Dancing Fifi

Tex Avery’s fascination with long shots of a little insect on a stage goes back to his Warners Bros. days in Hamateur Night (1939). He featured fleas in other films but when he gets to The Flea Circus (1954), he combines the idea with the mass procreation gag that ended Little Johnny Jet, Bill Thompson’s Droopy voice and the song “Clementine” that appeared in Magical Maestro. In other words, a lot of Avery ideas are at play here (a muffled sound gag in this cartoon was further explored in his next short, Dixieland Droopy).

One thing that’s unique to The Flea Circus is the design of Fifi, the little French girl flea who steals the heart of Pepito the Clown flea (who finally wins her by saving her life). My assumption has been that Ed Benedict was responsible but there’s no design or layout screen credit in this cartoon. Fifi’s involved in a neat dance scene to the tune of Applause by Ira Gershwin and Burton Lane, lifted right off the soundtrack of the MGM musical Give a Girl a Break (1954).

Here are some of Fifi’s poses, with the chorus line in the background.



You’ll notice Fifi and the chorus aren’t in step and aren’t always singing at the same time. They catch up to each other every once in a while. During this scene, Fifi may move from one frame to the next then hold. The chorus may move in a different frame or the same one. It means their actions aren’t always in sync. I didn’t notice until writing this post and froze each frame.

Here’s what I’m talking about. This is one second of animation, slowed down. Only once are all characters held for two frames, everything else is on ones with Fifi, or the chorus, or both, moving. All the characters start out in the same position.



Did Mike Lah animate this scene? He seems to have done a number of dance numbers at MGM. Walt Clinton, Bob Bentley and Grant Simmons are the other credited animators.

Tralfaz Sunday Theatre – We Learn About the Telephone

All kinds of industrial films were made about telephones but only one combined John Hubley, Mel Blanc, the Capitol Hi-Q library and the girl who played Felix Unger’s daughter on TV. It’s the 1965 two-reeler We Learn About the Telephone, produced by Jerry Fairbanks Productions.

A. T. and T. evidently had some kind of special educational campaign going on at the time. A 24-page booklet aimed at young people was copyrighted in late 1964.

Animation fans should like the cartoon segments which take up a good portion of the first half of the film. I especially like the designs of the circus animals about half-way through which teach us phone etiquette from the days before everyone carried around their own hand-held. Director Hubley’s career, which spanned and included the Disney strike, a McCarthyist ouster at UPA and Oscar wins as an independent producer, should be well-known to readers here. As for the voices, you’ll recognise Blanc doing a host of voices and Paul Frees as the sleepy bear and the fox (I should know who is doing the female voices but I don’t).

The opening theme is SF-1004 Happy Outing by Marc Lanjean. It’s originally from the KPM library but is found on Hi-Q reel L-95. The closing cue is Bright Title by Bill Loose and Emil Cadkin from the Capitol Production Music library. Spencer Moore’s L-1144 Animation Light makes an appearance during the running scene at the 2:30 mark and there are cues by Phil Green and some from the Hi-Q ‘D’ (Dramatic) series.

Mike Kazaleh helpfully listed some of the animators in a post on the late Michael Sporn’s blog, all veterans of the theatrical world.

The animators I can spot are Phil Duncan, Bill Littlejohn (these two did the most footage) Don Towsley (the lion and the raven), Emery Hawkins (the beaver and the bear), Ben Washam (the elephants) Tom Ray (the fox and the pig), and one other person I can’t identify (the Samuel Morse sequence.) Some of the stuff Duncan animated were the opening section, and the scenes of the ringmaster. Littlejohn animated the messenger traveling through time, and the two musicians.

Oh, the little girl is Pamelyn Ferdin, who appeared on The Odd Couple and was one of the voices of Lucy in the Peanuts cartoons (which Littlejohn also worked on).

Still a Small-Town Boy

Jack Benny a quitter?

Ah, you’ve got to love tabloids and their attention-grabbing opening sentences. The statement leaves the impression that he was some kind of loser but the article goes on to reveal anything but.

