Idiocyncracies of the Stars

Did you ever hear Milton Berle go “urrrrr”? If you did, there’s a reason.

The answer’s contained in this column by the Associated Press dated October 13, 1951. It’s actually a three-in-one column. Bob Thomas deals with more than one subject in it. The man with the most nervous tics in show biz still had a career waiting for him—Johnny Carson. I can’t remember who it was now but someone (I want to say Rich Little) demonstrated all of them on TV one night.

As for the last item, June Lockhart and Anne Jeffreys may be better known for television than anything else (“Lassie” and “Lost in Space” for the former, “Topper” for the latter). Patricia Morison’s greatest triumphs were on the New York stage. She’s apparently still with us at the age of 99.

TV Comics Require Aid of Psychiatrists
By BOB THOMAS
Associated Press Staff Writer
HOLLYWOOD—Are you a coin-jingler? A hair-curler? A lint-duster?
Each of us has some idiosyncracy of personal behavior. Comedians have them, too. A comic, who will have to remain nameless, was discussing the habits of his colleagues this week.

"In pictures, you can cover them up with, cutting or retakes," he observed. "In radio it doesn't matter. You can't see them. But in television you can't miss them. A comedian is right there in full view of millions of people. The slightest movement isn't overlooked.
"Even the most polished and veteran performers have some habits they can't hide.. You'd never think that Milton Berle is ever at a loss for a gag, but he can be. How can you tell? He lets out a growling noise that sounds like ‘urrrrr’, and distorts his mouth in a funny way.
* * *
"Sid Caesar is a cougher. He lets out a big cough every now and then. Jerry Lester combs his hair. Bob Hope draws his little finger over his eyebrow. George Jessel lays his index finger on the side of his nose. Jack Benny sticks his hand in his pocket.
"Me? I scratch. I'll be in the middle of a routine and find that I'm scratching my elbow of my ear."
Who knows — perhaps some smart psychiatrist could make a thriving practice of ridding TV comics of their quirks.
* * *
Hollywood is sounding its A, as far as picture titles are concerned. On a list of movies now in production, we see such titles as: "Somebody Loves me," "Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie," "Lovely to Look at," "Singin' in the Rain," "Sailor Beware" and "She's Working Her Way Through College." Nowadays, producers seem to be getting their titles from old hit parade lists.
Some observers are always harping on how movie people go to Broadway to be discovered. Yes, it has happened, as in the case of Betty Grable. But what about some more recent examples?
Lee J. Cobb was a great hit in "Death of a Salesman." Likewise, Paul Kelly in "Command Decision" and Jessica Tandy in "A Streetcar Named Desire." And did these three stage stars return to Hollywood in triumph? Not exactly. They resumed playing largely secondary roles.
* * *
June Lockhart was a comedy hit on Broadway a few seasons back, but she failed to cash in on her stage fame when she returned to films. Critics raved about Patricia Morison in "Kiss Me, Kate," but she hasn't drawn a movie assignment yet. And Anne Jeffries, who once appeared in B westerns, drew applause in "Kate," "Street Scene" and other musicals. Still no films have come her way. So maybe if you're a Broadway star, you should stay on Broadway.

No Satire Wanted

Satire and the radio industry have never been a good match, as satirists have discovered. Satire has a point of view. People who disagree with that point of view get upset. And the last thing the radio industry wants is people upset with what it puts on the air because that could affect profits.

Fred Allen learned that lesson. So did Henry Morgan. And so did Stan Freberg. When television took over the living room from radio, Allen and Morgan became emasculated and spent their days as panelists for the Goodson-Todman empire. Freberg went into the advertising business he professed to hate and earned an extremely comfortable living—and still got some satiric licks in.

Freberg went from cartoon voice actor to puppeteer to recording star to radio to advertising, building his reputation along the way and leaving behind some truly brilliant work. Who can’t appreciate his stab at censorship (re-imagined by listeners today as an attack on political correctness) in his “Elderly Man River” sketch? Or his kick-in-the-you-know-whats at Lark Cigarettes for appropriating the William Tell Overture (complete with appearance by TV’s Lone Ranger and Tonto)?

Mr. Freberg’s creativity over six decades will be honoured at a function in Los Angeles on November 2nd. Read more about it HERE, especially those of you who can go. The rest of us will have to settle with munching on some Geno’s Pizza Rolls, or singing about Omaha, in tribute.

During the ‘50s, it appears some people didn’t appreciate Freberg’s talents. At least, when directed at them. Arthur Godfrey didn’t mind Bob and Ray making fun of him (even though some of it was a little nasty) and Ralph Edwards’ “This Is Your Life” got a screamingly funny makeover on Sid Caesar’s show. But when it came to Freberg, it looks like the subjects got a little unnerved.

Here’s a United Press story from 1956.

Satirist Is Stymied by Reluctant Performers
By VERNON SCOTT
UP Hollywood Correspondent
HOLLYWOOD, Aug. 31 (UP)—Stan Freberg, last of the vanishing tribe of satirists, claims Ed Sullivan, Arthur Godfrey and Ralph Edwards have cost him a small fortune by refusing to grant him permission to poke fun at them.
BEST KNOWN FOR his broad parodies on record, Freberg is a frustrated man. Unless he gets the green light from celebrities involved he can't cut recordings. "The only TV star ever to give me permission was Jack Webb," Stan said. "Jack has a sense of humor. And my record, 'St. George and the Dragonet,' sold a million and a half. I don't think it hurt his show one iota."
It turns out that Freberg, an owlish-looking individual with cropped hair and horn-rimmed glasses, is a dedicated man. Friday night he takes over CBS "Radio Workshop" to present a study of satire titled "It only hurts when I laugh."
"I BECAME a satirist about 1950 when a lot of absurdities in show business began to irritate me," he said, "I talked to Capitol records and they let me vent my feeling on wax.
“But a multi-million dollar company can't fight multi-million-dollar law suits every day. So I have to ask permission."
Stan, whose parodies of Eartha Kitt, Johnny Ray and other personalities are classics of satire, believes satire is a form of criticism. He considers himself a critic, beyond the reach of censorship.
"Satire started 2,000 years ago, to get around censorship by using humor. Through burlesque, lampooning and exaggeration the satirist used his wit as a weapon to point up flaws and shortcomings of the thing he criticized.
"But what critic sends his story to the person he's criticizing before it appears in print?" Stan asked. "I feel the same way about my recordings."
FREBERG SAYS he makes only three records a year "to retain the novelty of his work. His latest is a take-off on Elvis Presley's echo-chambered version of "Heartbreak Hotel."
"I didn't need Presley's go-ahead," he said. "Recording outfits figure record artists are fair game because they aren't public institutions like national TV figures.
"Sullivan has turned me down three times. And Edwards and Godfrey want no part of satire. I think if I'd just gone ahead and done them anyway they wouldn't have sued. But it's too late now, everyone's afraid they'd take me to court.
“It seems to me laughter is an escape valve for modern pressures,” Stan concluded. "But we're losing our sense of humor, and that could be dangerous."

A year later, Freberg waxed on about the same topic to the Associated Press. This was after his CBS radio show was pulled from the airwaves in what turned out to be a bit of a mess. Variety reported on September 26, 1957 that Freberg had been told the day before he would go off the air on October 20th, when Bing Crosby would take over his slot. But Crosby wasn’t ready. Seems he was lured by the sound of wedding bells. So Freberg’s show ran until the 27th and was replaced with Morgan’s game show “Sez Who!” (in its third time slot in less than four months). Freberg discussed a TV syndication deal with former NBC president Pat Weaver in October but it was not to be. There was talk a month after he was cancelled (and before he was off the air) that CBS wanted him to remain but Freberg rejected the idea (Variety, Oct. 31, 1957).

STAN FREBERG FINDING FEWER THINGS TO KID
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, Dec. 30 (AP) – Is America losing its sense of humor?
Perhaps we can laugh just as easily as before, but we are getting less and less opportunity. The decline of comedy in TV, movies and radio has been cited by many observers. In Atlantic Monthly, Steve Allen attributes this to such causes as the force-feeding of comedy on a mass scale, lack of training grounds for new comics and unsettled conditions in the world.
George S. Kaufman has also complained that funnymen have fewer things to kid these days; there are too many sacred cows.
Stan Freberg, the brilliant young satirist, can attest to this in the radio and record field. Freberg is a curly-haired fellow with a devilish sense of humor though he has the face of a hick "I'm from Pasadena, and I wear it like a badge," he says defiantly. His take-off on Dragnet, "St. George and the Dragonet," sold over 1½ million records, an amazing number for a non-musical, comedy disc.
NO SPONSORS

Since then he has satirized rock 'n roll singers, Johnny Ray, Texans, Harry Belafonte and other phenomena, his latest hit being a takeoff of Lawrence Welk called "Wunnerful, Wunnerful." Stan also lasted 15 weeks on network radio with a show that won critical acclaim but no sponsors. He shows scars from trying to be funny in both radio and records.
"The subjects you can satirize are getting narrower and narrower," he sighed. "I had records about Ed Sullivan, Arthur Godfrey and Ralph Edwards ready to go, but I couldn't get approval for them.
"Capitol Records is too concerned that the subjects will sue unless we get permission from them. The lawyers argue that a single takeoff on TV might not bring action, but the repetition of a record might be cause for damages. I can't convince them otherwise.
REJECT RECORDS
"Sullivan said the record was very funny, but wouldn't give his go-ahead. I sent the record to Godfrey and it was rejected, though I don't know if Godfrey himself ever heard it. Edwards was very nice about it. He said he'd never be able to do ‘This is Your Life’ with a straight face if he allowed the record to come out.
Tired of such goings-on, Freberg sneaked the Welk record out without the bandleader’s approval or the Capitol legal department’s permission.
Freberg said his tangle with radio was even more difficult. On his opening show, he had a satire of Las Vegas. It featured two desert hotels called El Sodom and Rancho Gomorrah, which vied to get the greatest attractions. The climax had one importing the Gaza Strip, parcel by parcel, and staging “The Suez Follies” complete with gunfire.
The other hotel countered by book an H-bomb, which returned the entire resort to desert again.
The skittish network made Freberg change the acts to “An International Incident” and an earthquake. “All the punch was taken out of the whole skit,” the comedian complained. He added that he once had to remove an imitation of Walter Winchell because a top network official hated him.
Fortunately for those who appreciate laughter, Freberg is not giving up. He has formed Freberg, Limited ("but not very much") and is cooking up a TV show for one of the networks. He also is producing some spot commercials which are hilarious.
He is determined to continue, though he readily admits that being funny these days is serious work.

