The Benny-Allen Feud Ends (For Now)

Two people born several months apart and worked, for much of the time, on opposite parts of the U.S. are together entwined in the minds of radio comedy fans.

Ex-vaudevillians Jack Benny and Fred Allen fell into a fake argument on the air, which carried through network radio years and into television, when Allen’s career had quite drastically fallen from his peak in the late ‘40s.

The feud began in late 1936 and was supposedly brought to an end a few months later. But radio knows a good thing when it sees one, and the feud was revived a couple of years later, and even transferred to the big screen in a tough-to-stomach movie called Love Thy Neighbor.

When Benny changed writers during the war, the feud improved tremendously. Jack’s barbs at Allen became far cleverer, Allen responded with the memorable “King For a Day” episode, and the radio side of the feud concluded with a 1953 Benny broadcast from San Francisco with a wonderful premise—instead of enemies, Benny and Allen were friends and vaudeville partners willing to undercut each other for a job.

The first round of the feud ended on March 14, 1937. Soon thereafter the Boston Post devoted three Sunday sections in a row to the Allen-Benny relationship. Below is the third part of the series, published April 11, 1937. Kathy Fuller Seeley, who is probably the best Benny historical scholar around today, went through the Allen archives at the Boston Public Library and is responsible for this post. The articles were taken with a cell phone camera in 2004 from a scrapbook shot at an angle, so the photos below aren’t the greatest.

I presume the fragment of the script comes from the East Coast version of the broadcast. The version of the programme in circulation has some differences in the script, even the song Abe Lyman plays is different, and ends with the NBC ID played on the old Deagan dinner chimes, which were still being used at KFI in Los Angeles at the time. The oddest thing in this version of the script is the concept of a Jew meeting St. Peter.

Here! Laugh Once Again at Radio’s Funniest Skit Broadcast
Experts Call Closing Episode of Jack Benny-Fred Allen Feud “Tops” in Humor—Why the Quarrel Was Terminated
BY JOHN F. COGGSWELL

“It must be easy for you and Fred Allen to work up funny situations that are good for laughs week after week,” I remarked to Jack Benny, all the time knowing that it isn’t.
“Huh? What’s that? How did you ever get that idea?” he demanded.
“Well, there you had your feud with Fred, going strong, laying your studio audience in the aisles and knocking the radio fans off their chairs, sure-fire, knockout stuff, good almost indefinitely and, suddenly, the two of you patch up the quarrel when it was good for laughs for at least three months longer.”
“I’ll tell you about that,” Jack offered. “I guess you’re right; the good old feud could have been made funny for a long time yet, probably would have been if I had stayed out in Hollywood and Fred in New York.
“But I had been planning and looking forward to this trip to the big town, too long to put it off. I was hungry to see a good show and dying for a good cup of coffee.”
“Coffee? If you couldn’t get a good cup of it at home, why didn’t you step out to a restaurant?” I wondered.
“Just can get coffee to suit me in Los Angeles, home or restaurant,” he insisted. “But you can get the best cup of coffee in the world in New York; never had a poor cup here.”
Why Feud Was Ended
Well, he ought to know. While he was talking he was sipping his third cup,taking it black. But that didn’t explain why the boys brought the feud to an end, when it had many more laughs left in it.
“Well, here I was in New York and the feud was still raging,” the man from Waukegan went ahead with the explanation. “Both of us knew we have to be in the same town when we ended the feud, if we wanted to develop the situation to the utmost.
“Here we were together and didn’t know exactly when Fred would be out in Hollywood to make his picture, or I’d be back in New York and whether or not the gag would hold up that long? So we decided to call the feud off.”
Maybe that was all for the best. Certainly, there was something of a bang to bringing the gag to a close while interest was at white heat; when the mere mention of “The Bee” was good for a laugh anywhere. Anyway, the scene that silenced the pistols of the Bennys and the Allens is rated by radio experts as the funniest that ever went out over the ether waves.
Remember? The Jello programme is in full swing. Jack is just finishing singing a song and Jack’s singing is funny by itself any time. There comes a loud knock on the studio door and Mary Livingstone calls “Come in!” The door bangs open and in strides Fred Allen, while all the members of the company—Mary, Kenny Baker, Abe Lyman, the orchestra leader; Sam Schlepperman, Don Wilson and the rest exclaim as though covered with consternation, “Fred Allen.”
Anyway, that was the way it sounded over the radio. For the benefit of listeners who have never had the fun of being in a studio and seeing a big programme put on, it should be noted that Fred was right there all the time, sitting on the stage awaiting his cue. He didn’t come in any door; simply stepped to the microphone at the proper moment. The sound effects man did the knocking and opened and closed a “prop” door.
“Hey, what’s going on here? What’s going on here?” Allen opened. “If it’s a fog horn, and I think it is, it should never have been given shore leave.” Let the script of radio’s acknowledged funniest scene take it from there:



“Boo” Allen Enters
JACK: Well, as I live and regret there are no locks on studio doors . . . if it isn’t Boo Allen! . . . Now listen Allen, what’s the idea of breaking in here in the middle of my singing?
ALLEN: Singing? Well, I didn’t mine when you scraped your violin and called it “The Bee” . . . but when you set that group to music and call it singing . . . Benny, you’ve gone too far.
JACK: Oh, so you don’t like it, huh?
ALLEN: Like it! . . . Why you make Andy Devine sound like Lawrence Tibbett.
JACK: Now look here, Allen. I don’t care what you say about my singing or my violin playing on your own programme, but when you come up here . . . be careful. After all, I’ve got listeners.
ALLEN: Keep your family out of this.
JACK: Well, my family likes my singing . . . and my violin playing.
ALLEN: Your violin playing! Why I just heard that a horse committed suicide when he found out your violin bow was made from his tail.
JACK: Hm! Well, listen to me, you Wednesday night Hawk . . . another crack like that and Town Hall will be looking for a new janitor.
ALLEN: Why, you fugitive from a Ripley cartoon . . . you lay a hand on me and you’ll be hollering strawberry, raspberry, cherry, orange, lemon and HELP.
JACK—Ho-ho, listen to that Smile of Beauty . . . Keep this up, Allen, and I’ll ask Don Wilson to FALL on you . . . And if Wilson falls on you, you know what that means.
MARY—OH BOY, PRESSED HAM!
JACK—Atta girl, Mary, that’s a honey.
MARY—Quiet, coward.
JACK—Coward!?
ALLEN—Yes, and she doesn’t mean that English entertainer.
Allen Makes Threat
JACK—Now listen Allen, I’m up here attending to my own business and this is no place to settle our private affairs. How did you get in here without a pass?
ALLEN—I made one at the doorman and YOU’RE next.
JACK—Oh I am, eh?
SAM SCHLEPPERMAN—Gentlemen, gentlemen, don’t fight here. Why don’t you go over to Madison Square Garden?
ALLEN—You keep out of this, you little squirt, or you’ll be getting your matzohs from Saint Peter.
SAM—Good-bye, Jackie-boy, take it heazy.
(DOOR SLAMS)
JACK—There goes Schlepperman, and I wish you’d follow him out.
ALLEN—Listen Cowboy, why didn’t you stay out in Hollywood where you don’t belong?
JACK—Because I heard you were coming out there to make a picture, that’s why. . . . You ought to do very well, Mr. Allen, now that Boris Karloff is in England.
ALLEN—Well I saw YOUR last picture. And maybe you didn’t start Bank Night but you certainly kept it going.
JACK—Oh yeah? Well three States are waiting for YOUR picture to be released. They’re going to use it instead of capital punishment. . . . Wow!
ABE LYMAN—That’s telling him, Jack.
ALLEN—Who’s that guy?
MARY—Sic ‘em, Lyman.
Allen, “the Great Lover”
JACK—Hm, look what’s going to make a picture . . . Fred Allen, the Great Lover! I suppose Gable and Taylor are losing a lot of sleep right now.
ALLEN—Not if they’re listening to this broadcast.
JACK—Oh, what a witty retort. . . . Where are you going to live in Hollywood, Mr. Allen . . . At the Ostrich Farm?
ALLEN—I may.
MARY—(STARTS TO LAUGH.)
JACK—What are you laughing at, Mary?
MARY—He’ll show those birds how to lay eggs.
JACK—Mary, that was marvelous. I’m gonna kiss you for that.
MARY—Then I take it back.
JACK—Oh, you do.
ALLEN—She’d RATHER kiss an ostrich.
JACK—Well, Allen, that’s going a little too far. I didn’t mind a little mud-slinging now and then but when you make those kind of remarks, it means FIGHT where I come from.

