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Comedian Avery Schreiber, most recognizable as the Doritos corn "cruncher" and one half of the comedic team Burns and Schreiber, died Monday, January 7 at the age of 66. Death came at Cedar-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles with complications from a recent hip surgery cited as cause of death.
A Chicago native, Schreiber was born in 1935. His professional training began at the Goodman Theatre. Soon after he associated with Viola Spolin and joined the Second City in 1961. He also worked with San Francisco’s The Committee and Paul Sill’s Story Theatre. Stage appearances include Fiddler on the Roof, Sugar Babies and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Broadway’s Welcome to the Club by Cy Coleman marked his final stage performance in 1989.
"The Burns and Schreiber Comedy Hour" (1973) won a Writers Guild of America Award and the team made numerous club and guest TV appearances including the "Ed Sullivan Show" and "Hollywood Palace."
A member of SAG, AFTRA, AEA and SSDC, Schreiber most recently worked as a solo act and appeared in commercials, voice-over, TV and Film. He was last seen in the TV show "Becker." He also taught improv from his home in Valley Glen, CA.
Schreiber is survived by his wife, Rochelle, his daughter Jennie, his son Joshua and his sister Susan. The date of a memorial service has not yet been announced.
Upon the death of Del Close in March of 1999, PerformInk asked some improv veterans for some memories of the great teacher/director. Below is Avery Schreiber’s memory of Close, published in our issue of March 12, 1999.
By Avery Schreiber
Del was a member of the company at Second City when I joined it. His piercing wit enlivened every character he created. It was the beginning of the 60's. At Second City we felt at the forefront of a new theatrical movement. Del was always coming up with fresh, almost weird approaches to the revue format that was present at the time. His ability to challenge the existing rules of performance was truly formidable.
Personal stories are too many and varied to get into, however…
When we went to London as an exchange between "The Establishment" and us, Del created a game of honor called "Gotcha." Holding our hands with the last three fingers curled, forefinger pointing forward and thumb raised, we each got three shots a day (non-cumulative) with which to "shoot" fellow players, who had to "die the most dramatic death they could under the circumstances."
There were three exceptions to the shooting rules: You couldn't shoot a member if 1) they were on stage working, 2) carrying a pot of boiling water, or 3) holding an expensive camera. The game became so prevalent that it was adopted by the then imminent Shakespearean Company. Leo McKern was a player and one day as I was coming out of Harrods, McKern, across the street, shouted, "Avery, BANG. Gotcha!" and I reacted as if a bullet had ripped through me and fell face forward off the curb into a huge puddle of water.
Once Bill Mathieu, our accompanist, shot Del at the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. Del staggered to a Park Ranger who had obviously been told to just stand and guard and not engage anyone. Del grasped at his uniform and slid down the man's legs, coughing and gasping. He pointed at us all appreciating his death throes and spat out, "You stinkin' Commies," and grew still on the floor next to the bell.
The most amazing thing I ever saw him do with this game was, when shot in the dressing room of The Establishment Nightclub, he tumbled down eight flights of the circular stairway to the backstage area without stopping-a stuntman if there ever was one. (Ed. Jeff Sweet says Del swore it was only five flights, but who can say…)
Del created a game called Marienbad, which I call The Game Game. There were no rules and it was loosely based on word association and gestures that were at once challenging and had to be answered immediately. He and John Brent created it together and I was called in to play it when Brent was absent or not interested in playing it. During the first game, which calls for three points scored in order to win, Del and I were tied at two points each and he started the new round with "I Win!"
"How do you win?" I challenged.
Del smiled over his glasses as he turned to leave the stage.
"I cheat!"
Del created a couple of long-form formats and was in San Francisco working at The Committee when Jack Burns and I were appearing at the Hungry I. We booked an afternoon show at one of the universities and were given a great fee for doing it. In the morning, I watched Del doing his new Harold with about 20 students and offered them $1,000 to open for us. He hemmed and hawed that the piece wasn't finished, and I argued that knowing him it would never be finished and to take the bread and split it among the class. He agreed to present them with the offer, but was skeptical. They agreed to try it.
When that opening act was done, we had to wait for four standing ovations before being able to proceed with our act.
The first time I did The IBM Machine with Del was like participating in an avalanche of true inventive magic. I was the machine, bleeping and blurting and gesturing in a mad, somewhat human attempt to answer questions from the audience. Mine was the world of physicalizing clicks and mental ruminations and Del's was with coming up with appropriate or cogent answers-with an attitude. The machine is outdated with the advent of PC's, but I always think of Del when I am asked to perform it now.
I love the guy. He was always ready to expand and explore, bright enough to create and innovate in the strangest of personal circumstances. I talked to him before he died, in the hospital, on the phone. I said that he has always done the Survival Stomp. He answered raspily, "Not this time buddy, I'm pooped, worn out." I gave him my family's love and the wish that it be as easy a passing as he himself might want it. He said, "Thanks. Bye."
Charna called to tell me he was gone. I was grief-stricken but believe that the work he did will do very well surviving even this cataclysm.