And continue he did. That’s why he’s being honoured on the 2nd. It’ll be a little like “This Is Your Life.” Without Ralph Edwards. Which, somehow, is very appropriate.

Before She Was Alice

There was a time that Ann B. Davis was worried about being typecast in the role of Schultzy, which brought her a pair of Emmys. But who remembers Schultzy today?

Blame the relentlessly ticking clock. Schultzy appeared on “The Bob Cummings Show” more than 50 years ago. It wasn’t a show too many boomers grew up with (dad may have appreciated the female models that surrounded Cummings, though), and disappeared from reruns when colour punted virtually every old black-and-white show off the air (“I Love Lucy” and “The Honeymooners” being notable exceptions). “The Brady Bunch” came along 12 years later, appealed to tons of kids, and played in reruns forever (and probably is on some channel somewhere, even today). Those kids are now grown up and remember Davis as the likeable stalwart maid Alice.

Davis’ death at the age of 88 was reported today.

She once told Associated Press reporter Bob Thomas (in a column published May 6, 1958) she appeared in tent shows in Erie, Pa. for $20 a week—then got a raise to $25 because she helped set up the tent. In 1949, she headed to California to the Porterville Barn Theatre, then accepted stage roles in Monterrey and San Francisco before heading to Hollywood. In 1954, she was working in the Christmas card line of a local department store. Then came Schultzy.

Here are a couple of columns done about the same time as the Thomas interview. The Niagara Falls Gazette of April 13, 1958 reported:

‘Schultzy’ Leads Double Life
Television may be here to stay, but Ann B. Davis is taking no chances.
Ann, the girl with the bun hairdo, is in her fourth year as Charmaine Schultz, the irrepressible secretary on the highly successful “Bob Cummings Show” on (Tuesday, 9:30 p.m.) Chan. 17.
You would think that would be assurance enough, but Ann is sticking to the night club job that she had when discovered by Bob Cummings and George Burns. Every night, after the work is done for the television show, Ann returns to a small place called The Cabaret Theatre on Sunset Boulevard in downtown Los Angeles. It is a little walk-down cellar place. You have to look carefully, or you'll miss it.
Night Life
There Ann, with three or four other performers, does songs, satires and funny sketches, most of which she writes herself. It is a pleasant little place. It has what the newspaper boys call “Atmosphere.” And always, it is crowded. Ann will do a bit entitled “A Streetcar Maimed Ammonia” that would make Tennessee Williams quit writing if he ever sees it. And another thing is called “Typhoid Mary.” All of which gives you an idea.
One night in 1954, two friends told Ann that Bob Cummings was looking for an actress for a new television show. They arranged an audition. She read for Bob and Mary Cummings; George Burns, who is part owner of the show; Paul Henning, writer-producer, and Frederick de Cordoba [sic]. She had never met any of them.
“I've never met with more patience and consideration since I walked through that door,” she recalls.
However, Ann flubbed a line and she was sure that error wrote finish to her efforts. She could not have been more mistaken, because immediately, auditions were called off and Ann B. Davis was signed to her first television, series, bun and all.
Movie Work
Other television roles followed, and some movies.
“My first movie was ‘Strategic Air Command,’ but my bit was cut out.” However, the tight schedule for “The Bob Cummings Show” does not give her time for much else.
“I continue my work at The Cabaret Theatre. Well, in the first place. I like it.” She says. “It gives me a great opportunity for keeping in practice and for developing new routines. I can try anything there.”
Ann Davis was born in Schenectady, and then the family moved to Erie, Pa. Her mother was interested in amateur theatricals. Ann and her twin sister Harriett made their joint debut at the age of four. They recited before clubs, etc. By the time they reached ten, they were doing their own puppet show and making the puppets themselves. Harriett still has some of them.
Ann attended the University of Michigan, and had some vague ideas about studying medicine, but the taste of theater was too strong.
Ann Davis now lives in Hollywood with a poodle and two parakeets, “as near the studio as can.”
The role of Schultzy definitely has affected Ann's life. People recognize her everywhere, on the streets, in restaurants and at theaters. They yell, “Hi, Schultzy. When are you going to marry Bob?”

And this story is from June 21, 1958.

The Three Faces of ‘Schultzy’
There’s Ann, Her Twin And ‘Typhoid Mary’
By ERSKINE JOHNSON
NEA Hollywood Writer

Hollywood—You've seen or heard about “The Three Faces of Eve,” of course. But do you know about the three faces of Ann?—Ann B. Davis? Or “Schultzy” to you.
The Emmy winning comedienne of The Bob Cummings TV show. The sharp-witted, rubber-faced doll who wears her hair in a bun atop her head and a sign, “I Want A Man,” in her eyes.
There is Ann's TV face of Schultzy. That you know. But even while she is working on a sound stage in Hollywood, there is the face of Ann 3,000 miles away in Lexington, Mass.
The face is the same — of her identical twin sister Harriet Norton. When Harriet twists her hair into a bun atop her head she can fool J. Edgar Hoover into believing she's Ann. Or Schultzy.
Harriet, in fact, almost joined Ann in the cast for one Cummings show during a visit to Hollywood. They dressed her like Schultzy for a double vision plot. They made a film test but Harriet, a mother and a housewife, couldn't handle the lines and the idea was shelved.
• • •
THE THIRD FACE of Ann is one only a few people have seen.
She used it as an unknown comedienne in a little downstairs beer and wine only bistro at the wrong end of Sunset Blvd. here. Ann was known as “Typhoid Mary” in those struggling-for-recognition days.
She had a bun on her head then, too, but it was pierced by a big chicken bone set at a rakish angle. She were a sarong, high-laced shoes, horn-rimmed glasses and a lei around her neck. She came out on the little stage by stages— first sticking a bare leg out from behind a curtain. The other leg and the arms and the rest of her followed while the customers pounded heavy beer mugs on the red-topped tables.
Then Ann sang about having a romance with an Englishman in a song she says “made no sense at all.” Her salary didn't make sense, either. A couple of dollars or so a night. But Typhoid Mary helped the career of Ann B. Davis far more than all of her six years of little theater, stock companies and touring musicals in the bush leagues.
People in Hollywood who knew people who knew other people passed the word about Ann's flair for comedy. One of these people was an agent and after a couple of passes at the movie studios—all turned her down—Ann auditioned for the role of Schultzy.
• • •

THERE WAS NO question about it. She WAS Schultzy.
Every now and then on the show Ann comes up with some fourth face to keep the laughs coming. Like when she slipped her head into a blonde wig and her hips into a high gear wiggle for a Marilyn Monroeish character called “Flaming Charmaine.”
Charmaine was quite a challenge. But it's why, after three years as Schultzy, Ann isn't a bit weary or frustrated, like some TV series show regulars, about the limitations and the monotony of it all.
“Our writer, Paul Henning, is a genius,” Ann says. “He keeps throwing challenges at me.”
• • •
The Ann B. (for Bradford) Davis who ditched plans to study medicine at the University of Michigan, switching to drama (class of '48), is a native of Schenectady, N.Y., and a member of the “I Live Alone and Like It” Club. She has a Hollywood bungalow, where she chatters to a French poodle and a parakeet and where she cooks, reads science fiction hair risers and keeps a weight chart—“I have to count calories”—which is down 30 pound points since 1953.
But quite unlike Schultzy, there are nights when Ann hits the night club beat on the arm of some male pal and takes tourists by surprise with a mean rhumba.
She's a doll with romantic frustrations on TV, but she's had her chances as Ann, she will tell you.
“I could have married for love, once and once for money,” she told me. “But I would have had to give up acting—and that I can't do.”

Davis never did marry but she did give up acting. She was heavily into religious studies for several years before her death and quite content.

Ann B. Davis had a life of happiness and gave happiness to others in return.

He Overcame the Comb

You may be hard-pressed to finish the sentence “Remember the scene where Efrem Zimbalist Junior...”