This story from the Radio Mirror of February 1937 is a long read so I won’t waste time with a huge introduction. The old saw about Benny’s first radio appearance being on Ed Sullivan’s show is trotted out (it’s not true) and there’s an interesting tag of trivia notes about the show. “Al Burns,” if I recall, was Jack’s brother-in-law for a time (he married Babe Marks).

They’re better than nothing, but the pictures with the article aren’t that great because of a low resolution scan of this magazine.

GENIUS IN A FOG
By WELDON MELICK
JACK BENNY has been a quitter all his life. At every turning point in his career he has turned tail-but each such occasion has somehow advanced his fame and fortune.
I've heard actors, writers and comedians marvel that anyone could reach the top by the seemingly careless, unambitious, unbusinesslike methods that are Jack's. His Sunday half-hour recently forged ahead of Major Bowes in a national radio popularity survey, returning to the first place it lost two years ago. Yet Jack is easygoing, almost phlegmatic, and always takes the line of least resistance. When he gets into a violent argument he will suddenly give in to save himself the effort of keeping his mind on it.
His friend, George Burns, found him fuming one time over the incompetence of his vaudeville agent. Jack had determined to fire him. George didn't want to miss the fireworks, and went along, with his companion getting hotter under the collar and thinking up new vilifying epithets all the way.
As they entered the office, the agent called a cheery, "Good morning, Jack!"
"Is there any mail today?" Benny seethed.
"No, there isn't, Jack."
"Well, goodbye," the infuriated actor boiled, and on the way out mumbled, "I guess I told him!"
Another demonstration of his one-mouse-power temper occurred years ago at the Academy of Music in New York City, which boasted the most bloodthirsty audience since the Roman Coliseum. The house welcome to each new act was a prolonged raspberry-when tomatoes were out of season. Entertainers dreaded to play the spot, but egotistically gave everything they had for the applause of the barbarians, as it was equivalent in the theatrical world to a Congressional Medal for Bravery.
Jack sauntered in from the wings in his usual preoccupied manner at the first performance. His "Hello, everybody!" was drowned in the raspberry-flavored accolade which crescendoed to a thunderous roar as he shuffled deliberately across the stage, his eyes on the floor. When he reached the other side of the stage without so much as a change of expression, the raspberry subsided into ominous defiance, prefacing the real baiting and torture of a human sacrifice. Jack tossed them a genial "Goodbye, folks," sauntered on out of the theater and never came back.
Benny has developed quitting to the perfection of a science. He quit high school in his sophomore year-by request. The principal said he wouldn't amount to anything and was only wasting the taxpayers' money.
Jack next quit his home for the stage. His father threatened to lock up the welcome mat if the boy walked out on him, but admitted he was only bluffing when he found out his son was serious.
Young Jack Benny was a violinist when he quit the stage to join the Navy. There were Seamen's Benefits, so he kept right on entertaining. When the world conflict was over, all that was left of a second-rate violinist was a first-rate comedian.
Laughs are not only Jack's career, they are also his existence. His closest friends are rival comedians-those who can make him laugh the most frequently and heartily-and when Jack Benny laughs heartily, he falls down, rolls on the floor, and clicks his heels. He matches laugh for laugh, reveling in a joke with the same abandon whether he's on the giving or receiving end.