ALLEN—You mean your blood would boil if you had any?
JACK—Yea, and I’ve got just enough to resent that. . . . Mr. Allen, I come from the West. I’m a hard-ridin’, two-fisted he-man . . . and if you’ll step out into the hallway, I’m ready to settle this little affair man to man.
ALLEN-You are, eh?
JACK—Yeah.
ALLEN—(mimicking Jack)—This will be the last number of the last programme of any Jello series—
MARY—NEXT WEEEK THE JELLO PROGRAMME STARRING MARY LIVINGSTONE!
JACK—Come on, Allen, do you wanna go through with this?
ALLEN—I didn’t come here for your autograph.
Last Chance to Apologize
JACK—Now listen, Allen, I’ll give you just one more chance to apologize.
ALLEN—Apologize? Why I’ll knock you flatter than the first minutes of this programme.
MARY—Hold on there, Allen! Whoever touches a hair on Jack’s gray head has to find it first.
JACK—Who said that?
MARY—Barbara Livingstone.
JACK—Never mind that. . . . Come on, Allen, let us away. Play, Lyman! Hm, I’m sorry now I sold my rowing machine.
Over the radio we heard Fred and Jack stomping out of the studio as the orchestra started to play. Of course, they didn’t do anything of the sort. Jack, undoubtedly, sat down and took it easy, right beside his “mike.” But it Fred Allen comported himself as he does during his own programme, he didn’t sit; he wandered all over the stage. Back to the script:
At Each Other’s Throats
WILSON—That was “Love and Learn” played by the orchestra, with Abe Lyman at the baton, and Benny and Allen at each other’s throats in the hallway.
MARY—And the winner will tell his version on his own programme next Wednesday night.
WILSON—Oh, I don’t know. Jack can take care of himself.
ABE—It’s Allen he has to worry about.
MARY—Gee, I hope nothing’s happened to either one of them . . . especially Jack.
WILSON—They’re both pretty husky, although Jack looked kind of worried.
MARY—Oh, he doesn’t care whether he wins or not, he was going to take a vacation anyway.
(Very heavy footsteps approaching.)
MARY—Sh, here they come now.
(Door opens.)
JACK & ALLEN—(Enter, laughing to beat the band.)
JACK—Ha, ha, ha! Gosh, Freddie, those were the days, weren’t they?
ALLEN—Yes, sir! Remember that time in Toledo when you walked into the magician’s dressing-room and stole his pigeons?
JACK—Do I! They tasted pretty good, didn’t they, Freddie.
ALLEN—You said it, Jack.
JACK—And remember the guy in the show with us who used to take in washing on the side? You know, the guy that did our laundry?
ALLEN—Say, what’s Ben Bernie doing now?
JACK—He’s got a band. Ben Bernie and all the Suds.
BOTH—(LAUGH TO BEAT THE BAND).
JACK—We didn’t make much money in those days, Freddie, but we DID get a lot of laughs.
ALLEN—We certainly did . . . until we walked on the stage.
BOTH—(LAUGH AGAIN).
MARY—Say, Jack.
JACK—Yes, Mary.
MARY—What happened to the fight?
JACK—What fight? Say, Freddie, remember that time in South Bend, Indiana, when you were going with Portland and I—
Feud Never Serious
WILSON—Hey, no kidding fellows, what happened to that fight?
JACK—Why, Don, we were never serious about that.
MARY—Then how did you get that black eye?
JACK—Oh, this? Well, I was writing a letter.
ALLEN—And I dotted his eye.
JACK—Now wait a minute, Freddie. I slapped you more than you did me. Look at your wrist, it’s all red.
ALLEN—Well, I made you say uncle when I pulled your hair.
JACK—Uncle isn’t the word, but let it go.
WILSON—Say Fred, here’s a package you dropped on your way out to the hall.
ALLEN—Oh, yes, that’s a box of candy I was gonna give Jack.
ALLEN—Oh, Freddie!
MARY—Candy! Can I have a piece?
ALLEN—Sure, but take the SQUARE ONES, Mary, they’re not poison.
JACK—Hm, I see. . . . And by the way, Freddie, when you get home, if that box of flowers I sent you is still ticking . . . just put it in water.
ALLEN—I will, and thanks for the tip.
MARY—Gee, this candy is swell . . . have a piece, Jack?
JACK—Mmm! . . . Say, this is good chocolate, wonderful flavor. . . . What’s it filled with, Freddie?
ALLEN—Ipana.
JACK—Oh! Well, I was going to brush my teeth anyway.
ALLEN—Well, Jack, I’ve got to go now. I have a lot of work to do on my own programme.
Thanks for Apology
JACK—Okay, Freddie. Well, thanks for your kind visit and apology.
ALLEN—What apology?
JACK—Never mind, let’s not start that again. . . . Before you go, Fred, I want to tell you I didn’t mind one thing you said about me during our feud.
ALLEN—Well, I’ve gotta leave you now. . . . Oh, by the way, Mr. Lyman!
ABE—Yes, Fred.
ALLEN—You lay offa my pal, Jack Benny, that’s all. . . . Goodbye everybody.
CROWD—Goodbye.
JACK—So long, Freddie.
CROWD—(APPLAUD).
JACK—Play, Lyman! And watch your step, you heard what Freddie said.
ABE—Why you little sawed-off punk, I’ll take you and tear you limb from limb!
JACK—Oh Freddie! Freddie! FREDDIE! FREDDIE!
And so, ladies and gentlemen of the radio audience, with Jack Benny apparently rushing from the stage to bring back his new-found pal to protect him from the orchestra leader, ended the famour Jack Benny-Fred Allen feud.

Not Just Mickey

For years, it seemed animation history began and ended with Walt Disney. Thankfully, fans with an historical bent came along to flesh out things in writing so, today, there are seemingly endless sources to learn about animation’s past.

Occasionally, one could find articles in the press about studios other than Disney, or even a brief overview of theatrical animation history. That’s the case with the story below, published in the Austin American of January 8, 1940.

The source material may have come from a Paramount news release, as several random paragraphs deal with the studio, which had just released the Fleischers’ Gulliver’s Travels. Colvig’s cartoon referred to in the story couldn’t have been very well known. I’m a little confused by the reference to Gertie being a “giggling” dinosaur; she displayed a range of emotions in the cartoon and giggling didn’t dominate.

Interestingly, the story refers to Celebrity Productions, Pat Powers’ company, which I don’t believe was releasing new cartoons. Audio Productions and John McCrory were industrial studios, while there is next to no information about Albert Paganelli, who provided titles at one time.

