Everyone associates big-eye takes with Tex Avery. He didn’t invent them, but he mastered them after he arrived at MGM from Warners in 1941. And others borrowed from him.
Here are some examples from Dog Trouble, a 1942 Tom and Jerry cartoon directed by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera. The cartoon features great expressions that run the gamut of emotions, which is no doubt part of the reason the series was so popular. Here are some of the wilder takes.
These next five drawings are consecutive, drawn by Irv Spence and his assistant (John Liggera?). The cross-eyed drawing seems to have been a popular choice with Spence; he used it at Warners under Avery.
Incidentally, this cartoon was started before Avery arrived at MGM.
Tex Avery’s influence wasn’t far away in Mike Lah’s Oscar-nominated One Droopy Knight (1957). It owes a lot to Señor Droopy (1949), and the climax gag is partly lifted from Homesteader Droopy (1954) and partly from other Avery cartoons where a character cracks up into pieces.
A dragon draws a moustache on a picture of Droopy’s beloved princess. “That makes me mad,” exclaims our hero, who proceeds to beat up the dragon. Finally, he snaps off the dragon’s tail (it is hollow) and bashes him with it. These frames tell the story.
For ripping off Avery, Homer Brightman gets a story credit. The animators credited are Irv Spence, Bill Schipek, Herman Cohen and Ken Southworth, with Ed Benedict designing a great-looking dragon.
The question every radio star faced in the late 1940s was not whether they were going to get into television but when. Granted, there were a few exceptions (Jim and Marian Jordan, Phil Harris), but everyone in the radio industry saw more and more sponsor money being drained and moved into quickly-growing network TV.
Entertainment reporters kept asking Jack Benny when he’d make the jump. In interviews, he never seemed sure. But obviously talks were going on behind the scenes with CBS, American Tobacco (his sponsor) and his handlers to make it happen.
Finally, by August 1950, they were ready. Almost. Variety reported on the 21st that Benny would be on the air for Lucky Strike every eight weeks on a Sunday night, beginning October 29th. Eddie Anderson’s Rochester was speculated to be a full cast member; American Tobacco had scuttled a Rochester daytime radio show only months before. Guest stars would be part of it and the format would be a cross between the Benny radio and stage shows. The first problem was all the air time on CBS was booked. American Tobacco had a half-hour from 7:30 to 8 on Sunday it could pre-empt but Benny insisted on doing a 45-minute show and refused to go a half-hour or an hour. The other problem was CBS discovered it didn’t have Benny sewn up for television. Amazingly, the contract with the huge bucks the network poured into the Benny vault to take him away from NBC in late 1948 didn’t have a clause including television. And NBC had been talking to Benny for months about doing a TV show on Chime Time (Variety, October 4).
The problems were all solved. CBS worked out a new Benny deal including television. American Tobacco bought 45 minutes of time on Saturday night that Anheuser-Busch owned for the Ken Murray Show (Variety, Oct. 11); Murray made an appearance on the Benny show as part of the deal.
Jack prepared for his TV show by sitting in as a producer on the Wiere Brothers’ TV show on CBS; Benny had convinced CBS president Bill Paley and underling Harry Ackerman to sign the Wieres (Variety, Sept. 18).
Critics were generally pleased with the Benny premiere though several, including Jack Gould of The New York Times and Joe Csida of Billboard, complained there was too much old radio and not enough television (Gould wrote two reviews, one for the Sunday magazine edition). But Benny must have known his audience tuned in to his radio show because of familiarity and that’s what he was going to give them on TV; John Crosby of the New York Herald-Tribune admitted that approach made the most sense (you can read Crosby’s review HERE).
Here’s what Weekly Variety had to say about the show in its November 1, 1950 edition.
JACK BENNY SHOW
With Jack Benny, Eddie (Rochester) Anderson, Don Wilson, Sportsmen Quartet, Artie (“Mr. Kitzel”) Auerbach, Mel Blanc; music conductor, Mahlon Merrick; guests, Dinah Shore, Ken Murray
Producer: Hilliard Marks
Director: Dick Linkroum
Writers: Sam Perrin, Milt Josefsberg, George Balzer, John Tackaberry
45 Mins.; Sat., 8 p.m.
AMERICAN TOBACCO CO.
CBS-TV, from New York
(BBD&O)
No question about it — Jack Benny is as big a video click as he has been on top of the radio heap for so many years. With that conclusion established unequivocally, the rest of his CBSTV premiere is a matter of degree. (Actually this is not his video debut, Benny having done an al fresco stint on the Coast last year on KTTV and at the time it was far from a signal bow through faulty makeup and a general haphazard production technique; or rather lack of it).