Zimbalist, who died this past week at age 95, starred in two TV series. His last one, “The FBI,” is known more for Hank Simms’ intoning introductions (“A Quinn Martin Production!!”) than anything captured by the camera. But don’t blame Zimbalist. Lawrence Laurent of the Washington Post observed in a 1973 column: “He plays the role of Erskine with a restraint that can only be called wooden. He plays the role exactly the way that executive producer Quinn Martin and the FBI advisors wish to have the role played. It may not be much of a challenge to actor Zimbalist, but the pay is good and the hours are hard to beat.”

Zimbalist was one of many actors swallowed up by Warner Bros. as contract players for television, where the company was churning out detective shows and westerns in the late 1950s. And he may have been the first star whose show got unexpectedly sidetracked. Zimbalist was signed to star in “77 Sunset Strip.”

Zimbalist, Jr. Wants Neither Hit Or Flop
By BOB THOMAS
AP Movie-TV Writer
HOLLYWOOD (AP)—Efrem Zimbalist Jr. is a TV star in a dilemma. He doesn't want a flop, but he doesn't want a hit either.
Zimbalist is the suave private eye who matches wits with Hollywood's underworld on 77 Sunset Strip for ABC Friday nights. The son of the famed musician is also making a name for himself in theatrical films; he scored as Jean Simmons' sympathetic friend in "Home Before Dark."
Therein lies his dilemma.
"I think it's good for me to be doing a TV series now that film production is so low," said the Warner Brothers player. "If I didn't have this, I'd be off salary.

"Naturally, I hope the series is a success. But the thought of my being in it for five to seven years frightens me. I think I'd shoot myself first."
It looks as though he may be in for trouble. Because "77" has been doing very well in the ratings these Friday nights, and the sponsors seem content. Zimbalist could be in for a long run.
When I saw him between scenes, he was wolfing down a sandwich, which comprised his lunch.
"We've been working steadily since the season began," he explained, "and we're still not ahead. We couldn't get any backlog. Sponsor money was tight this year, so we didn't know if we were sold until the last moment. And Warners wasn't willing to shoot more than the pilot until the sale was made."
The studio pulled the wily stunt of making the first show 90 minutes long. Thus, if it didn't sell for TV, it could be sold to theaters. TV claimed it first, and the show won much attention for the novel opener.
The films are made in days, which is pretty speedy going for an hour show. Before Zimbalist hurried back into the scene, I asked him if he was one of the happy Warners TV stars or unhappy ones.
“Happy,” he said. “I don’t mind working this hard if the scripts are good, and some have been excellent.
I’ll check with him later.

Indeed, Thomas did check with him later. And we’ll check in with Thomas later. But first, let’s check in with syndicated columnist Steven H. Scheuer. He wrote a piece on Zimbalist published December 26, 1958. We’ll skip the biographical part, and just reprint the part dealing with “77 Sunset Strip.”

Zimbalist Plays Polished Role
By STEVEN H. SCHEUER
In an effort to duplicate the success of Maverick's pair of fast-talking gamblers, Warner Bros., on Friday nights, have two smooth private detective kiss girls, solve murders and sip drinks between courses at Dino's Hollywood Restaurant in the hour ABC mystery series, "77 Sunset Strip."
The series began with a 90-minute show by writer Marion Hargrove. It was to be a full-length movie, but TV sponsors like it, and the show was cut down. The idea, of course, is to show the jazzy aspect of Hollywood and slip in a juicy case of murder.
Warners made a deal with Dean Martin to use a replica of his restaurant, signed Efrem Zimbalist Jr., who had been playing character parts on Maverick, Cheyenne and Conflict, and added unknown Roger Smith to complete the staff of Bailey and Spencer, the kissing private eyes.
Ingredients for a hit series are there, and if Marion Hargrove could write all the scripts. "77 Sunset Strip" might be farther along than it is today.
One thing is has done, though, is give Efrem Zimbalist Jr. a leading role. His characterization of Dandy Jim Buckley, a charming thief, gave Maverick a lift and furnished a brainy foil for Jim (Bret Maverick) Garner to play against.

Zimbalist and Smith were the stars of the show. But things suddenly developed quite differently. If “77 Sunset Strip” is remembered today, it’s because of guy and his comb, neither of which are mentioned in Scheuer’s story. Edd “Kookie” Byrnes was supposed to play a one-shot, hair-combing Bad Boy killer in the opening show. But something changed before it aired. An epilogue on the episode told viewers he’d be a loveable hipster associate to the main cast members starting next week. Within a few months, Byrnes was getting a thousand fan letters a week (a number that grew) and teenagers were sending him combs in the mail. Warner Bros. improbably released a Christmas album of its TV stars in 1958 that included Zimbalist (his mother was Alma Gluck, the top female recording vocalist of the early 20th century) but it was Connie Stevens’ “Kookie, Kookie, Lend Me Your Comb” that climbed the charts the following year.

How did this sit with the Yale-educated Zimbalist? The answer can be inferred by a wire service column of July 13, 1963. That’s when Bob Thomas checked in to report the combs and their owner were back on a shelf.

Sunset Strip Looks Brighter to Zimbalist
By BOB THOMAS
Hollywood (AP)—Efrem Zimbalist Jr., bereft of his buddies and even his office, was starting the sixth season of 77 Sunset Strip, a series for which he has expressed distaste.
Yet he seemed genuinely delighted with his lot, which happens to be Warner Brothers.
“I couldn't be happier,” he remarked.
The cause of his happiness appears to be Warner's Man Friday, Jack Webb. Chosen new head of television programming, Webb worked fast to save 77 Sunset Strip, which had been marked for extinction. Webb's ideas for altering the series won a reprieve.
The plan was bold. Swept out were all the regulars except Zimbalist — partner Roger Smith, teen favorite Edd Byrnes, comic Louis Quinn, receptionist Jacqueline Beer, cop Byron Keith.
Even the detective agency office next to Dino's Restaurant lapsed into limbo. “I now operate out of an office downtown,” said Zimbalist.
“But the biggest change has been in the scripts,” he added. “And that is why I am delighted with the new setup. The scripts we did during the first five years were garbage. They were simply awful. We would have shows with Louie holding up people with guns and solving mysteries. Louie is a good comedian, but that kind of plot was utterly ridiculous.
“Now we are getting first-class scripts and subjects that mean something. This one we're doing, for example, is about a colored girl, played by Elizabeth Montgomery, who passes for white. It's a touchy subject right now, and I've got to hand it to Webb for standing up to the network's doubts.”
Zimbalist is also pleased with the guest stars, who have included names like Joseph Cotton and Jo Van Fleet. There are indications that the series will be going on locations, instead of being bound to the Burbank studio.
“Sure, I'm going to be working hard,” Zimbalist said. “But an actor never complains about overwork as long as he has good material. And I'm not I complaining.”

Webb’s hard-boiled changes didn’t work. The revamped show was stripped off the schedule and replaced on February 14, 1964 with “Destry.”

Zimbalist went on to something that may have been even less popular in Hollywood—openly campaigning for Republican presidential candidate Barry Goldwater (along with Walter Brennan). He then passed an FBI background check to star in the series about the agency for nine seasons. Almost 20 years after that, Zimbalist launched a new career in animation voice work where he’s best known by those in the under-40 crowd.

A steady and lengthy body of work is what Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. has left behind. And though he may have been “wooden” in his biggest on-camera role, he had to have been good to avoid his career being derailed forever by a brief, teenager-loving fad. He overcame the comb.

Moving Day For Jack

It’s a little contradictory that the Jack Benny radio character was incredibly cheap, yet lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills. Then again, he took in laundry from his neighbours, had a cigarette machine in the living room and took in boarders on occasion.

The mansion was based on reality. Benny had a lovely home 1002 North Roxbury Drive. He moved in because of his wife, Mary Livingstone. She wanted a place just like George Burns and Gracie Allen’s—except better. So she had one built in 1938. Jack’s daughter Joan recalled in their book Saturday Nights at Seven that her father adored the house, but Mary wanted to move. And Jack pretty much gave into Mary’s every wish. So in 1965 they moved into a penthouse where Mary got the biggest rooms and Jack got a parcel “the size of a maid’s quarters.”

Jack’s move was the hook that Bob Thomas of the Associated Press hung a story which was more about the fact that “The Jack Benny Show” wasn’t on the fall schedule. This column ran October 16, 1965.