The writer was, at the time of this story, a journalism student at the University of Texas. Boyd Sinclair served in the China-Burma-India theatre during the war and wrote a book about an incident that took place there in 1943. He made the military his life and died in 1990.

Animation Was Here Long Before Jitterbugs; First There Was 'Gertie, the Giggling Dinosaur'
By BOYD SINCLAIR

The showing of “Gulliver's Travels,” the feature-length animated cartoon, is a reminder that the animated cartoon was here three decades ago. It was over thirty years ago that several men gathered in a projection room to watch drawings on a screen that seemed to move.
The first animator of drawn figures was Winsor McCay, and his first animated cartoon was the one that was watched by the group of men around the ancient projection machine. The title of that cartoon was "Gertie, the Giggling Dinosaur." Gertie's actions looked like a cross between a seismograph needle's marks in a violent earthquake and a pencil and a pencil pusher with delirium tremens in the Eversharp factory, but the lines wiggled anyway. After that private screening, Mr. McCay was called an impractical dreamer with wide-eyed delusions and fantastic ideas. Mr. McCay gave vent to prophecies that are today realities in such films as "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," "Gulliver's Travels," "Pinnocchio," [sic] "Relativity," and "Darwin's Theory of Evolution," the latter being two full-length cartoons that the public has heard little about. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” returned to Walt Disney's enterprises around $8,000,000.
Animators Plentiful
In the production of animated cartoons today there are over a dozen organisations, over which the Disney enterprises without a doubt dominate. Disney has studios in Los Angeles, New York and London. Hugh Harmon [sic] and Rudolph Ising produce cartoons for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer in California. Also in production of drawings in motion in the City of the Angels are Walter Lantz, creator of Oswald the Rabbit; Charles B. Mintz; Leon Schlesinger, creator of Porky Pig; and Animated Pictures Corp., Ltd., the president of this concern, U. B. Iwerks, being the creator of Flip the Frog.
The producers of “Gulliver's Travels,” Max and Dave Fleischer, work in Miami, Fla. Their chief contributions to animated cartoon art have been Popeye the Sailor and Betty Boop. Paul Terry, creator of the Terrytoons, has his studio in New Rochelle, N.Y., and in New York city are Audio Productions, Celebrity Productions, John McCrory Productions, and Albert Paganelli.
Disney has led the cartoon field in the creation of genuine character with his cartoons and his definite superiority in animation, with the smoothness of his moving figures, and his deftness with beauty as well as caricature, together with the human traits he has traced into his characters. He got his idea of Mickey Mouse from a small rodent that used to play on his drawing board when he was a struggling art student.
The Fleischers have achieved more with steroptics and depth, and with the advent of “Gulliver's Travels” they have increased the number of moving figures in single scenes far beyond what has been achieved heretofore. Limitation upon caricatures in the past have been set because of the vast and Herculean work of animating so many figures.

About the first cartoon character to live his jerky life for any length of time on the screen was Colonel Hezliar [sic]. Mutt and Jeff lasted several years around World war time on the silent screen, and their manner of dialogue was the same as you will still find in the newspaper. For more than two decades all cartoons were silent, lacking the sound that makes them as caricatures of living things, neo-perfect in many types of humor.
Other early cartoons were Felix the Cat with his studied pose, folded arms and flowing tail; Aesop's Fables; Krazy Kat; and the Fleischer Clown that bobbed in and out in the “Out of the Inkwell” series. Tony Sarg of the undying marionettes had his day with his "Silhouettes."
Disney was the first to apply sound to cartoons, that being the squeaking voice of his timid Mickey Mouse. The first colored cartoon, was “Pinto's Prisma Revue,” which was created by Pinto Colvig, who voiced several of the character in “Gulliver's Travels.” The singing voices of Prince David and Princess Glory in the Jonathan Swift classic are those of Lanny Ross and Jessica Dragonette.
Besides the regular Fleischer staff, college and high school artists of Miami, Fla., helped with the production of “Gulliver's Travels.”

Worms

Dick Huemer’s fun, Fleischer-like, sense of humour is a welcome sight in the Scrappy cartoons made by the Charles Mintz studio for Columbia.

In 1932, there’s a cute extended gag as Oopy finds the “X” that marks the spot for buried riches, confirmed by Scrappy’s map.



Wait a minute! It’s not an “X” at all. It’s worms.



In a Fleischer-esque unexpected throwaway gag, one of the worms is riding a tricycle, using little, um, legs.



But Huemer isn’t finished. Another worm comes out of the hole and whistles. A flap opens in Oopy’s onesy. We’ll let the frames tell the rest of the gag.



Sid Marcus and Art Davis are the credited animators with Joe De Nat supplying the musical background.

Now This Commercial Interruption

After a leisurely pan of a Johnny Johnsen background with overlays in the foreground, Tex Avery’s A Feud There Was opens a string of laziness gags.

We eventually get to a scene with some hillbillies sleeping on a back stoop. Out of nowhere, a KFWB microphone descends from the sky.