ONE morning during a Winnipeg date, the Bennys' friend, Al Burns, telephoned from the hotel lobby that he was on his way up to their room. To give Al a laugh, Jack stood on one bed with a pitcher of water on his head and Mary stood on the other bed balancing a telephone book on her brow. At the knock on the door, Jack called "Come in!" and in walked the waiter with their breakfast. Jack doesn't go in for practical jokes. His idea of fun takes the milder form of telegrams and long distance phone calls.
When "Big Boy" opened in San Francisco, Florence Moore, who was playing in the same city, received a telegram from Jack Benny and George Burns to this effect:
"Jolson opens tonight. As we don't know Jolson, we are sending you a telegram. Congratulations."
The night George Burns and Gracie Allen got married in Cleveland, Jack called up from Vancouver at 4:00 A. M. "Hello-this is Jack Benny!" he announced. George said, "Bring up two orders of bacon and eggs!" and hung up. While George was playing the Palace in New York, Jack sent him this wire from San Diego, "I think your act is sensational. You've got the cleverest routine, the funniest gags Broadway has ever heard. I think you're a genius - better than Chaplin!" He signed it "George Burns."
Jack once wrote George a six-page letter. George was too busy to answer, so he switched the names in salutation and signature, and sent the letter back. Jack redoubled, and for a year and a half, that was the only letter that passed between them, but it passed frequently.
After George's first program on the air, Jack wrote him a fan letter: "I listened to your program last night and I think it was swell. I would appreciate it very much if you would send me a picture of Tom Mix's horse." George dug up a picture of a jackass and inscribed it "To my very dear friend, Jack Benny." Jack acknowledged it with "Thank you for your picture."
When Jack meets friends after the theater or in a restaurant, he can't refrain from a cordial, "Come on up to the house-we'll have a lotta laughs." Sometimes he comes home with thirty people. But Jack will never make a good night owl. He habitually rises before nine o'clock every morning, in aggravatingly jubilant spirits. So about the time the impromptu guests dispose of their wraps, their host is asleep on the couch.
He's never the life of the party. But whoever is the life of the party never had a better one-man audience than Jack Benny. He whoops at whatever strikes him funny.
Several comedians have risen from the minor ranks through his enthusiasm. He has sat in on radio auditions and used his compelling personality to persuade sponsors to contract comedy programs which would compete with his own, just because he wanted to help someone he used to know in vaudeville.
He is probably the only actor on record without a spark of professional jealousy. When Jesse Block first teamed up with Eve Sully, Jack loaned the pair his best piece of gag material, a sure-fire bit that was getting his biggest laughs on the road. He figured it might do them a lot of good while bookers were catching their act in New York, and wouldn't do him any harm, since they would drop it as soon as they started on the road themselves.
The bit was terrific. Block and Sully became sensations over night and were being held over in New York when Jack returned to play the Palace.
After his first performance, people said he was doing a Block and Sully. He took the bit out of his own act and told his friends to keep it when they went on the road.
Jack often gives a fair imitation of a lunatic on the loose. When he is not composing goofy telegrams, he is usually lost in a fog of concentration and petty worries. A sudden question will jar loose some words concerning the subject on his mind, making the most surprising answer. Sometimes he doesn't hear you at all, and other times he startles you with an answer fifteen minutes after you have forgotten what you asked.
Four years ago, Jack committed a stupefying act which convinced all his friends of his insanity. Without a single other prospect in view, he quit cold a job that was bringing him $1400 a week. He asked for a release from his contract with the Earl Carrol Vanities road Company, thus throwing away $20,000-and then and there quit the stage. Of all times that Jack has been a quitter, that remains his masterpiece. But as usual, his professional ascent was only accelerated by the halt!
He had completed a cycle, and come again to the choice between his career on the stage and a home. But this time, he chose a home-for his wife's sake. Mary Livingstone had tried hard to forget the solid, comfortable security she had given up for a portable existence in hotels and trains. She had tried to get used to uprooting her life every few days-packing, unpacking, waiting alone in hotel rooms for Jack, or worse, visiting him backstage, and seeing chorus cuties swarming around him. The first year she had been miserably unhappy and had left her spouse ten times, but always her love for him outweighed her aversion to the merry-go-round of the theater, and drew her back.
By 1932, Mary was resigned to her fate, and had even overcome her dislike for the stage enough to appear in Jack's act with him. But she was still a home girl at heart-and Jack knew there was only one way to make her supremely happy. He saw radio as a solution to his domestic problems.
THEY went back to New York and for three months Jack gave audition after audition to no avail. Then, one night, columnist Ed Sullivan invited him to make "a guest star appearance on his own program. For the record, these are the first words that the bland comedian uttered over the air:
"Ladies and gentlemen-this is Jack Benny talking. There will be a slight pause while you say 'Who cares ?' I am here tonight as a scenario writer. There is quite a lot of money in writing scenarios for the pictures. Well, there would be if I could sell one. That seems to be my only trouble right now, but I am going back to pictures in about ten weeks. I'm going to be in a new picture with Greta Garbo. They sent me the story last week. When the picture first opens, I'm found dead in the bathroom. It's sort of a mystery picture. I'm found in the bathtub on Wednesday night." He shortly had his first sponsor, Canada Dry, and amid the flood of old-style gags that deluged radio almost four years ago, the Benny brand of timely character humor sparkled like a Will Rogers quip in the Congressional Record.
It was by breaking from the tradition that called for a star comedian to grab all the laughs from his straight man that Jack Benny developed a smooth-running, eight-cylinder laugh machine while other comics were still wheezing along on one cylinder. Using the same fuel-that is, jokes no funnier and in many cases less clever than those of his competitors-he streaked to record popularity before the others could remodel their ancient vehicles.
He even dragged Mary with him, putting her into the scripts against her will. But she has grown to love the work and the audience loves her blithe assurance.