JACK BENNY IS SELLING HOME IN HOLLYWOOD
By BOB THOMAS
AP Movie-Television Writer
HOLLYWOOD (AP)—“Oh, my goodness, what am I going to do about the vault?”
This was Jack Benny in a bit of whimsy prefaced on the fact that he has put his Beverly Hills mansion up for sale. You know the vault. That mythical underground depository of treasure that even Goldfinger wouldn’t try to steal. He wouldn’t have a chance, not with good old Ed guarding the inner door with his musket.
House, grounds, pool and vault — if there is a vault outside of the imaginations of Benny’s writers — will be going to some moneyed purchaser After 28 years at the same address, Jack and Mary Benny are moving a couple of miles south to occupy a penthouse apartment.
“It’s just too big a house to keep up, what with the help and all,” said Jack. “And we’re so seldom there, anyway. We’ll be spending about six months each year at our place in Palm Springs. The rest of the time I’ll be on the road. So who needs the big house?”
Jack’s life is changing in more than residence. This is the first season in 33 years that he has not appeared on a weekly show in radio or television.
How does it feel?
“Great!” he declared. “At last I can do the things I've always wanted to do, without being tied down. I do concerts. I appear at fairs. I play night clubs. I’m taking Mary to London in November on vacation, although there’s a chance I may do a show there.
“I may end up doing a Broadway play, which is about the only thing in show business I’ve never done. I had a good play offered to me — ‘The Impossible Years.’ I said I would take it if they could wait until next season when I would be free of commitments. They couldn’t wait and now Alan King is doing it: he should be great.”
The Benny humor still will be seen on television this season, and not only with the reruns that crowd the CBS air weekdays and on Friday evenings. NBC has signed him for a pair of specials in color. The first, with the Beach Boys and Elke Sommer as guests, will appear Nov. 3. What does he think of the new, Benny-less season on television?
“Tell you the truth. I haven’t seen much of it,” he said. “I never have been much of a television watcher, although I do try to catch the Dick Van Dyke show: it makes sense.
“I’m too busy to watch television. There are too many things I like to be doing.”

The Bennys lasted in the penthouse for two years. One wonders if it was not a big enough status symbol for Mary Livingstone, as she began looking for a new mansion within two years. And, once she got it, she again had far bigger living quarters than her husband. He didn’t appear to mind, though he missed the old Roxbury home for the rest of his life.

Entertaining in the Korean War Zone

Bob Hope wasn’t the only star who travelled around the world entertaining troops, though he’s probably the first person you think of when the subject comes up. For example, Jack Benny toured during World War Two (including a stop in the oppressive summer heat in Iraq). He also made a jaunt to Korea during the conflict there.

To the right, you see a picture dated June 26, 1951 of the Benny troupe. You should recognise at least one other face. In the far right of the photo is the formerly swashbuckling Errol Flynn, who died eight years later not too many blocks from where Jack’s wife, Mary Livingstone, grew up in Vancouver’s West End. To the far left is someone well-known to Benny fans—guitarist Frank Remley. Also in the photo are Benay Venuta, Marjorie Reynolds, tap dancer Dolores Gay, mentalist Harry Kahne and pianist June Bruner, who had been with Benny on a U.S.O. tour of the South Pacific during World War Two. The group returned home August 6th. He was cheery about the experience when he talked to the Associated Press’ Hollywood reporter about the jaunt. The column appeared in newspapers on August 10, 1951.

JACK BENNY FINDS MORALE OF YANKS IN KOREA HIGH
By BOB THOMAS
Hollywood, Aug. 10 (AP)—"The morale of our men in Korea is terrific," reports Jack Benny, returned this week from entertaining troops in the front lines.
"They know what they're fighting for," added the fiddle-hacking comedian. "Naturally, they want peace. But they want the 1 right kind of peace, and they're willing to continue fighting until they get it.
"The one thing that nearly every one of them asks is: 'Do the people back home know there's a war on?' I told them, 'You're darned right they do.'"
In his six weeks absence from Hollywood, Benny figures he traveled between 25,000 and 30,000 miles with his entertainment troupe. They played before troops and wounded veterans in Hawaii, Japan, Okinawa and throughout Korea. It was a thorough job. Virtually every possible audience of U. S. soldiers in the Orient was reached, with one exception. That was a group at Pusan who could not be reached because of bad landing conditions for aircraft.

"It was the toughest tour I ever made," said Benny, who made five world-wide journeys to entertain troops in World War II. "But also it was the most satisfying. I think we did the best job possible. Not only did we reach every audience we could, but we gave all the time possible to the other things that are important—posing for pictures with the GIs, signing autographs, talking and eating with the boys.
"The food was good wherever we went," said Benny. "But the living and traveling conditions were tougher than anywhere I had been, including North Africa. Much of the time I was living in a dirt-floor tent close to the front lines.
"We had to use every kind of transportation, from light aircraft to helicopter to jeep. The reason is because Korea is so mountainous. The boys have a gag over there that if Korea were flattened out, it would be as big as Texas."
Benny commented that his audiences were highly appreciative of the entertainment. They howled at any reference to Benny's alleged stinginess, such as: "That Tokyo is a fast town; I was there just a few days ago and 50 yen went just like that." As for his violin playing, "you'd think I was Heifetz."
Wherever he went, army bands would strike up "Love in Bloom." A navy base in Japan was filled with signs reading "Waukegan City Limits." As in the last war, there were occasional "Welcome Fred Allen" banners.
"There was only one audience from which we didn't get the laughs we usually got," he recalled. "They were a bunch of fellows who had to go out the next morning and take a hill which we could see from where we were. They were naturally uneasy, not because they were scared but because of the feeling that they might get hit with the peace possibly near."
Benny is urging other stars to enlist for entertainment in Korea. "It is the greatest audience in the world," he said.
"But it's a funny thing—they want good entertainment or none at all. They get fairly late movies and they like them if the pictures are good. If they're bad, the boys will walk out in the middle."
I asked Jack what gag got his biggest laugh.
"It was usually a local joke," he replied. "The best one was when I'd tell them I was going to retire and be a movie producer: "I can see it now—Jack Benny presents Bing Crosby and Bob Hope in 'The Road to Taegu'."

The United Press published a bit of a different take on the tour the following month. Jack admitted he was a little worn out by the whole experience. It wasn’t like he was 39; he was 57 years old. But he didn’t take it easy, either. He appeared in living rooms weekly for more than a dozen more years and performed benefit concerts and other charity events. He was beginning a movie comeback at the time of his death in 1974. But when the next war rolled around in Vietnam, Benny left the entertaining to others. One of them was Bob Hope. Ol’ Ski Nose wasn’t quite exhausted yet.

Pop Culture Caught in a Dragnet

There’s a difference between a satire of a TV show and a send-up of its theme song. But bandleader Ray Anthony doesn’t appear to have understood that.

“Dragnet” began on TV the same year as “I Love Lucy” and both have probably never left the tube since then. “Lucy” had a huge audience, but “Dragnet” must beat it when it comes to parodies and rip-offs. Jack Webb’s monotone style delivery of abrupt lines and the show’s theme have been imitated countless times for laughs. And I suspect the first person to see the lampooning value in Webb’s cop show was the master satirist Stan Freberg, who scored a huge hit with “St. George and the Dragonet” on Capitol records. He and the great writer and voice actor Daws Butler took the “Dragnet” concept, theme and all, and plunked it in mediaeval times.

Meanwhile, others thought the theme itself could be a money-maker. And that’s where Anthony comes in. But he griped to Associated Press reporter Bob Thomas about Freberg. Neither seems to have understood “St. George” wasn’t competing with anyone; it wasn’t as if someone was going to decide between buying Freberg’s parody of Webb’s show and a jazzed-up version of the show’s theme.

This is from 1953.

'Dragnet' Music and Takeoffs Score Huge Success
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, Oct. 8—(AP)—Dumm da dum dummm.
The opening theme of "Dragnet," the cops-and-hudlums TV show on NBC tonight, has become the most famous four notes in America today. They have eclipsed "Da da da dum"—the start of Beethoven's fifth symphony that was the victory symbol in World War II.
Reports Variety: "No show biz phenomenon has captured public interest as much as the musical theme of 'Dragnet' since the pioneer radio catchphrase days of 'Voss you dere, Sharlie?' 'Wanna buy a duck?' . . ."
Everywhere you go, it's "Dumm da dum dummm." It blares from juke boxes and radios. TV comics use it as a punch line. My five-year-old even brought it home from kindergarten the other day.
The craze was set off by Ray Anthony's hardrocking disc of the "Dragnet" theme. Now it is reaching a frenzied climax with a runaway record seller called "St. George and the Dragonet." Heaven knows where it will all end.
I sat down with bandleader Anthony to find out how it all happened. The suave musician, who looks like a trumpet playing Cary Grant, said it started over a year ago.
"My manager, Fred Benson, thought it would be a good idea to get out a record on the 'Dragnet' theme," he explained. "We asked one of my arrangers to whip up a treatment. Every month or so, I would ask him how he was coming. He'd say, 'Man, I can't get with it.'
"So we let it slide. There was some doubt whether Jack Webb would release the rights to the music for records.
"When we were in New York last summer, we heard that Buddy Morrow's band was coming out with a 'Dragnet' side on Victor. So I ordered a couple of arrangements in a hurry—one playing it straight and the other in boogie.
"We sat down to the recording date and played both versions. Neither of them sounded right. So we combined them and added some new touches. Four hours later, we came off with the finished product."
Capitol records put a hurry order on the disc and beat Victor to the market. Anthony's version began telling like hot dogs at a world series, it was by far the biggest seller his band ever had.
Then came "St. George and the Dragonet." A hilarious satire of Webb's underplaying, repetitive style, it was whipped up by two "Time for Beany" creators, Stan Freberg and Daws Butler, plus Walter Schumann, who composed the original "Dragnet" music.
The record is one of the fastest stellers in history, reaching 900,000 and still climbing. It has naturally cut into Anthony's sales. Why would his own company bring out a competing record?
"That's what I'd like to know," replies Anthony, who is slightly indignant about it. But he added that his sales are beginning to build up steam again. The latest figure is 700,000.
Many people have wondered how Webb feels about the jazzing up and lampooning of his TV show. He appears to favor the Anthony version and tolerate "St. George." But he has frowned on Spike Jones' record and some others.
"It's the small, commercial outfits which never bothered to secure clearance, that we're out to stop," he said.
The big question about 'Dragnet' is whether the show's theme will make the Hit Parade, which is sponsored by a rival cigaret firm. So far it hasn't made the grade among the top seven tunes. Yet it appears in the top three of most record sales, radio and juke box lists. How now, Hit Parade?

