Irving Brecher passes on.

Sometimes it seems like everybody I know is dead, or about to be.
I last spoke to Irv Brecher two weeks ago. He called and had some ideas for my next book. What about Carol Burnett? Or Sid Caesar?
Those aren’t bad ideas, Irv. How the hell are you?
But Irv wouldn’t be sidetracked. He wanted to talk about my career, not his. Irv, you see, had written “Meet Me in St. Louis,” two - count ‘em, two - films for the Marx brothers, and a lot of other good movies, culminating in “Bye, Bye, Birdie.”
He knew all about his own career, and he didn’t particularly like to talk about it. Oh, there were a few stories he enjoyed telling, especially how he conned Judy Garland into doing “Meet Me in St. Louis” by reading her the script and throwing away all of Margaret O’Brien’s lines.
I talked to Irv for my book on Louis B. Mayer, and even though he had vague thoughts of writing his own book, he gave his memories generously. In fact, the only thing he held back was the cause of his rupture with Arthur Freed. (He later told me what happened, but he also finally broke down and collaborated on a memoir, which comes out in a few months. You can read all about it there.)
Since that initial interview six or seven years ago, Irv and I talked a lot. He was enormously interested in my work, and our bond was cemented by the fact that he was also close to Robert Wagner, who he had directed in “Sail a Crooked Ship.” In fact, Irv attended the publication party in Los Angeles for “Pieces of My Heart” just two months ago.
Irv’s eyesight had failed six or eight years ago - his wife had to read him my books - but that didn’t keep him down. He worked up a stand-up routine he’d do around LA, at places like Hillcrest country club.
He was compulsively funny, great company, a dyed-in-the-wool FDR liberal and one of the last survivors of his era - he went out to LA in 1938!
Irv died yesterday at the age of 94. It’s probably not entirely rational to be surprised, let alone depressed, about the death of a 94 year old man, but I’ve been terribly blue ever since the news came over the wire.
I’ll miss his phone calls, and that gravelly tummler’s voice on the other end of the line.
I’ll miss his stories, too.
But mostly, I’ll miss Irv.
By Scott Eyman