The hillbillies are lazy no longer. It takes them five frames to get up and whip into a song.



Perhaps as a commentary on commercials interrupting programming, the song abruptly stops as an announcer steps in to read an ad for a loan company. The announcer is an actual KFWB announcer, Gil Warren.

“Call Gladstone 4131,” he urges. That was the real phone number of the Leon Schlesinger studio.



The cartoon Warren steps away and the hillbillies quickly end their brief snooze to resume harmonizing.



Sid Sutherland is the credited animator, with Tubby Millar getting the story credit on the non-Blue Ribbon version.

Bilko

They say you need time to build an audience in television.

Phil Silvers didn’t. You’ll Never Get Rich was a critical smash and an instant hit with viewers. It won Emmys in three straight seasons and was nominated in the fourth and final year when the setting of the show was changed to punch it up in the ratings.

Evidently Silvers was taken aback by his sudden success on the small screen. Here’s a little local newspaper story from December 28, 1955. Silvers spent the Christmas holidays that year in Miami, full of hotels that were full of comics on stage. The mixing of show folk and sports figures (and alcohol) was very much a New York thing for decades in the days before astronomical salaries, at a time when baseball and boxing were the biggest athletic attractions.

SGT. BILKO GETS A SEVERE SHOCK
Comic Phil Silvers Amazed By Bilko's Great Popularity
By FRANK FOX
Miami Daily News Staff Writer
Phil Silvers is an old-time showman at 44. He broke in with Gus Edwards at New York's Palace at 7 as a singer.
For 36 of the 37 years he has been in show business he was just an ordinary Broadway star. He did motion pictures in between such Broadway hits as "Yokel Boy," "Top Banana."
Then, less than a year ago, along came Sergeant Bilko and Silvers' present and future turned to gold.
Weekly TV Show
Sgt. Bilko is the character Silvers plays on his weekly CBS television show (WTVJ, Tuesdays, 8 to 8:30 p.m.).
"I turn over in my cabana everytime I think about the success of Sgt. Bilko," Silvers told a visitor to his cabana at the Roney Plaza Hotel, Miami Beach, yesterday.
"Even though I was on Broadway and in pictures, there weren't too many people who recognized me when I went about the country. But now that I'm in television with Sergeant Bilko . . . !
"It gets a little tiring but I love it," Silvers added.
A Sports Fan
Silvers came to Miami Beach and the Roney Plaza to catch a little rest and to see the Orange Bowl football game.
"I'm a sports fan. I used to be for the Yankees when Joe DiMaggio was in there, now I go for the Cleveland Indians in the American League and the Giants in the National," he said.
The Silvers show, billed as "You'll Never Get Rich," is put on film before live audience.
"We're about six or seven weeks ahead so I could afford the time to take a vacation during the Holidays," Silvers explained.

We mentioned boxing above. If there’s any indication how huge the fight game was in the 1950s, it’s evident in Bob Considine’s column in the Hearst papers of October 26, 1955. Boxers turned actors? Why not, said Bilko creator Nat Hiken.

Phil Silvers Has Best TV Show
NEW YORK (INS) – If the Phil Silvers show isn't the best new show on television, I'll eat its kinescopes without ketchup. It's so good that it practically overcomes the canned laughter on its soundtrack.
This long-neglected master of situation comedy has found his perfect vehicle in "You'll Never Get Rich," which CBS is illuminating each Tuesday night at the tough hour of 8:30 p. m. (EDT).
Phil plays the part of Sgt. Bilko, a would-be scoundrel cursed with the heart of a mushmelon. But for that unlucky soft spot, and a vigilant chaplain, Bilko would be the richest man in the array.
If anybody had told you that Phil would finally get his TV break in a situation piece about the peace-time army you'd have laughed, but only in derision. Yet the man is so good, the writing so excellent, the direction so swift and true, the show became an immediate click.
It has all the warmth and cleanliness of an animated "Beetle Bailey," one of the best comic strips in years. . .so good, in fact, that it was barred by the brass which commands the "Pacific Stars and Stripes."

