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Billy Crystal on His Late Manager, David Steinberg: 'He Was One of a Kind'
If an experienced writer of obituaries would write the story of David Steinberg's life and career, it would be impossible for him to capture the total portrait of one of the most unique people I have ever known. If this feels like a speech at a memorial, chances are you won't be there, so here goes.
For 48 years, this hilarious, outrageous (and pardon me, David), sensitive man who never wore socks was my manager, confidant, friend and ultimately family member.
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David came to L.A. from Milwaukee, where he was born in 1943. After an academic career second to everyone and with his natural sense of humor, big personality and ability to bullshit with the best of them, he began a successful career in public relations. He would represent Peter Sellers, Sammy Davis Jr. and many others before I hired him to do my publicity when I started on Soap back in 1977.
After getting to know my managers, who were considered the gold standard for comedy management — Jack Rollins, Charlie Joffe, Buddy Morra and Larry Brezner, whom I had signed with back in 1974 — he was asked to join the firm and leave behind the PR world. He was a natural fit and soon was sharing the workload for not only my career but also for my great friend Robin Williams.
He was so sharp and quick. When I started to play around with an imitation of Fernando Lamas, I would call David in his office as Fernando and we'd have a conversation about Esther Williams and everyone else in show business. This is where 'You Look Mahvelous' started, and it ultimately became a popular character and catch phrase when I was on SNL in 1984-85.
When Buddy retired and Larry focused solely on producing films, David protected Robin and me like one of those dogs in The Omen. His great sense of humor had us on an equal playing field at times. He would go on the road with us, watching our shows, taking notes, writing jokes (without our asking most times), but he was essential to our well-being on and off the stage.
We'd overlook it when he'd have eaten the food in our dressing rooms before we arrived, and then not complain when he cleared a table of the plates, glasses and silverware before we were done eating the few scraps that were left.
In 1989, he traveled to Moscow with me when I became the first American comedian to perform in the then Soviet Union for HBO's Midnight Train to Moscow. He had to deal with the KGB every day and constantly negotiated with the Russian liaisons who didn't live up to the things we had agreed to. Sound familiar?
We were shooting a night scene in front of the Kremlin and the lights that we had paid for to be on, weren't. I saw David talking with a scary looking man, and suddenly the lights came on. I asked him what did he say to the man? He replied, 'I asked what would it take to turn them on? And he told me, so I gave him $500 and a dual cassette boom box.'
We had to bring a food truck from England to the USSR stocked with a cook and good food for two weeks as the Chernobyl disaster had tainted much of the food supply, and the disappearance of the horse population made us wary of the New York Strip. So there was David, in the truck making spaghetti sauce and pasta for our Russian crew, who looked at David with amazement while he was feeding them food they had never seen before.
We visited Lenin's tomb together, and with a stern Russian security guard watching us, he whispered loud enough for him to hear, 'His foot moved.' We were encouraged to make a hasty exit.
He made trips to Afghanistan and Iraq with Robin to entertain the troops, frightened by the dangerous landing approach and takeoffs the plane had to make but joyous in the reaction of the troops to Robin. He didn't just watch, he also had many a great conversation with the soldiers himself.
He put together the writing staffs for all nine of my Oscar hosting appearances and was in the wings with me and Bruce Vilanch and Robert Wuhl and later the great Jon Macks to monitor the show and hopefully come up with new lines if the opportunity presented itself.
He, Bruce and Robert were with me in 1992 when Jack Palance did the one-armed pushups and we abandoned our plans and came up with jokes the rest of the evening. That team, David included, earned an Emmy for that show.
We toured the States and Australia together twice, once with 700 Sundays, my Broadway show, and the other a 35-city concert performance tour. No job was too small, no job too big. It was David who delivered good news, and it was David who had to tell me that Robin and Larry Brezner, people we both loved, had passed away. He was one of a kind.
As Whoopi Goldberg said about David, 'There was nobody more pointed, more funny and more loving than David. Through all my years watching Billy and Robin and David interact at Comic Relief, I recognized what he meant to their careers and more importantly, to them personally.'
For Janice and I, he was a trusted relative. To my daughters, he was a beloved uncle. His talents were enviable to our fellow artists. No manager had the 'chops' that Steinberg had.
Today there are management firms with big staffs and divisions for personal appearances, books, movies, social media, etc. David, to his last days, was a one-man band. He learned every day how to keep up with the new demands of the business even though he never quite mastered how to use his cell phone.
He was joyous and proud when good things happened. He was caring and soothing and honest when things went the wrong way, and like a manager yelling at an umpire who didn't get the call right, he'd know how much arguing and cursing he could get away with before he would get tossed.
He represented the great Bette Midler, who said, 'I adored him. He was wry, cynical and hilarious, yet pretty much a gentleman, all things considered. I looked forward to every meeting because I knew I was going to laugh my head off, although he was a terrific hand holder, too. He'd seen it all, at least twice, and was completely unfazed by anything that the business threw at him. The end of an era.'
Bette summed it up so perfectly. My 'OG' managers, Jack Rollins, Charlie Joffe, Buddy Morra and Larry Brezner, are all gone, and now David is, too.
They represented an era in comedy, from Woody Allen to Nichols & May, Dick Cavett, Tom Poston, Robert Klein, Martin Mull, Paula Poundstone, Martin Short, David Letterman, Robin and myself, and now for me there is a black hole, a space that will never be filled. He died after a long and difficult negotiation with cancer early Saturday morning. If I was able to tell him it was also the day Babe Ruth passed away, I know he'd say, 'So I get second billing?'
He had a beautiful family. His wife, Brynn Thayer, is a fine actress and now a playwright, strong and hilarious herself, she was the perfect match for his personality and sometimes inappropriate jokes. She fought endlessly for him as his health declined, and her love for him was unparalleled. His son Mason, now a terrific comedy writer and producer, learned from his dad the art of writing a joke with a purpose, and I'm sure that kind of warm irreverence will be passed down to his son, Owen, David's only grandchild whom he loved more than he could ever say. His sister, Sari, and his goddaughter, Molly, were also great loves of his life.
There are countless stories and anecdotes I could choose from to end this, but I decided to paraphrase what the great writer John O'Hara said about his friend George Gershwin upon his passing. 'George Gershwin died on July 11, 1937, but I don't have to believe it if I don't want to.'
David Steinberg, my manager my friend, died on Aug. 16, 2025, but I don't have to believe it if I don't want to.'
Reader, I'm sorry if you never got to meet him or know him, and to those of you who did … well, all you can say is this really stinks.
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