhile planting seeds of thought. “I was an immigrant. We fled a war zone and if we hadn’t come to Australia, God only knows what would have happened to us. You and I wouldn’t be talking now that’s for sure. So yeah, I support these poor people, they want the same things you and I want and all they need is a place to call home."

At the conclusion of our interview George leaves me with another joke - “Image you’re dying,” he says leaning in so I have no choice but to listen to every word, “And you’re telling a joke on you're death bed, but you cark it just before the punch line. How frustrating would that be?” Throwing his head back, bellowing with laughter, as heads turn in our direction at the café. “And then coming back as a ghost to deliver the punch line.” No doubt, that’s exactly what George would do. 

Damn, I forgot to ask George if his dad let Errol’s two high-class hookers in!