Phil is the kind of comedian who recognizes the right of other human beings to live. The other day, he gave a little party for Walter Cartier, the welterweight fighter who has turned actor, and had some sportswriters as guests at Shor's. He made Cartier the star of the occasion.
Cartier played the part of a flower-fancier with the wallop of a Marciano on Phil's show Tuesday night. He looks a little like Billy Conn looked as a kid but acts as if he had been at the business for years.
The fighter played Pvt. Claude Dillingham, a member of Bilko's platoon. There's a camp boxing show afoot and Bilko's only fighter is a hilarious powder puncher who took boxing lessons from a mail school and got trombone lessons by mistake.
Dillingham appears on the scene, numb with grief because the Pentagon had turned down his appeal to build window flower boxes for the barracks at Fort Baxter, but by accident flattens Bilko's fighter with one punch.
Bilko's venal dreams of using Dillingham instead of the awful one, and cleaning up on bets, are in time frustrated in a howling manner. Good stuff.
Rocky Graziano, the reformed hood, was on hand at the Silvers' party to explain how his quiet-spoken friend, Cartier, got into the acting business.
Seems that after Nat Hiken coaxed Rocky to try his hand as Martha Raye's TV sparring partner, and Rocky made good, the former middleweight champion still frequently patronized Stillman's Gym between rehearsals to bat the breeze with old friends. He'd pick up Cartier and take him back to the studio to watch the rehearsals.
And after Cartier lost to Kid Gavilan and seemed to be headed for the long decline. Rocky urged him to get into the other business with both feet. Rocky paid tribute to Hiken for his own redemption. "I can't tell you how nice it is to be nice," he said.
Hiken put Cartier next to Silvers when the show was being put together and they work like a charm.
“I don't say every fighter can act, because they can't,” Phil says of the species. “But they've got part of it made. They've taken instructions their whole lives . . . jab like this, stand like that, move like this. Acting is a lot like that and they take to it like ducks to water.”
Cartier said a few words. For all his 60 fights he looks like an applicant for the priesthood. And speaks like one.
In contrast to the robust language of his friend Rocky, who, when told by Hiken that his job with Martha Raye involved learning a script, bawled: “Are you nuts? I can’t read or write!”
At the Silvers luncheon, Cartier blushed when called on and said only this; “It’s a small day for you gentlemen, but a great day for me.”

Silvers never really shook the Bilko con-artist persona. He played it in all kinds of guest roles on TV and in the movie It’s a Mad, Mad (etc. etc.) World. Hanna-Barbera ripped off Bilko and put it in not one but two stars (Top Cat and Hokey Wolf). And why not? Ernie Bilko was one of the television’s great characters. Viewers knew it right away.

How a Horse Dances

Look! Those cartoon characters are moving along to the musical beat. And making noise!

In the early days of sound, that was pretty much good enough for a theatre audience, so that’s what Walt Disney delivered, enlivened occasionally by a bad guy threatening a girl who is then rescued by the good guy.

But there was an awful lot of dancing in those early Mickey shorts. Take, for example, The Plowboy (1929). In one scene, the plough horse does nothing but dance along for 23 seconds, using the same positions over and over. To us, it’s lacklustre. In 1929, it must have been a marvel.



There are eight drawings in the one dance cycle, all on ones.



The scene is followed by Minnie Mouse in more cycle animation, skipping (and even flying) to “Catcher in the Rye.” It’s a far cry from The Band Concert. But the artwork still looks years ahead of the Fables cartoons made in 1929 on the East Coast.

Just Whistle, Jerry (Again)

Remember how the hero cat in Bad Luck Blackie (1949) gave a whistle to a white kitten and told him to blow it whenever he was in trouble?

Mike Maltese remembered.

Here’s the situation in Much Ado About Mousing (1964), a Tom and Jerry cartoon.



Not that the idea began with Tex Avery. Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera used the bulldog-whistle-rescue mouse scenario in The Bodyguard (1944).

If there is any doubt this is a Chuck Jones cartoon, observe the seemingly mandatory side glance to the audience.



Maltese can’t save this cartoon. It reeks of mailing-it-in by everyone involved; even Gene Poddany’s score sounds like something for the Grinch special left on the cutting room floor.

Bring Back Vaudeville

Jack Benny may have spent plenty of time in front of microphones, and for a while staring at a motion picture camera, but he never did give up appearing live on stage.

Of course, he began his vaudeville career before World War One. In the ‘30s, after becoming a huge radio star, he mounted his own personal appearance tour with a singer, acrobatic act, and so on, just like a vaudeville show. During World War Two, he and his little unit of singers and musicians appeared before soldiers around the world. He was still appearing on stage when he went into television in the early ‘50s, and then expanded that with violin concert performances until his health gave out in 1974.

It’s no surprise, perhaps, he was a little saddened by the demise of vaudeville at the hands of talkies and radio, and happy it got a boost 20 years later. He wrote for the UP about it (or someone ghosted for him) in a column published July 15, 1953. He, again, shows his affection and respect for other entertainers.

