What? Worry About Television?

The beginning of the end of network radio was nigh. And everyone knew it.

Americans had been pretty much promised there would be television after World War Two and it slowly, but surely, happened.

A stream of stations signed on in 1947 and 1948. More transmitter construction permits were approved by the FCC. Coaxial cable was being laid in the East to bring more live programmes to more cities. The broadcast day was being expanded. All of this happened before the huge popularity of the Texaco Star Theatre with Milton Berle on television.

More, importantly, sponsor money was slowly being siphoned toward television. It was leaving network radio.

During 1948, newspaper columnists made a to-do about the top radio comedians and how television would affect them. It wasn’t quite like going back to vaudeville. There were hot lights, cameras getting in the way of the audience and, worse still, dialogue that changed with every programme; a vaudeville act went from city to city with maybe minor tinkering along the way.

Perhaps the most successful comedian to move into television from radio was Jack Benny. His TV show remained on the air from 1950 to 1965, and he followed that with periodic specials until his death in 1974. This was even as the style of comedy evolved.

The Bridgeport Port of August 2, 1948 took up the situation in a column supposed written by Jack himself. Whoever penned it made fun of the trepidation that newspaper columnists seemed to feel was eating away at comedians.

Video No Worry To Benny! Oh, No?
(Editor’s Note: While Rocky Clark is on vacation, his column is being written by guests from the radio and entertainment world. Today’s guest columnist is Jack Benny, comedian).
It seems that every radio comedian I bump into these days is worried sick about television. What will it be like? How will it affect them? What will be the reaction of the public when it can see as well as hear these comedians?
For the actor, it means learning a new medium, mastering a different technique. No more reading from scripts—every line must he memorized. The sudden transition will not be easy.
We few, who won't be affected by television, can't help but notice the fear in the faces of those less fortunate actors. It's like a Frankenstein monster that haunts them until they can't see or think straight.
Recently I had lunch with Eddie Cantor, a case in point. He spoke about Ida, his five daughters, the new picture he's producing, a play he has coming up on Broadway. He told me a few stories (which I had already heard from Jessel) and raved about some song he was doing next week on the air. But not once did he mention what was uppermost in his mind—television.
Cantor is always acting, but he couldn't fool me. I knew that underneath his apparent gaiety—the handclapping, the eye-rolling, the jumping up and down—he was trying to find escape, escape from the morbid fear that was sapping his strength and confidence.
Of course, with me, it's different. But I couldn't help wondering how I would feel if I were in poor Eddie's spot.
As we left the restaurant, I tried to cheer him up. I shook hands with him and said, "Don't worry, Eddie."
He said, "Worry about what?" Pathetically, he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about. And as the chauffeur opened the door and little Eddie stepped into his big Cadillac. I knew that during that long drive to his 40-room home in Beverly Hills the one thing in his mind was that terrible dread of television.
Burns And Allen, Too
Then, there are Burns and Allen. I played golf with George Burns and he pulled the same act as Cantor. He made out that he didn't have a worry in the world. He purposely played a better game of golf than I did, just so I wouldn't see how upset he was.
On the way back to the club-house he kept laughing and telling me the same jokes Cantor told me (which I had already heard from Jessel) and all the while I knew his nerves were at the breaking point, that the specter of television gnawed at every fibre of his being. I kept thinking how fortunate I was—that I wasn't in the same position. Poor George, and Eddie, and Bob Hope, too!
I met Hope the other day, and he was carrying on worse than Burns and Cantor. Naturally, Bob is younger. He's just getting his break, and television will hit him harder than the others. There he was, standing in the lobby surrounded by a crowd of GI's signing autographs and cracking the same jokes that George Burns told me, that Cantor told me (which already heard from Jessel).
And when Bob called out, "Hello, Jack, I'll be with you in a second," I knew immediately from the timbre of his voice that television was making a nervous wreck out of him, too.
But I've got to hand it to Hope. In spite of the heartbreak, the fear inside of him, not once did he let down and allow his actions to betray his real feelings. He was brash and breezy, eyes sparkling, fall of pep, but when I inadvertently mentioned what television would do to some radio comedians, that got him.
His reaction was instantaneous. His face sobered. His manner softened. He put his arm around my shoulder, and for a brief moment I thought I saw a tear in his eye. At that instant, I hated myself for having let these words slip out. How it must have hurt the boy!
He said, "Buck up, Jack. It'll work out somehow." Poor Bob! He didn't want me to worry about him.
Poor Mr. Allen!
Then I got to thinking about the others. Fred Allen, for instance. What must be going on in his mind? In spite of what everybody thinks about Allen, we must admit he is intelligent. He realizes what television will mean to him. He shaves every morning. He knows what he looks like.
I tuned in on his program accidentally recently, and it was pitiful. He told the same jokes that Bob Hope told those GIs that George Burns told me after Cantor told me (which I had already heard from Jessel). I never felt so embarrassed for anybody in my life. The only thing that saved Allen's program was the audience. They were so sorry for him, they laughed continuously all through the show. You can't fool the American public. The people know television is just around the corner, and it was just their way of saying, "So long, Fred. You did a great job."
Last night I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw poor little Eddie Cantor, Burns and Allen, Bob Hope, Fred Allen and all those other radio comedians less fortunate than I. It was a never-ending parade, Fibber McGee and Molly, Edgar Bergen, Red Skelton, Jack Carson, the Great Gildersleeve—all potential victims of television.
And as I lay there wide awake in bed, I knew what they were going through—sleepless nights, tossing and turning, wondering what the future held in store for them. The uncertainty—the agony of waiting! The feeling of complete helplessness as, moving ever closer, television crept to engulf them and relegate them to the past.

Some radio comedians weren’t all that interested in television. The most surprising of the lot was Edgar Bergen, who was president of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences until mid-1947, and had appeared in a short film on W6XAO in Los Angeles in 1940. I still think Burns and Allen were better on television and radio. And networks tried to find something that fit Fred Allen but never really did.

Jack Benny, however, had created such a strong, laughable persona for himself that, even without Mary Livingstone, Phil Harris and Dennis Day (for the most part) that he was able to move from the microphone to in front of the camera with ease.