Here’s the Anthony version of the “Dragnet” theme.



And here’s a hissy version of Freberg’s great single featuring him, Daws Butler and June Foray with Hy Averback intoning the opening lines much like George Fenneman did on the TV show.

TV Without Mary

Stories abound about Jack Benny’s wife, Mary Livingstone, and not all of them are pleasant. All I know is from a radio listener’s standpoint, she had the ideal dry, cutting delivery that added to the Benny show’s enjoyment.

The former Sadye Marks had become part of her husband’s vaudeville act as a last-minute replacement, and then remained on his radio show past a one-shot appearance when her performance prompted favourable letters from listeners. But Benny biographies reveal she was nervous while on stage to the point that, finally, some of her last radio shows featured her recorded voice dubbed in afterward (script girl Jeanette Eymann read her part during the actual performance in front of an audience). You’d never know listening to the shows that she had mike fright.

The prospect of television apparently frightened her, though she had made the movie “This Way Please” in 1937. So with only a few rare exceptions, she never made the jump to the new medium with Jack. But so strong was her character that some viewers apparently never noticed. Here’s an Associated Press column dated October 11, 1960.

Mary’s Staying Home
Benny Goes on Alone
By BOB THOMAS
Associated Press Writer
Hollywood — There was much to-do when Gracie Allen retired from show business. Not generally known is the fact that her close friend, Mary Benny, has been virtually retired for almost a decade.
This was disclosed by Jack Benny as he prepared to start his 11th and most strenuous season on TV. He'll face it without Mary.
She had been scheduled to appear in the first show tomorrow. “I needed a scene in which someone would scold me for going on TV every week, and Mary was the only one who could do it because she is the only woman who has a close relationship with me,” Jack explained.
“But I could see she was getting more and more nervous as the show got closer. So we rewrote her part rather than subject her to the strain. She gets nervous, even without an audience.
“Actually, Mary never was crazy about performing. In our last days on radio, she did all her work at home, and the script girl read her lines with me before the audience. The people never minded, once I explained the situation to them.”
WHILE MARY has given up performing, she's still an important member of the Benny team, the comedian indicated.
“I always take decisions to her, because she has great insight,” he said. “When I was thinking about going on TV every week, I asked her what she thought about it. I'd either do that, or stay on every other week and do a few specials.
“She advised me to go on regularly but to avoid the specials. 'You'll always be trying to top yourself with specials, Jack,” she said. “'You'll feel miserable if you don't.' She's absolutely right.”
And so Benny is embarking on a weekly grind though he is 27 years beyond his legendary 39. He doesn't need the money. He doesn't need the fame. So why does he do it?
“I THINK IT makes more sense in building an audience,” he explained. “Before, no one knew exactly which week I was on; I didn't even know myself It was hard to maintain a rating, because people who liked my show might not like the alternate show, and vice versa.
“Besides, I like to work. I've always been a little show crazy. Bob Hope and I often argue which of us is the worse in that regard. We both hate long vacations.
“By doing a show every week. I can get into a regular routine. I don't have those dull periods when I'm anxious to get to work. The writers like it better, too: they know what their deadlines are and they prepare for them.”
THE SCHEDULE still leaves him time to play golf three or four times a week (though he groused about the loss of daylight saving) and to play fund-raising concerts, as he will next month in Cleveland, Cincinnati and Indianapolis. It's a busy schedule at an age when a lot of folks are collecting Social Security.
“I think it's working that keeps me young,” he observed. “If I had quit a couple of years ago. I'd be an old man by now. As it is, I just got the returns back from my annual checkup, and the doctor says I'm in fine shape.”
His secrets of continuing success? Jack offered two:
—“I hate a lousy show. If I do one, I feel miserable afterward. I think most of my shows are good ones. A few are great.”
—“I think I'm a good editor. I work closely with my writers—two of them have been with me 18 years. I edit them closely, and I know what is good for me.”

The Jack Benny radio show had so many pieces, if one was missing on occasion, you might not notice unless it was pointed out on the air. But not all the pieces were there when the show moved to television and that resulted in some modifications. The TV show was good, but the radio show was far more enjoyable to me simply because a good mix of personalities and characters had been worked out over the years. And a large part of that was Mary Livingstone.

Tarring Bob Hope With the Red Brush

In this day of “The Daily Show”, Stephen Colbert and late night talk show monologues, it’s hard to think anyone believed political humour would be too sensitive a subject for comedians. But that appears to have been the case in 1958, a time of stand-up yucks about mothers-in-law, women drivers and suburbia.

When you think of Bob Hope, a multitude of things come to mind. Road pictures with Bing Crosby. “Thanks for the Memories.” Old Ski Nose. Endless sojourns to entertain “the boys.” And, at the end, an old guy staring at corny jokes on cue cards during TV specials larded with marching bands, football teams and breasty women. But in his radio variety days, Hope tossed in one-line zingers at political figures. And like any good comedian, he picked on the foible, not the political party.

Leslie Townes Hope would be 110 today. Here’s a column from the Associated Press about how Hope learned that partisan political types take the attitude “If you ain’t for us, you’re against us.”

END OF POLITICAL HUMOR?
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, Oct. 23 (AP) – Is Bob Hope the only one left who can kid presidents?
This question arose again this week when old ski nose told political jokes at a luncheon for President Eisenhower during the latter’s political visit here. There was much laughter over Bob’s pointed political barbs. Many observers feel he is the only comic who can get away with it anymore.
These lamenters feel the age of political satire is past, that there are too many sacred cows now. You often hear the claim: Will Rogers couldn’t conduct his spoofing of politicos if he were alive today.
“Nonsense,” says Hope. I see no reason why Rogers couldn’t be doing his act today. One you build up certain trade marks, you can get away with more than the newcomer can. People expect me to kid politics; they’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”
But he admitted that political satire is increasingly hazardous.
“I guess it wouldn’t be wise for me to play Little Rock right now,” he sighed during a lunch break of “Alias Jesse James.” “I’ve been getting mail from Arkansas calling me all kinds of names.”
The reason was the Hope-ism: “President Eisenhower wanted to send the first man into space, but he couldn’t get Governor Faubus to make the trip.”
Hope recalled the time when he threw some quips in the direction of Sen. Joseph McCarthy. The comedian drew a letter from a Wisconsin judge accusing him of being a Communist. Confirmed capitalist Hope set him straight in a return letter.
Hope knows his way around Washington, and so he can step on some friendly toes when he tosses out his witticisms. Richard Nixon’s “Checkers” speech was too fertile territory for him to resist, so he made some cracks about it.
“Wow, the mail I got from that!” he recalled. “I was worried, because Nixon is a good friend of mine. I sent him the letters and my explanation, just so he’d hear about it from me first.” During his summer run in “Roberta” in St. Louis, Hope cracked: “President Eisenhower is getting more distance out of his golf drivers now that he’s got Sherman Adams’ picture on the ball.”
Hope rattled it off for a quick laugh, but it was picked up by a national magazine. He felt bad about it, since Adams was a friend, too.
Unlike Rogers, who was an avowed partisan (“I don’t belong to an organized party—I’m a Democrat”), Hope has steered clear of active politicking. “I don’t think it’s fair to your sponsor,” he explained.
To prove his impartiality, he can cite the times he entertained before Presidents Roosevelt and Truman. He recalled with fondness a Washington dinner in 1944. Hope commented on the meeting of Roosevelt and Churchill to plan allied strategy:
“They didn’t discuss where we were going to attack or when. It was: How can we keep Eleanor out of the crossfire?”
Hope remembered that FDR lifted his cigarette holder into the air, threw back his head and laughed heartily. To a comedian, such a reaction is worth all the slings and arrows of outraged citizens.

The Good of the Act

“Progress” was society’s watchword for the longest time and once something new was embraced, the old was discarded quickly. In 1955, everyone looked ahead to flying cars and kitchens that made instant food. They didn’t look back. Modern home entertainment meant television. Radio was a thing of the past, even though the networks were still broadcasting. Silent films were positively ancient, a product of those Stone Age days way, way back—a whopping 30 years earlier. How attitudes change. Today, the past is the present. You can turn on one of those obsolete radios and hear music from not just 30 but 40 years ago. In 1955, no one was listening to singing stars of 40 years before like Alma Gluck and John McCormack.

So it was in the mid ‘50s that vaudeville was considered a dusty memory. A pleasant one, though. Grumpy Fred Allen left the impression in his book Much Ado About Me that the tedious grind of touring small towns for next-to-no pay was the best time he had in show business. George Burns looked back on his vaudeville years with bemusement. They were among a comparatively select few who made it to the top.

So were the team of Smith and Dale. Remarkably, they were still performing long after vaudeville was dead. The Associated Press caught up with them in 1955.

