Many, many years ago, my mom’s friend Arlene recommended a film called Little Shop of Horrors. She told my mom, in a phone conversation, that she had stumbled upon this little gem while trying to find something to watch during a a late-night bout with insomnia. Arlene settled upon this quirky little flick after watching a scene that was riddled with references to the Yiddish humor she had heard as a child. Arlene explained to my mom that the film was somewhere between a science-fiction tale and the stand-up comedy of Borscht Belt comic Myron Cohen. In the days before VCRs, Netflix and other instantaneous home media, we would just have to wait until a repeat showing of Little Shop of Horrors popped up on a local UHF station. (UHF? Ask your parents.)

A week or so later, my mom spotted a Saturday afternoon showing of Little Shop of Horrors in the daily TV listing of our local newspaper. My mom and I shared a wicked sense of humor, so based on Arlene’s account of the movie, it was right up our alley. My mom and I often bonded over eclectic comedy. We would watch episodes of the (then) newly-discovered Monty Python’s Flying Circus and — quite literally — roll on the floor in uncontrollable peals of laughter… much to my father’s chagrin. While we tried to catch our collective breath, my dad would glare at us and, bark, “I don’t see what’s so funny? I can’t understand a goddamn thing they’re saying!” He’d go back to chain smoking his Chesterfields, reading his newspaper and getting angrier and angrier as my mom and I continued laughing.

On Saturday afternoon, my mom and I sat down in our den to watch Little Shop of Horrors. My father was off in another room, listening to a Phillies game on the radio, smoking cigarettes and staying well out of earshot of our potential laughter. The film began and within minutes, we were laughing. Between the deadpan opening narration parodying the popular Dragnet format and the dialogue involving a bereft character slyly named “Mrs. Siddie Shiva,” our laughter had progressed to hysterics. As the film continued, it got goofier and goofier. There was a giant man-eating plant, a wildly-masochistic dental patient, a climactic chase through a toilet factory and all sorts of the Jewish humor that Arlene had told my mom about. The cast featured Jackie Joseph, a character actress who frequently showed up in sitcoms and whose distinctive child-like voice was often heard in cartoons like Josie and the Pussycats, as well of a host of unknown actors from producer/director Roger Corman stock players… including an up-and-comer named Jack Nicholson (as the aforementioned dental patient). “Seymour,” the sad sack main character was a typical “mama’s boy,” was played by Jonathan Haze, the former Jack Schachter from Pittsburgh, who was pumping gas in Southern California when he was offered a role in a Z-grade picture called Monster from the Ocean Floor.

For the next one hundred and eleven minutes, my mom and I laughed and laughed at the improbable antics unfolding in Mushnick’s Flower Shop. There were some overt horror aspects to film, but overall, it was a hoot and, although presented in earnest, it was definitely played for laughs.

Years later, my mom and I were surprised when an off-Broadway musical (a musical!), based on this silly little low-budget horror-comedy, was generating a buzz. We were doubly surprised when the off-Broadway production was made into a big-screen musical with Steve Martin, John Candy and Rick Moranis in the role of nebbish “Seymour.”

Jonathan Haze, who originated the role of “Seymour,” passed away this week at the age of 95. Although his published obituaries noted his appearance in Little Shop of Horrors as the pinnacle of his career, he actually enjoyed a career that spanned six decades. Jonathan appeared in over 20 films, including a dozen produced by his friend Roger Corman. He also wrote scripts for a science-fiction parody, as well as an episode of the hipster drama 77 Sunset Strip.

Jonathan also gave my mom and me some hearty laughs.

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For many years, I collected autographed photos of celebrities. “Celebrities,” I will admit, is a relative term and can only be defined as “someone who more people have heard of than have heard of me.” I obtained a good portion of my collection by attending local collector shows and conventions where promoters would gather together a sampling of celebrities from all levels of fame. I have met Oscar winners and I have met folks whose claim to fame was their appearance in a single —but iconic — film. (I’m looking at you, Danny Lloyd!)

In early 2006, my son and I went to a horror movie convention in nearby Cherry Hill, New Jersey. We had been to this show several times over the years and I had met celebrities, engaged in lively conversation and purchased an autographed photo at the conclusion of our brief encounters. I don’t consider myself particularly “star struck.” My conversations with “celebrities” have purposely been about things other than the role for which they are best known. Over the years, I have spoken with Curtis Armstrong (of Revenge of the Nerds fame) about our shared admiration for singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson. I talked to the lovely Adrienne Barbeau about her long-running role in the touring company of the musical Pippin. I had a great conversation about California baseball with the late Jerry Maren, best known as the Lollipop Guild Munchkin who hands an oversized all-day sucker to Judy Garland in the classic The Wizard of Oz.

