Comedian Lewis comes back from the brink of suicide

LAS VEGAS -- On his 40th birthday in 1966, Jerry Lewis gave a lavish party for himself at his Bel-Air estate. Although his films were panned by the critics, they made big money for Paramount and all the big shots were there.

Studio chief Barney Balaban announced grandly: "Just tell us what you want, and we'll give it to you." Without blinking, Lewis replied: "I would like the negatives of all my pictures after 30 years."

The executives agreed, and on his 70th birthday, the first negative arrived.

Since then, six studios have bought remake rights to Lewis movies, no doubt motivated by Eddie Murphy's successful version of Lewis' 1963 comedy "The Nutty Professor."

"I think it's nice that Hollywood recognizes what I did 40 years ago wasn't too bad," Lewis says in a slightly smug reference to his greater recognition abroad -- especially in France -- than at home.

At 76, Lewis -- and his legacy -- remain remarkably robust despite his penchant for controversy and a recent bout of severe back pain from "years of pratfalls" that had Lewis considering suicide.

The irrepressible clown, filmmaker and fund raiser for the Muscular Dystrophy Association just keeps going and going -- not unlike the pain-blocking batteries now implanted near his spine.

Lewis is already preparing for this year's MDA telethon, has a 20-year contract to entertain at the Orleans Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas and occasionally hits the lecture circuit.

Lewis also has a $1.5 million contract with Random House for a memoir about his partnership with Dean Martin. He started writing the book in 1996 and has completed about 1,300 pages, which he estimates is just one-third of the story.

Jerry Lewis, his wife, SanDee (known as Sam), and their 10-year-old daughter, Danielle (nicknamed Danny), live on a shady street not far from the Las Vegas Strip.

Excess poundage

Lewis is late for an interview. When Lewis finally breezes into the office, the first impression is a shock. His cheeks are puffed out twice their usual size. He also lacks the slimness of his prime. He says one of his medicines has caused the excess poundage.

His voice is strong and exuberant, but he seems more serious than in previous interviews; not once did the squeaky, little-boy character emerge. His gravity is perhaps understandable. In the past couple years, Jerry Lewis has been plagued by devastating physical ills.

The low point came several months ago when his back pain grew so intense that he couldn't sleep, began losing his eyesight and couldn't walk more than a few feet. Medical help, including morphine, was unavailing, and Lewis plunged into a deep depression.

"I really thought about what gun I was going to use," he says.

The turning point came as a result of a daily ritual he and daughter Danny have. Each afternoon they discuss the events of the day, and he often gives her a new word to learn. One day last year it was "courage."

On an afternoon in March, Danny found her father at his lowest ebb -- body slumped, head bowed.

"Daddy," she said, "you're going to get better if you start using your courage."

"I felt like I was struck by something from heaven," Lewis recalls. "It turned my mental attitude right around. I said, 'Let me get this fixed.'"

Martin 'the real genius'

As evidenced by the litter in his office, the Martin and Lewis book is Jerry's consuming interest right now. It promises to be a mostly affectionate view of the partnership that began in an Atlantic City nightclub in 1946 and ended in bitterness 10 years later on a Hollywood sound stage.

"I'm able to show who the real genius of that act was," Lewis says, meaning Martin. "I got all the credit for it -- 'Jerry this,' 'Jerry that.' How my partner took 10 years of that crap I'll never know. Probably because he was strong. He had pretty good feelings of self-worth; he was able to handle it -- until he couldn't take it anymore."