For CBS-TV, under his Fort Knox deal, Benny proved himself a very worthy asset. He has poise, pace and polish. His debut vehicle of what was announced a once-every-eight-weeks’ series was insured by his writers through reincorporating the trademarked Bennyisms — the close-student-of-the-dollar guy, including all the props that ran the gamut from 8c for an autograph (bus-fare type joke) to the coin phone, Bendix laundromat and coin-vending cigarette machine in the parlor. Not forgetting the garrulous polly who snitches on Rochester; the latter’s references to his boss’ asthmatic motor vehicle; the goodlooking vis-a-vis who dates Eddie Anderson via a phone bit. The Ameche is again well utilized for a telephonic “audition” by Dinah Shore of “I’m Yours.” The songstress took her camera angles very flatteringly throughout “Tess’ Torch Song” and her finale duet with Benny, “I Oughta Know More About You”; per usual, of course, she handled her vocal chores in big league manner.
The cohesiveness which usually distinguishes Benny's AM shows came through on his TV debut with an ear-pulling bit for the LSMFT commercial (first with Don Wilson, on cue, and later as a more affectionate bit with Miss Shore); the Sportsmen Quartet’s outlandish parody rhapsodizing of the commercials (“No Business Like Show Business,” and later, in tails, with Miss Shore in “Ought Know More About You”).
In excellent composure, Benny attacked the new medium with such kidding-on-the-square asides as “I’d give a million to know how I look” and “I wasn’t nervous; it was just that my sponsor didn’t have the nerve.” His monolog, as he pondered the pattern of his new adventure into TV, accented “I’m not stingy,” and from there on the bits and scenes gave lie to the premise by continuing his trademarked radio characterization, such as checking up on Rochester’s banana-swiping, and the rest.
While this first show was essentially a transmutation of his AM format into TV, there's a funny bit with Mel Blanc, as the video technician who came onstage to expose some of the back-of-the-camera stuff. The mike boom was utilized as a conveyor for a prop pack of Luckies for the Don Wilson commercial which the rotund announcer handled well. It was here that Benny reprised another radio-familiar running gag — the Warners and “Horn Blows At Midnight.” Rochester’s scene was a good pace-changer for a song-and-dance to “Blue Heaven,” and the “Mr. Kitzel” bit, well foiled by Artie Auerbach, likewise proved a solid interlude.
Ken Murray and Anheuser-Busch, his beer sponsor, who relinquished this Saturday-at-8 slot got a commercial credit, and Murray came on for an effective comedy bit, including what probably was a genuine cue that time was running out. As it developed, Benny could have done the full hour solidly but for some reason the comedian picked on a compromise 45 minutes as more “right” for him on TV. That's fielder’s choice although, from the network’s viewpoint, it permitted Sam Levenson to hitch-hike importantly for that comedian’s own 15-minute premiere.
For the finale Benny pompously essayed “Love In Bloom” on the fiddle to a walkout audience and the usual finaleing commercials.
One salient emerges from the Benny show. It is common to all the topflight comedy programs—and that is the necessity for instantaneity of telecast. This may not militate as much as it sounds, against the video prognosticators that film, eventually, will constitute the bulk of TV programs because there are many voids and off-hours to be filled. But for the top shows, particularly' the comedy, variety and revue shows, the knowledgeability [sic] that all the obvious little nervousness habits, the fluffs, and the uncertainties of coming out on the button, makes for an important common denominator in the audience reflex. It’s like seeing Saturday gridcasts as they’re happening, or the Friday night fights—after you know the winnah the film versions are relatively road companies of the original cast. If you know the score there's something lacking; and while we've gotten to accept taped AM shows, somehow for a long time TV had better adhere to the live technique in order to preserve that human equation of maybe the jokes won't come out as scripted. But when they do it’s that much more boffo.
The back-of-the-camera credits are generously apportioned to all. Mahlon Merrick did a good music accomp but what is there about video bands, when they get their innings, they want to make sure they’re heard? It’s probably more the director's fault in not using the music fader to maintain volume balance with the dialog. In short, the ear is attuned to the comedy but give the average TV orchestra half a chance and they go into high and blast the looker’s eardrums. This has been a noticeable shortcoming on almost all networks, and usually with comedy programs, as if the maestros resent having been held in check as mere musical accompaniment.
But Benny won’t blast anybody away from the video screen. If New York is such a magnet to the comedian he’s a cinch to accelerate that once-in-eight-weeks’ schedule. He should. Benny is bigtime looker-innering. Abel
The choices of guests were interesting. Dinah Shore was about to open at the Palladium in London with Benny. A half-hour Kitzel radio show was for sale and Artie Auerbach (photo left, with Jack) had already cut a pilot. Mel Blanc was one of Jack’s close friends who had gone from occasional appearances to being on the radio show almost every week in a variety of one-shot and regular roles. And judging by Jack’s respect for Eddie Anderson (who always rated highly with the Benny audience), I’m sure he wanted to showcase him with the dance number, though there was so much living room furniture in the way, he didn’t get a chance to cut loose.
