Unfortunately, Fred didn’t bother dating most of the clippings or write where they can from. We’ve transcribed one below that’s obviously from the New York World-Telegram but other than being somewhere between 1934 and 1939, I have no idea what year it was published. (Yes, it would be magnificent if the World-Telegram’s archives were on-line, as well as several other New York City newspapers).
Here, Fred talks about putting his radio show together, and we learn he is annoyed with fan mail. And, a little sadly, we read how his wife Portland didn’t really have a social life. The two of them lived frugally, they didn’t hang out with anyone, and their summer break from radio was often spent in the Maine, far away from any people. By all accounts, she loved Fred but I wonder how lonely she got at times.
“It’s Tough Life,” Says Portland
Mrs. Fred Allen Has Nothing to Wear, but, Anyhow, She Has No Time to Wear It.
By ALTON COOK
World-Telegram Radio Editor
IN the Fred Allen studio the other night, Portland (she’s Mrs. Fred Allen, you know) was confiding to a girl-friend, “I haven’t a single evening dress any more.” That seemed astonishing, with Fred making all this money in radio these last couple of years, but as Portland went on, “we just don’t go anywhere I’d need one.”
After his Wednesday evening broadcast, Fred sits down with a couple of friends for a midnight lunch and that is about the extent of the Allen’s social life. All the rest of the week goes into preparation of the program.
Thursday night around 8 Fred starts on the comedy hit of the show. If he finishes it Thursday he allows himself Friday night off. He might be uneasy about that wasted time with so much of the script unfinished, but he has convinced himself with, “We usually go to the theater and I often see something I can burlesque.”
* * *
Every Day Routined.
SATURDAY is set aside for the writing of the dialogue with Portland, and Sunday for the newsreels that open the program. Fred reads all nine New York papers daily and saves clippings to provide the inspirations for the newsreel travesties.
They don’t seem to take so much work, those three or four little newsreel skits, but radio rules complicate them. No living person can be mentioned by name without permission, nothing controversial even hinted, not one listener offended, etc. That makes it hard to deal with current topics.
Fred’s script runs twenty-odd pages, but he types the whole first draft of it himself Sunday night. “Doing that,” he explains, “I can make little changes as I go along and I find I save myself time in the end.” He usually finishes a little after midnight Sunday.
* * *
Then Comes Rehearsal.
FIRST rehearsals come Monday and then back to the hotel to revise the parts that didn’t play well. That takes up Tuesday, too. The revised script goes into rehearsal Wednesday morning and then comes a session with the sponsor, discussing whether this and that should come out or be modified. He broadcasts at 9 P.M. for the East and Middle West and against at midnight for the California listeners.
That brings him around to 1 A.M. and the big night over a dish of sour cream and vegetables or a steak sandwich at a little delicatessen with his friends. Occasionally they mar his digestion with remarks, “What a nice life you must lead. Just that one broadcast and all the rest of the week to yourself.”
* * *
Fred’s Outings.
OF course, Fred does have his little recreations. He allots himself two mornings for handball at a nearby Y.M.C.A. Elaborate precautions are taken to guard him from telephone calls, but if anyone does get him on the phone Fred talks ten minutes or so with obvious relish.
Answering fan mail is classified as work with radio stars, but the classification is a little doubtful in Fred’s case. He complains constantly about those letters, and repeatedly his sponsor has arranged to take them off his hands. Nevertheless, Fred always gathers the letters together and dictates answers all Thursday afternoon.
He carried on a long exchange of notes on fuzzless peaches with one man. Not long ago a sharp-penned correspondent was told, “Why don’t you send me a note telling me what you do for a living. Maybe I wouldn’t like that, either.” That part of his life isn’t so bleak.
And several times a day he smokes a cigar.
* * *
His Joke Books.
A COUPLE of weeks ago an aged, destitute juggler wrote he had a very valuable joke book which he would gladly let Fred have for $5. Fred had no desire for the book, but he started out as a juggler so he sent the money. Just as he thought, the book was the ordinary 10-cent variety, but with it came a note:—“I hate to play this trick on you, but I had to have money somewhere and I thought you would not mind helping out another juggler.” That confession seemed to please Fred immensely and he has been telling the story every Wednesday night at the delicatessen.
Fred has a collection of joke books in his hotel room, but he makes little use of them. Not that he loftily disdains old jokes, but he has the sort of mind that retains them for use when needed. The books do serve one purpose.
“It’s comforting to have them around,” he explained. “You feel that if you really do get stuck, you can always get some sort of gags out of the books. We spent one week-end in Atlantic City and I tried to work there, but I couldn’t get anything done. I sat and worried about what I could do if the inspiration didn’t come.”
No comments:
Post a Comment