Comedy Team For 57 Years
Famous Members Of Avon Four
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, May 25 (AP) — The battling comedy teams of today can take a lesson from Smith and Dale, who have been creating laughs together for 57 years.
Comedians like Abbott and Costello and Martin and Lewis have suffered splits and dissensions which have placed strains on their careers. Smith and Dale can show them how two men can live and work together in a highly competitive business and still get along.
No vaudeville fan needs to be told who Smith and Dale are. But to the younger generation, it can be explained that they were the more famous members of the Avon Comedy Four.
Some years ago, Variety polled veteran stars on which were the best acts of the vaude era. The majority placed the Avon Comedy Four at the top of their lists. Their most famous routine is the zany Dr. Kronkite sketch.
Smith and Dale are getting belly laughs with Dr. Kronkite nightly at a night club called the Bandbox. Their audiences have included such fans as Jack Benny, Dan Dailey, Frank Sinatra, Edward G. Robinson, George Burns and George Stevens.
The veteran pair was relaxing in the sun at their Hollywood hotel and reminiscing about their career.
"I'll tell you why we've never split up," said Joe Smith, who is 71, powerfully built, and hawknosed with a dapper mustache. "We've had our fights in the dressing room and listeners say 'Oh-oh, this is the end of the team.'
"But we never carry our disagreements out of theater. Whenever we argue, it's for the good of the act. There's no jealousy over who gets laughs."
"That's right," added Charley Dale, almost 74, a wry-looking fellow with heavy-lidded eyes and a fighter's nose. "That's what breaks most teams up. One of them wants to be an individualist. You can't think about laughs for yourself alone. You've got to think about the good of the act."
Some teams, for instance Olson and Johnson, figure they will get along better by remaining apart offstage. But Smith and Dale don't hold to this.
"When we're traveling, we always stay at the same hotel." said Smith. In New York, we usually see each other every day. If we don't, we're talking on the telephone. We're both Masons and members of the Lambs Club."
"He's stuck with me," laughed Dale," and I couldn't get along without him."
This has been going on since 1898, when they met and combined forces in show business. Their long pairing is a record in anybody's book. They've been doing "Dr. Kronkite" since 1906. As Smith says, "If the number of times we have one it were laid end to end, it would be endless." They've peformed it in every medium from vaude to video.
How do they retain their zest for the sketch?
"We never do the same routine twice," explained Smith. "The other night I threw in a line about Medic.' Got a big laugh."
"The sketch is wonderful," said Dale. "Some of the lines are still so funny to me that I can hardly keep a straight face."
It's apparent that Dr. Kronkite must have rejuvenating powers, Because both Smith and Dale look 20 years younger than they are. Their hair is scarcely gray, and they have the enthusiasm of show biz newcomers. While here, they're discussing plans to film their life stories.

The most interesting part of the story is the attitude that Smith and Dale had toward their audience. They were entertainers so the audience came first. They set aside their personal feelings because the show must go on. Considering the self-indulgent, self-important nature of stars today, perhaps they should look back at the attitudes of the past.

Someone Had to Take on Lucy

These days, we’re used to television shows appearing and disappearing on the network schedules at the whims of executives reading columns of numbers (shares, demographics and so on). How different it was in earlier days.

Into the early 1960s, time slots could very well be controlled much as they were in the radio days—by sponsors and their ad agencies. If they bought the time, they could basically tell the network what to put there. If they bought a show, the network miraculously found a place for it. The people involved in the show themselves got caught in the middle. And that’s what happened to Dennis Day.

Dennis rose to fame as a singer on the Jack Benny radio show where he also displayed a talent for impersonations and crazy dialects. That landed him his own radio show and when television needed talent, popular radio stars were targeted for transition to the new medium. So Day ended up in TV in a sitcom featuring a janitor named Charley Weaver who went on to greater fame. Day may have been popular on radio but there was a TV star more popular—Lucille Ball. And that’s who Day ended up battling for ratings. You can guess at the outcome. But you probably can’t correctly guess why Day ended up in that time slot. The pull of the sponsor came into play. Dennis talked about it in this interview with the Associated Press.

Dennis Day Is Called Brave to Buck ‘Lucy’ Show
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, Apr. 7 (AP) — Nominated for the bravest man in TV: Dennis Day.
“I wouldn’t say I was the bravest,” says Dennis. “Maybe the unluckiest.”
I have selected Dennis for the video medal of valor because he is the fellow who has had to face Lucille Ball on an opposing network, In most locations, the Dennis Day Show is on at the same time on Monday night as “I Love Lucy.” This took real nerve, since “Lucy” has drawn the biggest audience in TV for the past two years.
“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea to go opposite Lucy,” Dennis told me. “I wanted to do my show on film. My sponsor, RCA, didn’t want me to. The only way I could get permission was to agree to take the spot opposite Lucy. So I did it.
“I took a chance and I failed. I think it was a mistake putting such a similar show opposite Lucy.
We both have situation comedy. We had good mail from people who said they had switched over to watch us. Once they made the change, they seemed to like our show. But watching ‘Lucy’ is too great a habit for the majority of viewers. We just couldn't fight it.”
The show, has been dropped by RCA, which Dennis says is concentrating its fortune on the transition to color TV. Dennis still is under contract to NBC and will be back next season—in a different time slot, you can bet.
“Still, I didn’t do so badly,” he added. “When I started, out the sponsor said if I hit a 7 rating, I’d be doing all right. If I made 14, I’d be a hero, and over 30 would be sensational. The show got up into the 20s, so they can’t complain. In Canada, where I don’t have to face Lucy, ours is the No. 1 show.”
In this country, “I Love Lucy” has maintained a rating in the 60s, or roughly three times the Dennis Day audience. Industry observers feel Day has definitely cut into Lucy’s audience, since the show used to rate head-and-shoulders above its competition. Now it has to fight “Dragnet” for top honors.
I asked Dennis why he insisted on filmed shows us against live, which he did in his first two years on TV.
“I think film is a lot better for a show like mine,” he remarked. “Sometimes I play as many as eight different characters in one sketch, which would be impossible to do live.
“When I was doing the show live, it was nerve-wracking. One character I did required a one-minute costume change, so it always had to come after a commercial. Even so, I was always wondering, ‘Will the zipper work?’
“To get from one scene to another, I would have to race the length of the stage. I was breathless, but I would have to break into a love song with the girl in the show.”
Of course, another advantage in filming is the moola. Live shows can never be recalled; the Kinescope is destroyed a few weeks afterward, Dennis remarked. But films can be shown over and over again.
Dennis owns them outright. He has lavished money on them, often taking a loss from his own pocket. The films are more expensive than most other shows because he uses a full orchestra to accompany his songs. Most of the other films use canned music or vocal backgrounds to avoid paying the musicians’ union its required 5 percent.
“But the films are all mine,” said Dennis, adding a tribute to his Lucy opposition: “And virtually no one has seen them yet.”

But Day never did get another shot at TV stardom. He continued making appearances on the Jack Benny television show and guesting elsewhere. Perhaps appropriately, one of his shots was on “The Lucy Show.”

Life of Benny, 1962

One of the reasons Jack Benny’s death in 1974 came as such a shock was that he was always so active, almost right up to his passing. He joked about being 39 but he really did look younger than his age (on camera at least) and it may have been because he was always doing something.

Here’s a story from the Associated Press from 1962 about his latest tour which was to take him to New York. It’s made out to be kind of a return-to-vaudeville story, though I doubt Jack shared the bill with Fink’s Mules.

His comments about television are more interesting. One wonders if “being a breeze” begat complacency, especially considering the hours he poured into his show in his radio days. And while Jack said he never worried about ratings, it was his ratings that kept him coming into living rooms year after year.

Jack Benny Going Back To Broadway
By BOB THOMAS
AP Movie-Television Writer
HOLLYWOOD, Dec. 7 (AP) — Jack Benny is returning to the medium he left 31 years ago—the Broadway revue.
It was in 1931 when the young (37) Waukegan Ill., funnyman walked out on a tour of “Earl Carroll’s Vanities,” in which he had starred in New York. The move was decidedly not in keeping with his later fame as a penny-pincher.
“I was getting $1,500 a week, and you can imagine how big that looked in 1931,” he says.
But he declined the job because the show was beginning a rugged tour of one-nighters. Besides, he had his eye on something else called radio. And the rest, as they say along the Rialto, is history.
On Feb. 11, the comedian will open “The Jack Benny Show” at the O’Keefe in Toronto and head for a six-week stand at the Ziegfeld Theater in New York, starting Feb. 27. He'll take along a troupe of performers including Jane Morgan and the Beverly Hillbillies — that's his own zany combo not the television series.
Jack Benny is 68. He conducts a weekly television show, plays his fiddle all over the country to raise funds for longhair music, does his act in Las Vegas showrooms at less charitable fees. So why does he return to Broadway?
“Because it’s fun," he said. “I like what I do; I always have. That's why I work. “This season in television has been a breeze for me. I’ve been able to play nine holes of golf every day. I get in an hour or two of practice with my violin each day. My only problem is what to do with my nights.”
TV RATINGS
The Jack Benny Show has bounced back in the ratings after a rocky season last year. The shift from Sunday (opposite front-running “Bonanza”) to Tuesday undoubtedly helped.
“But I can’t worry about ratings,” he remarked. “There are too many unknown qualities that determine them. Do you know that the change of one phone call can make your rating drop?
“I’m gratified if the rating is good, especially since we’re up against two strong shows, Dick Powell and ‘The Untouchables.’ I suppose we get some help from a good lead-in—Red Skelton precedes us. On the other hand, some people might say they’ve had an hour of comedy and they want something--dramatic. Who can tell?
STANDARD OF QUALITY
“All I know is that I maintain a pretty steady standard of quality. That’s all I can do.”
There’s no telling how long he will be doing so, Benny never seems to age or to slacken his pace. His secret seems to be a dedication to the sensible life. He works hard but unbends on the golf course. He eats sparingly and has only an occasional cocktail before dinner.
Performing stimulates him; the sound of laughter is a great tonic. Unlike other comics, he also is good listener, His fellow performers love to sharpen their wit before him, because they know what a ready audience he is.
But his real secret of living may be his much-maligned violin. “When I play it, I can’t think about anything else,” he said. “It’s the greatest relaxation in the world.”