Although he worries and frets his radio material into shape, making a minor crisis of each broadcast, as soon as the show goes on the air, Jack does his best to befuddle the cast into garbling their lines. He thinks an unintentional slip of the tongue is always good for a laugh, whereas the original line may or may not be. Thus he kidded Don Bestor's spats into national prominence, and some of his ad lib remarks about Kenny Baker not only confuse the singer but have him blushing for hours afterwards.
The strangest thing about this good-natured fellow is that he doesn't react to the white heat of success in any way. He's still a small-town boy who can't hold his liquor (one cocktail sends him higher than a kite, so he practically never drinks) and to whom a midnight movie is an orgy. He has no business sense, and takes his wife's advice on everything but the selection of his clothes. Unlike most actors, he dresses conservatively (and he dresses himself-he wouldn't submit to a valet to pay off an election bet).
His diversions are those of a $35-a-week bank clerk, though his pay check is in five figures. His chief delight is leisurely cross-country motoring. He gave his wife a sixteen-cylinder sedan, but refused to give up his own Pontiac roadster for a more luxurious car. He thinks he's a very good driver, but the temptation to tell a good story frequently takes his eyes from the road.
He's a panic on the dance floor when he pulls a Fred Astaire, but it's a bit nerve-wracking to his unsuspecting partner.
HE sometimes plays casino, but the best thing he does with a card table is to set dinner on it and invite Burns and Allen over. When he starts a meal, he always asks "What's the dessert?" and you have to keep it out of sight or he'll eat it between the appetizer and the soup. He has to taste what everyone else is eating, if it's different from his order. As soon as the dessert is on (once a day it's one of those "six delicious flavors") he asks, "What are we going to do tonight?" He stops eating when he feels uncomfortable and after dinner looks at himself in the mirror, makes a double chin and remarks, "Gee, I'll have to start on a diet tomorrow!" He always means it, and even bought a medicine ball and gym equipment once, using it all of twenty minutes before he gave it away.
Jack has two habits he can't break. He smokes several thousand cigars a year and bites his nails. Mary frequently slaps his hands out of his mouth, as it's a dreadful example to set for Joan. Jack likes to show you snapshots of his adopted baby - he always has some in his pocket - and if you suggest that she looks a little like him, he is the proudest papa-by-proxy in the world.
At least ten needy actors receive regular checks from Benny. if you see him fasten onto some obscure actor at a party and unobtrusively steer him toward the kitchen, it's a safe bet that radio's ace comedian is asking Joe Hoofer how things are going, and is backing up his interest with something to tide him over the tough breaks.
While he was making a personal appearance in Boston recently, the boy who was kicked out of high school because he wouldn't study had an invitation to lecture on humorous writing to the literature classes of Harvard. Jack declined the honor. He explained to a friend, "I can't talk to all those smart guys. I'm only an actor. I wouldn't know what to say."
But if he doesn't stand in awe of his own importance, neither does he of anyone else's. During the same engagement, arrangements were made for him to meet the Governor at the State House. The Governor was late and Benny left-not from impatience after a long wait, but simply because he was due at a rehearsal. The others told him the rehearsal would have to be delayed-that he couldn't walk out on a governor.
Jack simply said, "He can be late. He's got a four year contract, but mine's only for thirteen weeks."