Benny, arguably, had the best timing in show business, but his timing was way off on his TV show. 45 minutes was too short. A duet with Dinah Shore wraps up far too quickly. The last gag (the audience walking out) doesn’t play out; it’s cut off. Director Linkroum cuts to Dorothy Collins who doesn’t seem to notice she’s been cued to sing the cigarette jingle. In fact, that wasn’t supposed to be the ending at all. Benny was annoyed with what happened but he really only had himself to blame. He could have, and should have, taken the full hour (Wildroot bought the last 15 minutes for Sam Levenson). Variety of November 1st reveals:
Luckies’ Comm’l Must Go On, Vexes Benny As TV Finale Is Scissored
Jack Benny was irked at Lucky Strike sacrificing what he thought was more important—an inaugural first show—in order to get in a finale commercial by The Sportsmen Quartet with Dinah Shore. The comedian said so in an afterpiece which included Miss Shore singing another song, the comedian telling some off-beat stories which went so well that he observed “television would be a cinch if I could use this kind of material,” and a personal by film star George Montgomery.
Montgomery is Miss Shore’s husband, and the surprise topper was to have been Montgomery’s appearance on the show, chiding Benny for trying to date his wife (Miss Shore), who had just done a double-vocal with Benny, “I Oughta Know More About You.”
The Bennys (Mary Livingstone) and the Montgomerys flew back to the Coast Sunday night (29) to tape a few more shows before Benny and Miss Shore fly to London for the Variety Artists Federation “Command Performance” Nov. 13. He does his next TV show from New York on Dec. 11, this time cutting down to 30 minutes and preempting the 7:30-8 period currently occupied by the Lucky Strike-sponsored “This Is Show Business.” Thereafter he’s slated to fly to Korea to entertain the GIs around the Xmas holidays.
This was post was supposed to be a lead-in to a video site link to view the actual show. I had never seen it until this week. But, silly me, I’ve discovered it was shared on the public International Jack Benny Fan Club Facebook group. If you’re on Facebook, you can see it there. The chemistry between Jack and Miss Shore in the song is great, Mel Blanc is always funny, there’s a singing pumpkin and people in weird Hallowe’en costumes in the far-too-long opening commercial (I didn’t realise until now that Snooky Lanson sounds like Kay Kyser), and Artie Auerbach shows off some subtle TV acting. The show was off to a good start. If you’re not on Facebook, content yourself with viewing my favourite Benny TV show: Jack trying to win money from guest star Groucho Marx on guest show “You Bet Your Life.”
In attempting not to be Walt Disney, Steve Bosustow became Roy Disney instead.
Walt was the creative guy, involving himself in the writing and animating of the cartoons his company made. Roy was the behind-the-scenes guy, making the deals to keep the money flowing so the cartoons could be made. That’s more or less the role that Bosustow ended up playing in his company he co-founded, UPA.
Furthermore, he was the opposite of Walt in that he doesn’t seem to have played any creative role in his studio’s output. Indeed, when you think of the people responsible for UPA cartoons, you think of John Hubley, Bobe Cannon and maybe Pete Burness. The reason why is buried in the final paragraph on an article on the studio published by the Brooklyn Eagle on June 7, 1953.
The Eagle was a little late to the game. Bosley Crowther had filled a magazine feature column in the New York Times the previous December about the wonders of UPA. Other critical praises poured in in the wake of the success of Gerald McBoing-Boing, released in late 1950. By April 1951, it had raked in $100,000 in rentals (and cost $30,000 to make, said Variety on April 25, 1951) and won the Oscar for Best Animated Short. UPA resisted any attempts to make McBoing-Boing a series, instead satisfying exhibitors with Mr. Magoo.
‘Gerald McBoing’ Creators Hold a Cartoon Preview
By JULIAN FOX
Several years ago a new group of animated-cartoonists introduced fresh air into the animated cartoon field with their imaginative, impressionistic “Gerald McBoing-Boing.”
To those who thought that Walt Disney was more or less repeating himself, U. P. A.—the United Production of America—had picked up where the old master had become a victim of his own cliches.
Last week, U. P. A. showed a sample of their latest work, four cartoons, all original and mature. One was in the Magoo series—the near-sighted little man who is always getting into situations on account of his near-blindness. Another was about a willful brat who turns literally into a chicken when he can't get his way.
