Danny DeVito Reveals the Real Reason “Taxi” Was Canceled—and It’s Wilder Than You Think

For decades, fans of the iconic sitcom “Taxi” have swapped rumors and theories about the show’s abrupt cancellation. Was it ratings? Network politics? Or something deeper? Now, Danny DeVito—one of the show’s beloved stars—has finally peeled back the curtain, and the truth is more outrageous than anyone imagined.

It all started with what seemed like a daring creative gamble. In the hallowed halls of Paramount, “Taxi” was known for its razor-sharp writing and cast chemistry. But in one fateful week, the show decided to stage an experiment that would ripple through Hollywood lore for years: Andy Kaufman, already famous for his eccentric performances, would appear as his notorious alter ego, Tony Clifton. The catch? The cast and crew were instructed to treat Clifton as a real person, never acknowledging the man behind the mask—even off set.

DeVito recalls the moment the plan was hatched. Over egg salad in the Paramount commissary, executive producer Ed. Weinberger leaned in with the news: “Andy’s going to play your brother… as Tony Clifton.” No winks, no sidebars, just a rule—Clifton is real, and the bit only works if nobody breaks character. The cast, used to the rhythm and reliability of sitcom production, suddenly found themselves at the mercy of a performance artist whose only loyalty was to the joke.

Monday, usually the smoothest day in television, became a crucible of anxiety. The table read—a ritual that sets the tone for the entire week—was thrown into chaos. No Andy. No Clifton. Just an empty chair and a clock ticking away precious hours. The producers, bound by their own rules, couldn’t even call Kaufman to ask where he was. The tension mounted as every department waited, their schedules unraveling before their eyes.

When Clifton finally arrived, the mood shifted from anticipation to dread. He didn’t just walk in; he made an entrance. Flanked by two escorts and drenched in cologne, Clifton tossed his script onto the table, marked up with unsolicited notes. He objected to lines, challenged direction, and treated the cast like props in his own show. The air thickened with frustration as every suggestion became a standoff, every page a battleground. For the rest of the cast—professionals who thrived on efficiency—it was like rehearsing with a hurricane.

The damage was immediate and profound. Clifton’s antics derailed the table read, and the episode’s production schedule began to crumble. The writers, who had delivered a solid script, suddenly had no material to work from. The producers faced a nightmare: keep Clifton and risk implosion, or quietly bring in a backup and hope Kaufman wouldn’t retaliate. The stakes were high, and the cracks in the show’s foundation began to widen.

Behind the scenes, the producers made a contingency plan. Richie Ferengi, a seasoned actor, was quietly brought in as insurance. If Clifton’s chaos became untenable, Ferengi would step in as DeVito’s brother. The cast met him discreetly, aware that if Kaufman caught wind of the backup, it would feel like betrayal. But the alternative was risking the collapse of the entire episode.

Clifton’s second day on set was no better. He arrived late again, dragging his escorts and handing out toys and noise-makers as if to charm the cast. The gesture landed flat, fueling the simmering resentment. Judd Hirsch, usually the group’s anchor, was visibly seething. The producers had reached their breaking point.

Ed. Weinberger made the call: Clifton had to go. But even this was fraught with drama. DeVito later revealed that Weinberger called Kaufman the night before, warning him of the impending firing. Kaufman pleaded, “Don’t fire him for being a bad actor. Say it’s his lateness. If you say he’s not talented, he’ll never get hired again.” It was a fascinating request, a testament to Kaufman’s commitment to the Clifton myth. The producers agreed—the official reason would be punctuality, not performance.

But Clifton wasn’t about to exit quietly. He argued, threatened lawsuits, and turned the firing into another act of theater. The cast sat in stunned silence as the alter ego dug in, daring the network to make the next move. What should have been a simple resolution became a spectacle, and word of the pending firing leaked out.

By midweek, the soundstage was transformed from a workplace into an arena. The bleachers, usually empty during rehearsals, filled with executives—Barry Diller, Jeffrey Katzenberg, suits from the network and studio—all there to witness the confrontation. Their presence signaled that this was no longer a creative problem, but a crisis threatening the show’s reputation and the studio’s authority.

Clifton, oblivious or perhaps deliberately performing for the new audience, strutted across the stage as if headlining Caesar’s Palace. The laughter was gone, replaced by a heavy silence. The executives weren’t amused—they were taking notes. Every wasted minute was more ammunition for the argument that “Taxi” had lost control.

And then came the press ambush. Kaufman, ever the master of spectacle, had tipped off reporters. When Paramount security prepared to walk Clifton out, journalists were camped outside, cameras ready. Clifton went loud, ranting about conspiracies and vowing to sue. The press didn’t see performance art; they saw chaos. Headlines screamed about actors clashing and Paramount losing control. The myth of Tony Clifton grew, but the reputation of “Taxi” took a hit.

For the cast, the ambush was devastating. Morale was shattered, and their show was now fodder for scandal. DeVito admitted that the room felt set up. The cameras weren’t a coincidence—they were a calculated move to make the firing bigger than the show itself. Andy wanted Clifton’s dismissal to live beyond the week’s taping, and he got his wish. The collateral damage, however, was enormous.

Network brass, already uneasy after watching Clifton derail rehearsals, now faced a new nightmare: bad publicity. Advertisers and affiliates didn’t care about “performance art”—they cared about stability. And stability was the last word anyone would use to describe that week.

DeVito’s revelation cuts to the heart of why “Taxi” was canceled. It wasn’t just about ratings or shifting schedules. It was about trust—how quickly it evaporates when a production spirals out of control. Every wasted hour, every flared temper, every bad headline converts to something executives understand: money. The Clifton fiasco bled money from the moment he showed up late. Overtime bills piled up, and the budget absorbed every hit.

But the bigger cost was credibility. When top executives felt compelled to personally watch a firing, it meant the show no longer inspired confidence. If one guest star could hijack production and spin the firing into a national headline, what would happen the next time the show tried to push boundaries? The official line that Clifton was fired for “lateness” was supposed to soften the blow. Instead, it made the studio look weak.

This is the math audiences never see. Ratings might be strong. Fan mail might be pouring in. But when the internal calculations tilt toward risk, a show’s days are numbered. After the Clifton ambush, every renewal meeting for “Taxi” came with new baggage. Executives didn’t just measure audience size; they measured headaches.

In the end, the very stunt that immortalized Kaufman also helped shorten the lifespan of one of television’s greatest sitcoms. “Taxi” lives on in reruns, in awards, and in the careers it launched, but it also lives on in this cautionary tale—a reminder that even legends leave damage in their wake, and every bill eventually comes due.

Danny DeVito’s revelation reframes the story: “Taxi” wasn’t simply canceled because of falling viewership. It was canceled because one chaotic week convinced the money people they’d seen the future, and it was unmanageable. A single act of “performance art” showed them the show could implode again, and the executives weren’t willing to gamble millions on another round.

If this inside account changed how you see “Taxi,” share your thoughts below. Was the Clifton stunt artistic courage, or career sabotage? The legend of “Taxi” endures—but now, we know the wild truth behind its untimely end.