It Was A Fantastic Funeral

The funeral proceedings of Bobby Zarem last Friday afternoon were standing room only, which is exactly the way he would’ve wanted it. 

Everyone was sweating their tushes off, dodging sandspurs and fire ants among the crowded monuments of Bonaventure Cemetery’s Jewish section, friends and family fanning at the gnats and muttering curses.

Listen, I’m not being negative, I’m just being factual. Which is exactly what Bobby would’ve said. 

Perhaps you’ve caught one or two articles about the legendary publicist and Savannah icon, who passed away a few days shy of his 85th birthday. Just hours after it became official, The New York Times ran his obituary—which he wrote himself several years ago, ever the master of the final word.

Within the day, writer and photographer Alex Marvar penned this tear-evoking tribute for Vanity Fair, and longtime local journalists Bill Dawers and Jim Morekis synopsized BZ’s phenomenal impact on Savannah’s culture and reputation.

The story spread quickly, lighting up media outlets from Soho to Hollywood, if only for a flash before the news cycle churned again. To say that with Bobby Zarem goes irreplaceable institutional knowledge about Hollywood, New York, Savannah, and America itself is not an exaggeration.

“It’s all true! I’m serious!” I can hear him saying in his signature growl.

To these exuberant accounts of his accomplishments and gleeful grudge-holding, I can only add more adulation. In addition to Savannah’s shinemeister, BZ was a family friend, our eccentric quasi-uncle who attended the kids’ b’nai mitzvahs and school plays, a movie theater buddy to whom we’d have to repeat dialogue in loud whispers, the reason Mark was late to dinner several times a week because he’d gotten caught up among the revolving guest list—some famous, all fascinating—of Bobby’s Ardsley Park living room.

I’d be fibbing if I said I didn’t enjoy the access and privilege of spinning in Bobby’s orbit—oh my god, did I ever. I abandoned a pot on the stove more than once to rush over and meet someone I idolized: John Cleese, Gerard Butler, and Claire Danes were among the perfectly normal human beings I had to work hard not to lose my shit over. Sandra Bernhard once took a wild ride in the Absurdivan, Bobby riding shotgun. I’m still recovering from staring into Josh Lucas’ dazzling blue eyes, and there’s a photo somewhere of me passing a joint to James Gandolfini, may his memory be a blessing.

Above and beyond all that starfuckery, Bobby was such a wonderful character all on his own, curious about everyone and everything, lobbing profanity-laden proclamations about it all. It was a marvel to sit in this brick house where the youngest grandson of Eastern European immigrants had dreamed of movie stars only to become their friends, where he returned after a fairytale career of launching so many into the stratosphere, where he died peacefully under a constellation of photos and posters signed with thanks and love.

Portrait of the Superflack as a young man, by his brother Danny

The buzz didn’t dim in his last days, the phone ringing constantly and folks dropping by to reminisce around his bedside and play his favorite songs by Johnny Mercer and Savannah Music Festival standouts Pink Martini. Hal Zarem, the eldest of his six adoring nieces and nephews, flew in from California, and the trio of formidable Savannah women I’ve come to call “Zarem’s Harem”—Lisa Kaminsky, Beth Vantosh, and Karen Guinn—attended to him with tenderness and grace. 

Then he was gone. No more stories, no more stars, the clubhouse of his living room over forever. Not being negative, just being factual. 

Bobby was not religious in the least (he once tried to tempt me with chocolate on Yom Kippur), but I think he would’ve approved of Chabad rabbi Zalman Refson presiding as the crowd mopped its brows and jockeyed for position under the tents provided by the kind gents of Gamble Funeral Services, who truly know their way around a kaddish.

I’ve been to enough funerals at Bonaventure to know that heels are a bad idea, but I shall remember that an umbrella is always good form, rain or shine. Though the sun blazed, the stars could be felt at every turn. Lisa read aloud letters from filmmaker and supermodel Christy Turlington and screen legend Sir Michael Caine, and consummate Manhattanite Elizabeth Callender and PR partner-in-crime Bill Augustin reminded us that New York loved BZ as much as Savannah did. 

Beth recounted the time she took Bobby to the Rolling Stones concert in Jacksonville and he insisted that she roll his wheelchair down to the floor full of screaming fans. 

“‘If Mick looks over and I’m not in my seat, I’m going to have to kill myself!’” she mimicked, BZ’s rasp echoing in her voice.

Sure enough, at the end of the show, Mick Jagger pointed straight at Bobby and hollered “Thank you, Savannah!”—a reminder that Bobby built his relationships by keeping his agreements and showing up (in addition to writing passionate, handwritten thank you notes.)

I imagine that there would’ve been more famous faces shvitzing along with us if not for COVID and the inconvenience of travel. The advent of Zoom has surely made in-person funerals less popular, and the livestream hosted by Kaufman-Heinz LLC stream boasted several hundred log-ins, its viewers presumably watching in the comfort of their bathrobes. Which, come to think of it, would’ve been just fine by Bobby.  

In any case, fame always seemed less important to him than friendship. The list of famous people he absolutely hated was very long and usually accompanied with hollers of “Fuck that fucking cunt!” and how they were actually four inches shorter than their IMDB bio.  

It didn’t matter if you were an A-lister or an amateur, as long as you weren’t an asshole. If he loved you, you were a star to him. Among his favorites who stepped into the funereal limelight were peripatetic Savannahian Hartford Gongaware with a wry account of how Bobby tricked him into an exhaustive education of Broadway musicals. Local physician Dr. Carmela Pettigrew introduced herself as “Bobby’s gynecologist.” In a regal drawl particular to members of the Greatest Generation who grew up in Ardsley Park’s historic Chatham Crescent, childhood friend Johnny Carswell bid him a “fine and loving adieu.”

Words spoken and sighs heaved, it was time to lay Robert Myron Zarem to rest next to his parents, Harry and Rose, and his equally successful brothers—Danny, the style guru who invented men’s casual fashion, and Harvey, pioneering plastic surgeon to the stars and beloved father of six. If anyone knows a trio of brethren that has left a more spectacular mark on American life, please let me know.   

“He was once told me he and his brothers were a Jewish mother’s wet dream,” chuckled clubhouse event planner Connor Schofield with tears in his eyes. 

Forgoing any symbolic sprinkling, family and friends lined up to take a turn with the shovel, the thunks of dirt becoming muted as the ground filled, a few joints tossed in and one lit up and passed around for good measure. Maybe it was smoke that got in my eyes, but a few clouds seemed to gather from nowhere, dissipating the heat with a gentle hand.

Later at the shivah, folks milled around the bar set up in the yard and popped into the house, the living room arranged with photo albums and a gargantuan flower arrangement sent by Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones, Bobby’s chair in its usual spot. Zarem’s Harem ensured that it all went off like one of his famous PR stunts. 

“He left very specific instructions, and I don’t want to be haunted,” said Karen with a sad smile. 

The directives included caviar with potato chips, a full Mrs. Wilkes’ banquet, and Meta Adler’s divine tomato sandwiches, pimento cheese tarts, and in characteristic irreverence, pickled shrimp. I wasn’t the only one who thought they heard “This is fucking fantastic!” as they looked over the spread.

And when Roger Moss sang Bobby’s favorite Johnny Mercer tune that day, I don’t think I alone was struck with how much it seemed like it was written for him:

Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker...Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way...

BZ, we loved you to the moon and back, and godfuckingdamnitall this town—the movies, the world—will not be the same without you. 

Not exaggerating, just being factual. 

To all the huckleberry friends ~ JLL