The other two were based on two widely contrasted short stories — Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Tell Tale Heart” and James Thurber’s “The Unicorn in the Garden.
“The Tell Tale Heart” is the first cartoon short to deal with a somber, serious subject such as a psychological horror story. To get the proper ghoulish effect, the animators have drawn characters and settings reminiscent of Charles Addams’ macabre work.
In adapting the Thurber story, the U. P. A. cartoonists drew light and gay people and scenes in a style almost exactly like Thurber’s. In fact, the Thurber downtrodden male and predatory female could hardly be distinguished from the characters drawn in “The Unicorn in the Garden.”
U. P. A., which was organized five years ago, first came into prominence in 1950 when it produced “Gerald McBoing-Boing,” the cartoon about the little boy who became famous for speaking sound effects rather than words.
Its next important production was “Rooty Toot Toot,” an adaptation of the Frankie and Johnny legend, where for the first time an animated cartoon dealt with such heretofore taboo subjects as sex, lust and murder.
Another milestone was their adaptation of Ludwig Bemelmans’ “Madeline,” the story of the 12 Parisian schoolgirls who do everything, as if they were one. When one comes down with appendicitis, the others all want it also, so that they all can continue, to lead identical lives.
Here, for the first time, the animators consciously imitated a writer-artist’s style, so that the cartoon looked as if it had actually been drawn by Bemelmans in his own unique manner. The success they had with “Madeline” led them to try the same thing with Thurber in “The Unicorn in the Garden.”
The man behind U. P. A. is Stephen Bosustow, a 41-year-old artist, born in Victoria, British Columbia. He won his first prize in a school art contest when he was 11.
He began his “animated” career as a painter with a small company and worked up to a job under Ub Iwerks on M-G-M’s “Flip the Frog” series. Later, he worked for Walter Lantz at Universal and spent seven years at the Disney studios, where he became a writer and story sketcher, working on the first animation of “Snow White” and doing much of the story on “Bambi” and “Fantasia.”
When he left Disney in 1941, he became a production illustrator for Hughes Aircraft, turning out illustrations for work guides for personnel who were unfamiliar with blueprints.
After producing slide films for a shipyard, Bosustow formed the Industrial Films and Poster Service, which made animated films for the armed services, Government departments and business firms.
In 1945 he founded U. P. A. with a staff of six and continued to make animated training films for the armed services and numerous business organizations.
In 1948, Bosustow’s studio made a deal by which Columbia agreed to distribute U. P. A.’s entertainment products. With an assured outlet, U. P. A. began to produce the cartoon shorts that have made it famous.
Much of U. P. A.’s success from Bosustow’s policy of allowing great freedom of creative expression, which has drawn to the studio many of the leading animation artists. Those in charge of the company’s units have complete freedom to experiment with and develop new techniques.
Unfortunately, all that creative freedom turned out to bite the studio. After the initial praise from critics as tired of Disney and Bugs Bunny as the UPA artists were, everyone went back to not caring about theatrical cartoons. Bosustow agreed with Warners’ Ed Selzer who told the Motion Picture Herald that exhibitors were only interested in a saleable name and doubted they ever looked at the cartoons. Aside from their creators, UPA’s experiments in art and design appealed to few. They ate up all the money the studio made on Magoos and TV commercials. The prime-time Boing Boing Show on CBS went alarmingly over budget and was too precious to keep the interest of kids who, the ratings kept showing, wanted Bugs Bunny. Within a few years Bosustow was bought out and shoved aside. In a perverse and unfortunate way, he really did succeed in not being Walt Disney.
Tex Avery wasn’t against borrowing routines, regardless of where they came from. One Cab's Family seems to have been influenced by Friz Freleng’s Streamline Greta Green made at Warners years earlier, and The Peachy Cobbler is a reworking of Freleng’s Holiday For Shoestrings.
Here’s one from Homesteader Droopy (released 1954). Indians charge. The wagon train’s cow and cattle circle the wagon.
The Indians ride in a ring around the wagons and then turn themselves into a merry-go-round.
That gag’s much like one Freleng used in Sweet Sioux (1937).
Sweet Sioux has the bonus of Carl Stalling using The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down to help the gag. Avery was stuck with Man on the Flying Trapeze, probably about the best circus tune at his disposal at MGM.
Perhaps you’ve watched a TV commercial, listened to an announcer or character voice sell the product, and then said “I could do that.”
Lots of people feel the same way. And if they go out and manage to get an agent they’ll likely really be fighting to get that first gig. There are lots of people out there auditioning. And, for some agencies or producers, the proven talent wins. It’s easier and safer hiring the person you know than the person you don’t.