This particular 2006 show was one of the first — if not the first — to feature actor Tony Todd and he appeared to be eager to meet his fans. Famous among horror movie aficionados as the malevolent “Daniel Robitaille,” the title antagonist in The Candyman series of films, Tony appeared in a number of non-horror productions before his first foray into the genre in the early 90s. Since then, he has been in and out of the horror realm, including stints on Law & Order, Murder She Wrote and multiple appearances in the Star Trek universe. Of course, horror films were Tony’s “bread and butter,” playing “The Candyman” in the original film, its two sequels and reprising the character in a 2021 reboot. He was also featured in the Final Destination film franchise, appearing in four of the six films as the mysterious “William Bludworth,” a funeral director with an intimate relationship with Death incarnate. But, Tony was a working actor and, not wishing to be pigeonholed, he took roles in the teen drama Riverdale and on the popular soap opera The Young and The Restless. He also lent his distinctively rich baritone to video games.

Unfortunately, a lot of attendees at these horror conventions have a difficult time separating the actor from the character. Tony, an imposing figure at 6 feet 5 inches, stood behind a table laden with glossy photos chronicling his career. He had a wide and welcoming smile on his face. Just behind him, a young man (later identified as Tony’s son), disinterested in the surroundings, busied himself with a hand-held video game. My son and I joined the queue to meet Tony. We were just behind a fidgety young lady. A series of belts and straps and buckles secured her tight-fitting leather garb to her person. Her jet black hair was highlighted with blood-red streaks. When she turned her head slightly to survey the room, I saw that her face was covered in white pancake make-up, accented with coal-black eyeshadow and color-coordinated lipstick. Without passing judgement, she cut a pretty frightening vision — even for a horror convention.

The line moved forward as each fan finished their interaction with Tony. The young lady in front of us was next. She approached the table and produced a large book, soon revealed to be a photo album. She opened the book and loudly began to spew a soliloquy about “The Candyman” to Tony. She was animated and passionate in her delivery, pointing out gory still photos in her book as she explained — in detail — her tale of Tony’s movie character, as though “The Candyman” was a real entity and Tony was The Candyman. As she continued, the smile disappeared from Tony’s face, replaced by a pained grimace. A thin sweat broke out on Tony’s forehead and he dabbed his brow with a tissue. His eyes widened slightly, as he tried to make some sense out of this… this… woman and her apparent delusions. A few times, he quietly interjected, “Um, thank you. You know, I’m just an actor,” but she would hear nothing of it. She plowed right over his words with more specifics of her “Candyman” manifesto. Finally, she selected a photograph from Tony’s available offerings and requested an autograph. After a quick exchange of cash, she closed her book, bowed her head and slunk away.

My son and I were next and we approached Tony’s table. We both greeted him, but were interrupted. A visibly shaken Tony Todd raised the index finger on his massive right hand and said, “Hi guys. Can you give me just a minute?” We both said, “Sure!” as we motioned obligingly with our open hands. Tony stepped back. He grabbed a bottle of water and pressed its cooling surface against his forehead. He lowered himself into a folding chair, twisted off the cap off the water bottle and took a long and calming swallow. He hung his head for a minute or two. His son put down his game and slung a comforting arm around his father’s shoulders. Soon Tony returned to us, slightly refreshed but still exhibiting the lingering effects of his previous fan encounter. We insisted to him that he get his bearings and we would wait until he felt better. The smile returned to his face when he realized that we were not going to accost him like the girl in leather.

We made no comment about the young lady before us, but he did. He questioned, rhetorically, “What was that?” My son and I shrugged and laughed. Tony was now warm, personable and humble. He became talkative and we discussed his other, non-horror roles. He signed a photo from his appearance on an episode of Smallville for me. My son and I each shook his hand and he thanked us for coming and especially thanked us for our patience. He even posed for a photo with my son.

In subsequent years, Tony became a staple at horror conventions. He evidently became accustomed to the eclectic fan base and the possibility of facing an “intense” fan.

Tony passed away in November 2024 at the age of 69. He was a nice guy.

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