Benny Plans Tour In Vaudeville Show
(Jack Benny, CBS TV and radio star, is today's guest columnist during Jack Gaver’s vacation.)
By JACK BENNY
Written For United Press
NEW YORK (UP)—Recently I completed a three-week engagement at the Curran Theatre in San Francisco. While I was there, a young couple rushed up to me in the lobby of my hotel, and the boy breathlessly asked, "Are you Jack Benny?" I nodded yes.
"Mr. Benny," he said. "we are on our honeymoon and seeing you here and on the stage last night is the biggest thrill we've had."
This is a rather sad commentary on honeymoons, but it does emphasize the fact that people do love to see actors entertain in person. And entertainers also love to entertain—in person. I know that I got such a kick out of my three-week stand in San Francisco that I plan to play a lot of cities around the country next year in a good old-fashioned vaudeville show.
Danny Kaye, Judy Garland, Betty Hutton and a lot of us feel the same way about it, and we all owe this revival of vaudeville in America to one man and he isn't even an American. His name is Val Parnell, and he's managing director of the Palladium Theatre in London.
When vaudeville died in America in the 1930s, all of us who love the theatre were very sad about its passing and felt there was nothing to do about it except mourn a phase of show business that was outdated.
Although radio and television have been very good to me, I guess my first love is still the stage. I know I must be a ham. The old, trite familiar smell of the grease paint still smells good to me. And hearing the laughter and applause of a live audience night after night still sounds awfully pretty to those tired old ears.
In the old days, B. P.—Before Parnell—there weren't many of us who could take time off from radio and picture work to do a Broadway show. So, in order to go out and play to a live audience, we had to appear in the big picture theatre. We did make a lot of money. But five, six and seven shows a day is pretty tough when a man gets to be 39. And also, you always had the feeling that you were merely an extra added attraction.
But all this time, the variety theatre was doing very well in England, Ireland and Scotland, under the capable hands of Val Parnell and a few other showmen. However, in 1947, when business there started to slack off a bit, Val didn't shrug his shoulders and say, "too bad." He decided to import a flock of big name American stars to rejuvenate the variety theatre. His first big hit was Danny Kaye, and the rest is history.
Real Criticism

I think Parnell knows more about vaudeville than any man in the business. I played the Palladium four times in the first six years and every suggestion or criticism Val had to offer was constructive, and a great improvement to my show.
The Palladium policy is to do a strictly vaudeville first half of five acts, with a top star taking over the second half of the bill. All seats are reserved, and many Londoners buy their tickets a month in advance.
The night they come to the Palladium is a big event for these folks. And if the entertainment is good, they love every minute of it. Danny Kaye, Judy Garland, Betty Hutton, myself and many of the other Americans who came to the Palladium, kept asking each other "if the English people love this type of show so much, why shouldn't the Americans."
None of us had the guts to try it—except Judy.
Judy Did It
Judy, who hadn't sung before a live audience in years and years, stepped out on the stage of the Palladium one night and stepped off to one of the greatest ovations ever recorded a star in all history. And when she finished her engagement, she was so thrilled with the warmth of the live audiences, she decided to try it at the Palace in New York. As we all know, Judy stayed 18 weeks, and could have stayed 18 more. Danny could have done the same.
Judy, Danny Kay and Betty Hutton found that if you give them a good show, people will come to see whether it's New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Kokomo, London or Glasgow.
So I know I am speaking for Danny, Judy, Betty and all the rest of the entertainers in the U.S.A., when I publicly say, "thank you, Val Parnell, for bringing vaudeville back to America."

Disney Vs Warners

The famous Dean of Animation, Eddie Selzer, gave newspaper readers in 1952 an idea of how his staff put together a Warner Bros. cartoon.

OK, Eddie was not a dean, or even an artist. He was a company functionary handed the job of overseeing the cartoon studio after the Warners bought it from Leon Schlesinger in 1944. But he provides a pretty good description in this syndicated feature found in the Nashville Tennessean of February 24, 1952.

For good measure, the unidentified writer chatted with someone over at Disney to be able to point out the differences between the two operations.

Several comments by Selzer are interesting. One involves the “skunk” dialogue by Bugs Bunny. The closest I can think of this being said is in the 1953 short Duck! Rabbit! Duck! where Bugs calls Daffy “a dirty skunk.” The dialogue change he refers to later in the story is from the 1949 Bugs cartoon Rebel Rabbit, directed by Bob McKimson. I admit I am stumped about Foghorn Leghorn and the Brooklyn Bridge. And the comments about everyone keeping Bugs’ character were echoed elsewhere in interviews (this is off the top of my head) by both McKimson and Friz Freleng, as Chuck Jones tended to go off on flights of fancy.

These poorly photocopied publicity photos accompanied the story.

Stars That Make You Giggle and Roar Work Long, Tedious Hours Without Receiving a Cent
HOLLYWOOD—Some of the most popular stars hero are never paid a red cent.
They are, of course, the cartoon characters who have become so famous over the years. These pencil personalities—Snow White, Bugs Bunny, Cinderella and Donald Duck—have made movie audiences weep, giggle and roar as genuinely as do the flesh-and-blood stars of stage and screen.
Since they are mythical, Hollywood citizens never get to see them except on the screen, but a tour of Warner Bros. cartoon studio brought them to life as surely as if they breathed 16 lungfuls of California air every 60 seconds.
There are two representative companies here who produce cartoon movies. They are the Warner company in Hollywood and Walt Disney Productions in Burbank. Each has its own special family of characters and types of productions. Warner Bros. studio makes 30 animated cartoons of seven-minute length each year, and the Disney company, in addition to producing several short comedies, makes full-length features.
Both companies use the same basic method of production, and it requires only five words to describe the method: Hard work and good taste.
Cartoon production is the exact reverse of actual movie production—the cartoons are fitted to the sound effects.
The tour of Warner Bros. cartoon studio, with Edward Selzer, president, acting as guide explained how this is done.
Uses Jam Session
“I believe in jam sessions,” Selzer said. “If any man in this outfit gets a hot story idea, we let him draw up his idea and show it to us. We all pitch into it and decide where it can be improved and whether, as a whole, it has possibilities.”
It is on this story, or "premise" session, that the cartoon depends. The creator introduces his story with simple sketches in continuity. These, with caption text, are arranged on large boards, approximately five by eight feet, called the “story boards.”
After the story board has been approved, changed, improved and given the go-ahead, it is turned over to a director who guides each phase of the production. Then the musicians, layout men, background artists and animators are called in to integrate their various assignments.
In both the Disney and Warner studios, music and dialogue are recorded first. The animation directors study and analyze and break down the sound elements into the number of film frames that will be required pictorially.