Here’s a neat little story from January 4, 1962. At the centre of the tale is Allen Swift who, at that point, had been a top commercial announcer in New York for close to eight years (he voiced the above announcer cartoon character in the Sugus Candy spot, produced by Pintoff Productions). And, as you will see, he suggests a little trickery and schmoozery to land a gig, though I doubt Swift needed to engage in either because he was immensely talented (and had voice acting experience prior to getting into the commercial field).
The Talking Pencil Bit
Or Life in TV as a Commercial Voice By WARD CANNEL Newspaper Enterprise Assn.
New York—“Thank heaven you’re home,” the urgent voice breathes into the phone. “Can you get over here by noon? We need a talking pencil . . .”
With minor variations, this desperate little scene it played at least 150 times a day in this desperate town, and probably another 150 times here and there across the nation.
For of all the vital jobs in the economy today, few are more important than casting director in TV commercials—especially nowadays when more pencils talk, more coffee cups sing and more trolls demonstrate products than ever before. No Joke
It's no joke. Madison Avenue men sober up as soon as the topic is opened. With clients spending upwards of $50,000 for eight 30-second commercials today, it is terribly important that a pencil talk like a pencil and not like a lampshade or a cocker spaniel.
Most commercials are a group enterprise involving client, writer, artist, composer, market researcher, etc. And the trend today is toward a combination of animation to captivate the viewer and live photography to make his mouth water for the product. With the necessary conferences and client approval, it generally takes three to eight months to get words and picture approved.
At this point, it is turned over to the casting director to find the voices. Special Task
This specialist is usually a woman, generally with casting experience dating back to radio soap operadom and, like Helen Trent, considerably over 35.
Her job is to know who’s who in sibilants everywhere from New York to Hollywood. Her pay: between $200 and $400 per week. And as she has the power to award small parts that can earn actors thousands of dollars, she is often very popular.
But as she is employed by an advertising agency, she is also often very insecure.
“So,” says eminently successful commercial voice Allen Swift, “it is your job as an actor to make her feel secure.” You do this in several ways. Improvise
First, Swift says, if you’re a newcomer you make her rest easy by letting her know of your credits — the previous jobs you’ve had.
“If you don't have any, you make them up.”
Second, if the part calls for a talking pencil and she has auditioned 200 people already, you help share the responsibility. You ask her, with a tone of easy authority, if it’s to be a mechanical pencil or a wooden one, a round pencil or one with sides, a pencil with an eraser or one without.
“She has no more idea than you of what a pencil talks like. But once you’ve helped her think it through, you usually get the part.” Few Audition
Under these circumstances, it’s not surprising that most of the voices in the 800-odd TV commercials now on the air are done by about a dozen actors. Several of the casting people queried by this reporter say they seldom call more than five or 10 actors to audition—and often only two or three.
A man like Swift will frequently be the only one called and will play all the voices on one commercial, ending the fiscal year with a fat $200,000 in recording fees and residual payments for each time the commercial has been played.
Once the cast has been picked for the job, it is then a simple matter to record the 60-second commercial. To protect herself and the agency, and give the client a choice, the casting director usually makes more than one version—15, 35, 103, spending about four hours at it.
And nine times out of 10, the client picks the first.
If you don’t know, Helen Trent was the starring character of a long-time soap opera who raised the question if a woman over 35 (as she was) could find happiness and romance (she did on the very last broadcast in 1960).
And since we’re talking about Allen Swift, here’s one of many newspaper stories written about his career. It’s from August 16, 1968.
His Thousand Voices Include Soup, Nuts
By PATRICIA E. DAVIS
NEW YORK (UPI)—Allen Swift has a well rounded career —“everything from soup to nuts,” he says.
Swift, known as “The Man of a Thousand Voices,” is one of the nation’s leading voice specialists in radio and television commercials. He recently provided the voice characterization for his 20,000th commercial.
“Having done the voice for a peanut and a voice in a soup commercial,” Swift says, “I’ve made the old cliche “everything from soup to nuts’ a reality.”
Swift has also been a pencil, a bathroom plunger, a herring, kangaroo, duck, mouse and numerous dogs, ranging from a French-speaking poodle to a cockney English bulldog.
The advertising industry recently gave him their annual “Cleo” award as best announcer for 1966-67 for his “Beloved Herring Maaven” radio commercial, now in its second year of-use.
Swift, a New York City native, says he began practicing and doing things with his voice as a child.
“Mimicry was my favorite pastime in school and later in the service,” he recalls. While in the Army, during morning roll call he would often answer “present” for his buddies who had overslept, imitating their voices faultlessly.
Swift says his “big break” came while he was supporting himself as a part-time comedian, part-time magician and part-time shingle salesman.