The Quintessence of Nothing

Was there a radio star more quoted than Fred Allen?

It’s hard to pin down Allen as a cynic, pessimist or a realist. Perhaps he was a bit of all three, judging by what he had to say about the entertainment industry of his day and California, a particular topic of dislike. Many of his observations have been preserved and requoted, but some are buried in old newspaper columns that we have endeavoured to pull from dusty archives and bring to you.

Buried amongst Fred’s disappointments and annoyances are some cute one-liners that he would have used on his radio show—if he had a radio show. At the time of this column, December 19, 1951, he barely had a TV show. He, Jerry Lester and Bob Hope were appearing on a rotational basis as the hosts of “Sound Off Time,” a live Sunday night variety show that petered out in early 1952. At least one TV failure awaited him before he found a modest level of comfort (and he decidely looks uncomfortable on certain broadcasts) as a panelist on “What’s My Line.”

Fred Allen Raps Favorite Targets
BY BOB THOMAS 
HOLLYWOOD, Dec. 19.— (AP)—Sour-faced comedian Fred Allen, here for a movie stint, paused long enough to level a blast at his favorite target—vice presidents. Allen has long been a critic of the executive mind, particularly in the air networks and advertising agencies. He blames such bigwigs for television’s failings, including his own.
“My shows have been pretty bad,” he admitted openly, “except the last one. The reason is that until now I had been doing what everybody else said I was supposed to do. But on the last one, I disregarded their advice and did the kind of show I wanted. The sponsor was dropping the series anyway, so what, did I have to lose?
Many Screwy Notions.
“These executives have a lot of screwy, notions about TV. They say everything has to have movement. Even if you’re standing still and doing a monologue, there has to be two guys running around behind you.
“After all, entertainment is entertainment, whether you’re running a race or standing still. But you can't convince executives of that. I’ve always thought that the meeting of executive minds produced the quintessence of nothing.”
The Boston comic has had many a run-in with executives. It started back with his first air show. The wife of one of the sponsors liked organ music.
“We were trying to put on a snappy show,” recalled Allen, “but we had to stop in the middle of it to switch to the New York Paramount for two minutes of organ music.”
Influence Rapped.
He believes that the advertiser’s influence in TV produced a bad effect, “just as it did in radio.”
“The TV performer has the same importance as the label on a can,” he argued. “The show itself is not important; it’s whether the show can sell the product. “I think it’s bad in any medium when the entertainment quality is not the important thing. A discriminating audience has certainly helped the movie business. Pictures had to get better, because people found out they could eat popcorn right out in the open; they didn’t have to go in darkened theaters to do it.”
Allen is here to play a TV performer in a sequence of “We’re Not Married.” I asked him if he planned any more pictures.
“No,” he replied. “I was never any good in pictures, and I never really had pictures written for me. I did my first one because they couldn’t get Ned Sparks. I did another because they liked the first one. Then, I did one with Jack Benny because we were supposed to be fighting on the radio.
“Besides, I’m tied down to an exclusive deal with NBC. They won’t let me work for any other network. Even when I’m not working, I’m not working for NBC.”
I remarked that he was looking amazingly well for Allen. Even the bags under his eyes were small valises.
“I’ve been on a diet for two years because of my high blood pressure,” he explained. “I can’t eat anything with salt. In fact, I can’t even return to New York by way of Salt Lake City when I go back; that's how strict it is.
“I had to give up drinking and smoking, too. At my age (57), I’m not allowed any pleasures. Why do I work? Just for the convenience of the treasury department.”

Hollywood Holidays, 1951

Last year, we went through a bunch of Bob Thomas’ Yuletide season columns; Bob was the movie columnist for the Associated Press based in Hollywood. We left off at 1950. So, let’s pick it up for a Year in Review.

Actually, these two columns from 1950 are more of the quotes-of-the-year-in-review rather than ones of a Yuletide nature. He didn’t interview the stars at Christmas-time. But these are fun nonetheless and shows that being overly preoccupied with celebrities and gossip is not something restricted to the age of web sites.

Some footnotes to the column: Thomas is understandably coy (it is 1950, after all), as to background of why the Granger story is a “yawn.” The Crosby story happened in May; he actually did get a room when a bellboy recognised the singer, who had driven straight from Idaho with writer Bill Morrow and hadn’t shaved or bathed. Hotel Vancouver Night clerk Art Cameron later told the United Press “I thought they were a couple of bums or Indians from up north.” Crosby loved coming to B.C. to fish; of course, he was originally from Spokane so he was familiar with the region. Wanger was given four months in 1952 for jealously shooting his wife’s (Joan Bennett) agent in an area men would rather not be shot in.

1951 Finishes in Hollywood With New High, Low Points
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, Dec. 25—(AP)—Another troubled year in Hollywood is drawing to a close, so it's time to sit down and pick the highs and lows.
Pardon the poetry, but it’s the season, isn’t it? So I tried a different approach for getting into the annual summation of the year’s events in Hollywood. Here goes: Biggest news story—The Walter Wanger shooting.
Second biggest and winner of long-run honors—The Franchot Tone-Barbara Payton-Tom Neal affair.
Yawn of the year—The Shelly Winters-Farley Granger “romance.”
Biggest industry news—Louis B. Mayer’s exit from MGM.
Almost the biggest industry news—Warner Brothers’ offer to sell their interests, later retracted.
Brightest new box office stars—Martin and Lewis, Mario Lanza.
Losses of the year—Robert Walker, Fanny Brice, Maria Montez, Leon Errol.
Biggest blow to the bobby-sox set—Elizabeth Taylor’s divorce.
Biggest blow to the dowager set—Clark Gable’s divorce.
Freak news event of the year—A Vancouver hotel’s refusal to room Bing Crosby because he looked like a bum.
Runner-up—Arrest of Charles Coburn and his poker pals.
Most recurrent news item—Hedy Lamarr’s announcement she'll retire.
Most notable homecoming—Rita Hayworth’s.
Worst public relations — Frank Sinatra.
Best musical film — “American in Paris.”
Best drama — “A Place in the Sun.”
Father of the year — James Stewart, parent of twins.
Best male performances —Humphrey Bogart, “African Queen”; Marlon Brando, “Streetcar Named Desire”; Gene Kelly, “An American in Paris”; Fredric March, “Death of a Salesman”; Gregory Peck, “David and Bathsheba.”
Best female performances — Bette Davis, “Payment on Demand”; Katharine Hepburn, “African Queen”; Vivien Leigh, “Streetcar Named Desire”; Shelley Winters, “A Place In the Sun”; Jane Wyman, “The Blue Veil.”
Most promising newcomers— Debbie Reynolds, Mitzi Gaynor, Dale Robertson. Aldo Ray. Best low-budget picture—“The Well.”
And a Merry Christmas and lots of them to patient readers.

And one more from a few days later. Joyce Mathews was married twice to Milton Berle and twice to Billy Rose, the first time in 1956. She was between husbands when this column was written.

More Memorable Hollywood Quotes of Year Listed
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, Dec. 27—(AP)—Talk, talk, talk. There was lots of it emanating from Hollywood this year.
This was one of the film town’s talkingest years. Film folk were yacking all over the U.S., trying to convince citizens that Hollywood was full of solid citizens. Meanwhile, there was a lot of gabbing in Hollywood, plus a bit of spitting and shooting, that created another impression.
One of the year of talk, I have tried to cull the more memorable quotes. Here they are:
Frank Sinatra, irate at reporters who trailed him and Ava Gardner in Mexico before their marriage: “It’s a fine thing when we can’t go on a vacation without being chased.”
Whisky Scares Bugs
Humphrey Bogart, explaining how he escaped insects in Africa: “Nothing bites me. A solid wall of whisky keeps insects at bay.”
Paulette Goddard, learning ex-husband Burgess Meredith had married for the fourth time: “I think it was quite normal of him. He always was domestic.”
Actress Kay Scott, divorcing auto dealer Douglas Nerney: “Music has been part of my life, but when I tried to play classics on the piano my husband turned on the television full force.”
Ethel Barrymore, learning that John Barrymore, Jr. had skipped out on a summer theater play: “John let the family down. It’s the first time in 300 years a Barrymore failed to comply with the billing. I’m deathly sick about it.”
Loves Razor Blades
Joyce Mathews, after slashing her wrists in Billy Rose’s bathroom: “I just love razor blades.”
Director Fletcher Markle in an interview: “Now please don’t write me up as a genius like some of the others have. I’m just a fellow who works hard.”
Tallulah Bankhead, asked if she would enter politics: “Heavens, I wouldn’t inflict that on any country.”
Katharine Hepburn, declaring that plain women—like herself—know how to make love: “The beautiful women are usually too busy being fascinating.”
“We’re Happy—Goodbye.”
Robert Mitchum, answering the Hollywood Press women who voted him “the most unco-operative”: “Your gracious award became a treasured addition to a collection of averse citations. These include prominent mention in several 10 worst-dressed-American lists and a society columnist’s 10 most-desirable-male-guest list, which happily was published on the date I was made welcome at the county jail.”
Fred Allen: “It took 18 years in radio to ruin my health. It took three shows on television to ruin my reputation.”
Franchot Tone, greeting reporters on return from a honeymoon appearance tour with bride Barbara Payton: “We're home and we’re happy—goodbye.”
Walter Wanger, after firing the shot heard ‘round the world: “I shot him because he broke up my home.”