For example, says Selzer, it takes about 48 drawings for Bugs Bunny to say: “You are a skunk.” In this particular statement, now under production in the studio, the artists let Bugs' body remain still, and provided animation in the 48 drawings for his mouth and jaws only. This saves a lot of work.
Music and dialogue and sound effects are run over and over on a small sound projector for timing and accent so that the picture and the music and the dialogue come out exactly synchronized. The animator has complete control of his drawings—his actors, as they are in the cartoon medium—at all times, frame by frame. The control is maintained by the cutting department, which prepares the work sheet or chart which shows in terms of film the length of words, the intervals between words, the vowel and consonant sounds, accents, inhalations and out-breathing. These work sheets look something like this:
Y—3 frames
O—3 frames
U—3 frames
(Pause here—3 frames)
A—7 frames
R—6 frames
E—4 flames
(Pause here—3 frames)
A—4 frames
(Pause here—3 frames)
S—3 frames
K—1 frame
U—1 frame
N—1 frame
K—3 frames
The many frames for “You Are” are required because Bugs is forming with words with precision and to make the statement sound nastier. The word “skunk” requires less frames because there is little mouth movement in it.
Same Pattern Applies
The same pattern applies to general sound effects, as, for instance, a clap of thunder or the song of the bird of the fall of a tree.
Key animators have assistants who work under and with them in completing any series of drawings. The animators draw the highspots of the action or character gestures. The assistants follow through along the course indicated by the top animators, and then the remaining drawings required for smooth progression are done by men and women called "in-betweeners" because they supply the drawings in between the key action drawings.



The animators work on an illuminated drawing board. This is done so that after one drawing has been completed, a second piece of transparent paper can be placed on top of it and the new drawing varied just enough to make the movement smooth and natural looking.
When the drawings have been tested for animation, they are sent to the inking and painting department, where trained girls transfer the drawings to sheets of transparent celluloid and outline the characters with pen and ink in such a skillful manner that they lose none of the charm of the original drawings. Other girls apply the chosen colors of paint to the reverse side of the celluloids so that the inked outlines will show.
After the celluloids are finished they are sent to the camera department, where each is placed over the correct background and photographed.

The backgrounds are another phase which requires much painstaking labor and thought. By way of simple exclamation, if Farmer Brown is supposed to chase Foghorn Leghorn across Brooklyn bridge, then the background man simply draws Brooklyn bridge, and slides it under brown and the rooster while the photographer takes animated pictures of them.
From here on out it is the same as movie production. The film is previewed and sometimes undergoes further editing.
At present the Disney studio, with its hundreds of artists and technicians, is concentrating its creative labors on the elaborate forthcoming production “Peter Pan.” This full-length feature needs no flowery description, since movie fans throughout the country have already recognized Disney’s excellent technique through other features—"Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," "Cinderella," and "Alice in Wonderland."
"Peter Pan," adapted from Sir James M. Barrie’s famous fantasy of the boy who never grew up, and his astonishing adventures with the Darling family, moves swiftly in its various excitements and wonders. It will reach the screen in at least 200,000 separate drawings especially painted for the technicolor cameras. This is the amazing factor of animated cartoons. Often the number of drawings a key animator does in a week's time will zip through the theater projector in 10 to 15 seconds. "Peter Pan," when it is released in 1953, will have been in production three years.
Selzer likes to discuss his cartoon personalities, and speaks of Bugs Bunny as a veteran of the screen whose character is so well established that it requires many sessions of the story men and directors to see that this character does not go astray.
He recalls with a chuckle one cartoon in which Bugs visited Washington to see why the government offered many dollars in bounty for wolves, coyotes and foxes, but only a few cents for rabbits. Bugs was insulted.
“Bugs is a guy who is cheerful and resourceful and a menace to the "wittle hunter who hunts wabbits,” he declares, “but you’ll notice he only plays his dirty tricks in self-defense. In this particular story he was originally supposed to kick a Washington cop, and tell him to make a note that Bugs Bunny had been there. He was also to slap the secretary of the interior a couple of times, and throw ink in his face. We changed the cop to a chauffeur, and we toned it down so that he only flipped ink from a pen in the secretary's face.”
But there is one trick of Bugs that has become his stock in trade. It occurs when the cop grabs him by the leg, or the hunter pokes a gun in his face, or the bear raises a club over his head, and Bugs, needing time to think, looks up angelically and asks—
“What's up, Doc?”