He auditioned and was hired or the “Howdy Doody Show.” During his three years with the puppet show, Swift estimates he did more than 50 different voices on the air. Advertising agencies which lad heard Swift on the Howdy Doody Show began calling him to provide voices for radio and television commercials and by
1957 the demand for Swift voices was so great he went into that field full time.
Swift, who lives in Manhattan with his wife and three children, estimates that he records about 15 commercials a week. He gets from appointment to appointment on a collapsible bicycle which he just folds up and carries into the recording studio with him.
Swift says his biggest challenge in the vocal field was imitating former President Eisenhower’s voice for the film “The Longest Day.” “His voice had no outstanding characteristic that I could pin down,” he recalls. “I finally had to watch newsreels over and over again to perfect it.”
Although Swift’s voice is well known, his bearded face is seldom seen on the screen. Isn’t that a little hard to take—a famous voice and an “unknown” face? “Perhaps it’s a little hard to swallow at first,” Swift explains, “but I’ve found that people in show business usually grab the chance to eat regularly, limelight or not. Many an actor is living in style thanks to an ability to be the voice behind an animated character or a good delivery of a commercial for radio or television.”
Woody Woodpecker was a pretty expressive character at one time, even in his gooney stage in the early ‘40s when Mel Blanc voiced him. Here are some examples from a scene in his first appearance in “Knock Knock.”
Andy Panda wants to see if he can catch a bird by putting salt on its tail (we get a close-up of a salt shaker labelled “Salt,” as if Walter Lantz thought somebody would miss the gag). The casual Woody suddenly whips around and Andy tries to look casual. Character outlines weren’t uncommon in ‘40s Lantz cartoons.
Check out the expressions here (these are not consecutive drawings).
I believe Mark Kausler identified this as an Alex Lovy scene. Lovy and Frank Tipper (they were related by marriage) received the sole animation credits on this 1940 debut cartoon for the woodpecker.
A book called The Great Comedians Talk About Comedy was excerpted over a number of weekends in the Weekly Observer, a Sunday newspaper magazine supplement syndicated by the Gannett News Service.
First up in the series was Jack Benny. I need not say more other than it was published on March 9, 1969
Benny: The Penny Pinching Pauser
By LARRY WILDE
Perhaps Jack Benny’s most famous comedy moment has him walking down a street. A hold-up man appears from the darkness and shoves a gun in his ribs, saying, “Your money or your life!”
Because he is notorious for penny-pinching, there is an interminable pause. The audience is convulsed with laughter. At the last split-second, Jack says: “I’m thinking it over!”
As a guest on Fred Allen’s radio program, on which the comedians carried on their hilarious “feud,” to the delight of millions, Allen got off a particularly funny ad-lib, which stopped the show. Jack Benny, not to be outdone, came back with: “Hmmmm, you wouldn’t say that if my writers were here!”
JACK BENNY was born Benny Kubelsky on Feb. 14, 1894, in Chicago, but be grew up in Waukegan, Ill. He spent his early career touring vaudeville circuits, eventually doing Broadway musicals for Earl Carroll and the Shuberts. He entered the new medium of radio in 1932, switched to television in 1950, where he won eight “Emmy” awards for the excellence of his program. His best-known movies were: George Washington Slept Here, Buck Benny Rides Again, Man About Town, Charlie’s Aunt, and To Be Or Not to Be.
Jack’s latest enthusiasm is performing as violin soloist with the top symphony orchestras m America, with proceeds going to charitable causes.
THIS MEETING TOOK place m Benny’s Beverly Hills office. Fifteen minutes passed while Benny worked on some material with his writer for Lake Tahoe appearance. As we chatted, it was difficult for me to believe that the man was in his seventies. He looked fifty-five.
Wilde: All right, Jack. How many years did you play the violin before you decided to become a comedian?
Beany: We-e-ell . . . when I was about 14, 15 years old in Waukegan, I used to play with dance orchestras. We would play in stores on Saturdays and maybe get a dollar and a half for the day. Then I studied and I went into vaudeville as a violinist. There was a woman pianologist — or whatever they called them — who sang and did talking, comedy songs. Her name was Cora Salisbury. She took me with her on the road. We did a violin and piano act — Salisbury and Benny.
Wilde: Did you do any comedy?
Benny: No, only a little bit of kidding with the violin, but I never talked.
Wilde: What happened to make you give up being a musician and become a comedian?
Benny: Well, Cora’s mother became very ill and she had to give up the stage. So, I found another partner, a fellow by the name of Woods and I called the act Benny and Woods. That’s how I have Benny as my last name — Benny is my right first name. We stayed together doing a violin and piano act until the First World War and then I joined the Navy.
Wilde: Until then, you still had not done any comedy?