Not Too Silent Night

Christmas comes too early you say? Christmas music is pouring forth from radios before it should? It was different when you were a kid?

Funny, people were saying the same thing 60 years ago.

You can thank—or blame, depending on your point of view—two people for the reason you can’t seemingly escape from festive tunes of snowmen, candy canes, Santa, sleighs and the like. Associated Press movie reporter Bob Thomas explained it all in his column that began appearing in papers on December 3, 1952.

Annual Barrage of Christmas Ditties Hitting the Air Waves
By BOB THOMAS
HOLLYWOOD, Dec. 3 (AP)—Here it is only the beginning of December and already the jukes and jocks are dinning our ears with Christmas songs.
The juke boxes and the disc jockeys hare a full quota of Yuletide carols, some centuries old and some brand new. The new ones will be as abundant as ever this year, because members of the music industry are always hopeful that they will find another “White Christmas.”
I can remember when the only Christmas songs we sang were the ones we learned in Sunday school. I seem also to remember when Christmas was celebrated on or about Dec. 25.
Of course, there had been some modern Christmas songs, but practically all you heard were oldies like “Silent Night” and “Jingle Bells.” All that changed in 1942. That was the year Bing Crosby crooned Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” in a film called “Holiday Inn.”
That was a sentimental year, with men going off to war. The song seemed to hit everybody’s heart and stay there. Sales records are hazy in the music business, but most experts agree that Bing’s “White Christmas” platter is the top seller of all time. Estimates range as high as eight million.
Two million copies of the sheet music were sold in the first year of “White Christmas,” and 800,000 are reportedly sold each year.
That is the reason that each year song writers rack their brains for new Christmas songs. And music publishers and record companies plug the daylights out of them, hoping for another “White Christmas.”
I found some research on this subject at Capitol Records, which this year is going all out for a tune called “Hang Your Wishes on a Tree.” It’s a new song written by Marian Boyle and Eddie Gale and recorded by Les Baxter.
“It’s a good song,” observed Capitol executive Dave Dexter, “That’s the only thing that worries me—it might be too good.”
He told me that the song was selected from an estimated 500 to 600 Christmas ditties submitted to the record company this year. That gives you an idea of the chances of getting a song recorded, much less have it become a hit.
“The song-writing business is the toughest in the world to crack,” Dexter explained. “I think it was Irving Berlin who said that three out of every five American adults write songs at some time during their lives.”
Another viewpoint on the Christmas song industry is offered by Herb Montel, whose firm published “Hang Tour Wishes on a Tree.”
“Every publisher would like a big Christmas song,” he commented. “It’s just like having an annuity policy. Yet every publisher tries to discourage writers from writing them because the competition is so great.”

There were some popular Christmas songs before Der Bingle’s seasonal serenade. But there weren’t many. One was called “Santa Claus’ Workshop” and was written in 1910 by William T. Phillips. You can hear it below.

Memories of Vaudeville

Fewer and fewer people are left who would have seen vaudeville. The best taste we can get of it is from remembrances of former vaudevilleans written many years ago.

Here’s a very brief taste. This interview from the Associated Press appeared in newspapers starting November 23, 1974, not many weeks before Jack Benny died.

Jack Benny-George Burns Friendship Flourishing
EDITOR’S NOTE — Jack Benny and George Burns have had audiences laughing for 50 years, since their vaudeville days. In an exclusive interview, the comedians discuss their lives, the way comedy has changed and the often arduous task of making jokes.
By BOB THOMAS
Associated Press Writer
LOS ANGELES (AP) — In a town where friendship is as fleeting as a starlet's fame, the 50-year association of Jack Benny and George Burns is legendary.
They are legends themselves.
Benny, 80, entertainer of three generations, was one of vaudeville’s smoothest funnymen. He starred in radio—ever stingy, ever 39. His films ranged from “To Be or Not to Be,” to “The Horn is as Blows at Midnight.” One of the few radio comics to succeed in television, he continues to appear in his own specials.
Burns, 78, is best known for his cigar and rakish humor. For 36 years he played the patient straight man for scatter-brained Gracie Allen.
They, too, starred in vaudeville, radio, films and television. But Gracie retired in 1958 and died in 1964. And Burns created a new role as a successful standup comedian.
The Benny-Burns friendship has flourished in the often competitive world of show business.
Nearly every day when they’re in town, they meet for lunch at the Hillcrest Country Club, joining a comedian’s round table for the latest jokes and gossip. Recently they lunched with a reporter for a session of reminiscence. Both seemed fit considering their recent hospitalizations. Burns underwent open-heart surgery two months ago. Benny canceled a performance in Dallas because of stomach pains but was declared well after hospital tests here.
Was it fun playing vaudeville — or just work?
Benny. “Oh, it was fun. I’ll tell you why: you didn't have to worry about writing all the time. If you got a good act together, you could play it for seven years. Because you were in a different town every week, you know?”
Burns: “And another thing: nobody could steal your jokes, the way they do today. If you caught somebody using your material, you could send your original act to Pat Casey (Labor executive for the theater owners) and he’d make the guy stop. Nowadays if other comics don’t steal your jokes, you fire your writers.”
Benny: “But they never stole from George and me. We don’t use one-liners.
We’re story tellers; we start talking and one line leads into another.”
Was vaudeville really as good as people's memories of it?
Benny: “Sure it was. Every city in America had a big-time vaudeville house, and they had top performers. Of course there were small-time houses, too, and that’s where the talent had a chance to train. You know, George Jessel is always saying that there’s no place for talent to be lousy any more. It’s true. All of us had a chance to be lousy in small-time vaudeville and gradually we learned how to be good.”
Burns: “That's right. We all built our acts gradually, learning what would get laughs and what wouldn’t.”
Benny: “You learned what were things you did best, and bit by bit you developed your own style. You ended up with 17 minutes of surefire material.”
Burns: “That was how you determined how successful an act was. The smaller acts did 10-12 minutes. You’d ask a vaudevillian how he was doing, and he’d answer ‘Seventeen minutes.’ That meant he was playing next to closing (the star’s position on the bill).”
Were there times when that “surefire material” didn’t get laughs?
Burns: “Sometimes. There were some routines that you were sure of, like when Gracie kissed me and asked, ‘Who was that?’ And sometimes you’d do your act at Monday matinees and nothing happened. Then Monday night you'd get big laughs. Why? I don’t know.”
Benny: “The only time I found when my act wouldn’t work was when I was following another comedy act, particularly knockabout comedy. One tune I had to follow the Marx Brothers for 13 weeks in a row. It was just murder. The bad thing is that the minute you lay an egg it hurts your timing.”
Did you change your material when you played “the sticks?”
Burns: “Never. We never knew what ‘the sticks’ were. Audiences were the same everywhere.”
Benny: “Every town had its sophisticated audience, whether it was New York City or South Bend.”
They could tell, Banny added, when vaudeville started dying.
“Gradually the audiences got smaller. The people just weren't coming in,” Benny said.
Burns: “Vaudeville couldn’t compete with talking movies. For a dollar you could go to the Roxy Theater in New York and see 70 musicians, 60 Rockettes kicking in unison, a feature movie — and on the way out they pressed your pants and did your income tax for you. Vaudeville never changed.”
Benny: “And radio killed vaudeville. People stayed home to hear it. Here’s a funny thing. In theaters all over the country they would stop the movie and play the Amos ‘n’ Andy radio show!”
When vaudeville died, Benny and Burns changed gracefully to radio, worrying initially if they could produce enough material for a weekly show. They were successful.
Burns: “We were blessed with some great writers. They’d come to you with four-five pages of jokes. If you didn’t like them, they’d go into the next room and write four-five more pages. In vaudeville, we’d go to Altoona to try out one joke.
Comedy, the pair agrees, has changed over the years.
Benny: “Well, we’re all more sophisticated than we used to be. In the last five or six years I have been telling risque stories that I would never have done before. People expect it nowadays. But George and I would never use four-letter words.”
Will they ever retire?
“Never,” said Burns.
“Well,” said Benny, “It’s tough not to retire. Sometimes I think ...”
Burns: “What would you do — stay home with Mary?
How long have you been with her?”
Benny: “Almost 50 years.”
Burns: “Well isn’t it nice to get out of town?”