Benny: No comedy at all. Then in the Navy at Great Lakes, David Wolfe, who became a very dear friend of mine later, was the author of a couple of sailor shows for Navy relief. Wolfe needed somebody to play the part of an admiral’s orderly, who only had one or two comedy lines. He happened to see me and said, "Hey, young fella, come over here!" And I read a couple of lines and he liked it, because the next day he added lines for me and by the time the show opened in Chicago in the Auditorium, I had practically the comedy part of the show. Then I realized I could talk and get laughs. When I went into vaudeville again, I went back as a single act. But I always held the violin . . . did a lot of violin playing and just a little bit of talk. And then gradually I kept talking and less violin until finally I dropped the violin entirely. If I wanted to have a finish for my act I borrowed a violin from the orchestra.
Wilde: Even though you stopped playing the violin, why did you still hold it? For security?
Benny: Yes, for security. Also, it made all my jokes sound impromptu— when you hold an instrument, they always think you are ready to play.
Wilde: Where did you get the material you used?
Benny: I would get help occasionally from writers and I would pay them for that particular routine — $35 or $50 — but I wrote a lot for myself. In those days I was able to write because I had to. The only trouble . . . I was always walking down the street staring and people would pass me and say hello and I would not even know who they were. I was always thinking of jokes.
Wilde: Was your delivery basically the same as it today—that is, leisurely, unhurried?
Beamy: Basically the same, but I was always nervous, the first few years, when I talked. I wouldn’t gesticulate enough and though I work easy and smoothly now and I put into it, in the old days I was afraid to. When I was a bit in those days, I was a big hit because I worked easy and smooth, but if I flopped I was a flop for the same reason. You see, there’s such a thing as being too nonchalant on stage. It looked as though you were—
Wilde: Too well rehearsed?
Benny: Yeah. It looked as though you were over-acting and under-acting at the same time. Trying too hard to be smooth and easy. I learned since then I have to have a little action.
Wilde: What qualities are required, other than being able to make people laugh?
Benny: In the first place, to become real successful they must like you very much on the stage. They must have a feeling like: “Gee, I like this fella” — “I wish he was a very good friend of mine” — “I wish he was a relative.” You see, it’s like a television show—if they like you, you may think sometimes you are doing a bad show and you’re not at all. But if they don’t like you, you cannot do a good show. Of course, we had great schools in those days—vaudeville and burlesquer, which they haven’t got today. That’s why I give all the new comedians a lot of credit for making it as quickly as they do and actually getting big laughs. For instance, I can walk on stage and if I want to be secure I can open up with a stingy joke and everybody screams. Well, a lot of comedians who haven’t got those characterizations have to actually make good as comedians, not as institutions—household words.
Wilde: When yon started, were there any comedians you admired or patterned yourself after? You said Phil Baker was your idol—
Benny: It was not so much that Phil Baker was a great comedian — he was a great personality. One of the handsomest fellas you have ever seen and people loved him. He would always have somebody working with him to get the laughs, like I do on television. I used to like Frank Fay very much. Al Jolson was the world’s greatest entertainer. I don’t think there’s been anybody since then that had his magnetism, and particularly when he was in black-face. He had a sympathetic quality. I have always thought Ed Wynn was the world’s greatest comedian, and I still think there is nobody that has ever been as funny, or will be, in my time as he was in his heyday.
Wilde: Has what people laughed at changed much through the years?
Benny: I don’t think so. I think they laugh at the same things. Years ago you could do some corny things and be funny. I can look over what I used to do many, many years ago and pick out things to use now. The only thing is if you are working on characterizations, things that were funny 30 years ago have to be embellished — have to be smarter — wilder. Like, if I do stingy jokes I can’t do an ordinary joke about leaving a guy a nickel tip — that’s not funny anymore. Now you have to be more wild. Maybe the waiter leaves me a dime tip knowing how cheap I am. Today, it has to be actually funnier.
Wilde: Many comedians earn an excellent living doing club dates, conventions, but the world never hears of them. Some are very content with this anonymity while others are still striving to reach the top. Was it always your goal to become a star?
Benny: I would think so, and I nearly every comedian wants to be . . . just like a politician would like to be President of the United States. And I don’t care who the politician is—he might be the mayor of Carson City, but if he’s in politics he would like to end up being President. I think every dramatic actor, every singer, would like to be among the top few. Every concert musician would like to be considered among the top half-dozen. But when I say “would like to be the top” . . . you see, we didn’t demand too much in those days. For instance when I played the Palace in New York, which was the theatre every actor was nervous about, and I was a big hit . . . you had the feeling that everybody in the world knew about it and you didn’t have to go any farther. And the same with money. When I got to the point where I was getting $450 per week I thought I was quite a rich man. I started to move in the first-class hotels . . . oh, my goodness, I thought, if I could ever reach $1,000 a week, then I’m ready to call it a day—this is it.
Wilde: Could you pinpoint the specific steps you’ve taken to remain a star all these years?
Benny: I think I have had, through my years of radio and television, almost always a very, very good show. I can’t stand bad shows — I get embarrassed. I was the comedian, of course but I think I was almost a better editor. Most comedians give me credit for being not the best comedian in show business, but the best editor — which is important — as important as being a comedian. It’s not that I am such a particularly funny man. People will say to me, “Did you study the pauses in the tape?” There is nothing as important as editing.
Wilde: Were you born with this talent for editing or do feel it came about as a result of years of analyzing yourself and your material?
Benny: The latter — I don’t think I was born with it. It was important to me never to have a superfluous moment in my act or in my radio or television shows.
Wilde: How did all the Jack Benny trademarks come about? Thriftiness, bragging, playing straight to the people you work with, etc.
Benny: All these things happened by accident . . .with one show. Now how I probably became a stingy character happened because on one show I did some jokes about my being stingy. Then we did it again and again, until suddenly by accident this became one of my characterizations, and it’s the easiest one to get laughs. My feud with Fred Allen was an accident. Fred said something one night, I answered him —he answered me — I answered him, and it went on and on. We never got together and said, “Let’s have a feud.” If we did, the feud would have flopped, because it would have been contrived. We would have worked so hard at it it would have been lousy.
Wilde: Why was Fred Allen considered the comedian’s comedian?
Benny: Because he was a great writer. Fred was a wonderful humorist. He wrote funny letters. He wrote funny books. He wrote great shows. I don’t know whether he was altogether a great editor, because sometimes he’d have sensational shows and sometimes they wouldn’t be at all. They would be far from it. I always blame it on editing. Let’s take you . . . you are preparing this book, you gotta edit it, right? They say a play to never written, it’s rewritten. Well, the same goes for an article in the paper, or a monologue for a show—everything. My four writers and myself sit down and argue and discuss whether the word “but” helps or hurts a joke. That’s how important editing is.
Wilde: How did “Love in Bloom” become your theme song?
Benny: Quite by accident. “Love in Bloom” is not a theme song I particularly like. It has no significance with a comedian! It happened that I was fooling around with that number thirty years ago, and before I could do anything about it . . . it was an avalanche, and it became my theme song.
Wilde: You are considered to have the best timing among comedians. What exactly is timing?
Benny: Sometimes I think I have been given more credit than I merit in that because every good comedian has to have, right off the reel, good timing, otherwise he can’t even appear anyplace. I think the reason other comedians (feel this way) and maybe the public, who are gradually getting to know about timing, they know the words now . . . because I talk very slowly and I talk like I am talking to you . . . I might hesitate . . . I might think. Everybody has a feeling, at home watching television or when they come to a theatre, that I am addressing him or her individually. They feel that I am doing it for them, and because I talk slowly . . . I make it a point to talk like I would in a room with fellows. So they think my timing is great for that reason. Other people have great timing but they talk very fast. It would be tough for them to talk slowly and it would be tough for me to talk fast.
Wilde: Do words like “rhythm” . . . “pause” . . . help describe it?
Benny: Well, my pauses fortunately went over even in radio, when you couldn’t see me. The audience felt the pauses, but pauses make an audience think you are thinking. Sometimes I might do a monologue three or four nights and not change a word and an audience sitting out front will think I am ad-libbing a lot of it because I hem and haw around. But how do you define timing? It’s a necessity. It’s something everybody has to have. A good joke without timing means nothing and a bad joke without good timing means nothing — except you can help a bad joke with timing where you can’t help a good joke with bad timing . . . I don’t know how to define it.
Wilde: Is it a question of an easy flow . . .?
Benny: That’s right — one word or one syllable too much can throw it off completely. I had an experience one. I was playing Las Vegas . . . wonderful audience every night and I knew that my very opening line would be a big laugh, and every night it was a big laugh, and I knew just how long that laugh would hold . . . and then I would continue. One night I walked out and the laugh was good but not as long or as big . . . and that performance knocked me off my timing for about two medium—radio, television, movies, night clubs, or the stage — do you prefer to work in?
Beany: The stage — and my concerts. They’re all charity, you know. I enjoy playing with the big symphony orchestras . . . Carnegie Hall. A concert is the finest background a comedian can have. I’m dressed in tails as though I were the world’s greatest violinist. The musicians behind me are ninety or a hundred of the greatest musicians— Leonard Bernstein, George Stell, or William Steinberg. Alfred Wallenstein or Zubin Mehta are conducting for me like they would for Heifetz.
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