DOTS AND DASHES ON JACK BENNY'S PROGRAM. . . . This merrymaker's program is now radio's number one according to the telephone polls, which make surveys of listening popularity, for advertising agencies and sponsors.... It finally shoved Major Bowes' amateurs into second place. . . . Jack's sponsors attribute this to their high-priced comic's flippant personality. . . . But the veteran comedian likes to think his success is due to his innovation of situation comedy on the air, rather than to gags. . . Jack likes to kid the notion's latest crazes, its newest movies, its latest heroes. However, this type of comedy has its limitations. . . . Lampooning national affairs, international figures, politics, religions, is taboo.... To make up for this, Jack built up his company of funsters into definite personalities, so he could kid them instead. . . . When Harry Conn, $2,500-a-week gag writer, left Jack to write for Joe Penner, the former fiddler hired another high-priced writer, Al Boasberg, and three assistants. . . The writers bring in the rough draft to their boss early in the week. . . . Benny greets them in a silk dressing gown, silkier pajamas, and the inevitable cigar tucked in the side of his mouth. . . Benny injects his own ideas. . . The following Sunday the cast gives it a first reading. Suggestions are made by Mary, Kenny Baker and Phil Harris, to suit their personalities. . . . One of the hardest workers and biggest worriers on the program is Tom Harrington, crack production man, who has traveled over 75,000 miles, in connection with this show, between the West Coast studios and the New York advertising agency offices of his company, Young and Rubicam. . . He gets gray hairs every Sunday when Jack upsets the planned routine.... It's Harrington's job to keep the program timed properly.... Young and Rubicam like comedians on their radio shows. They present Jack Benny, Phil Baker, Fred Allen, Charles Butterworth, Stoopnagle and Budd and Ed Wynn, weekly, to a waiting world. . . Jack's man Friday is baldish Harry Baldwin, who cares for Jack's minor business affairs, arranges his appointments, handles Mary's charge accounts. . . . Phil Harris is Jack's sixth bandleader. . . Most of the company dress informally for the broadcasts; Jack wears sweater and slacks, Mary a sports dress, but dimpled, thirty-year-old Harris dresses like a Wall Street baron. . . . The former West Coast drummer made a prize-winning short, "So This Is Harris;" his band has been one of NBC's aces for many years.... Has only one hobby; polo ponies. . He owns a string of them. . It was Rudy Vallee who first recommended him as a coming maestro. . A year ago Kenny Baker was unknown. Today he starts his first starring talkie, "The Great Crooner," Mervyn LeRoy's first independently produced picture. . . Is the proud father of a two-months old boy. . . Don Wilson's raucous laugh, usually heard above the rest of the studio audience, is not forced.... He still thinks Jack Benny is the funniest man in the world.

A Cartoon Word From Our Sponsor

Television saved the animated cartoon industry in the 1950s.

Cartoons and other short subjects became to movie studios like an appendix to a human. They weren’t really needed. They didn’t bring in vast revenue. So studios sold TV distribution rights to companies that proceeded to make a killing off them, resulting in the creation of a whole new TV animation industry.

But cartoons got a boost from television in another way. They were perfect for advertising. TV was still fairly primitive in 1950. There weren’t all that many production facilities and the ones that existed were still tinkering to perfect the technical aspects of the medium. But cartoons had already been perfected. Veteran animators and layout men who knew their craft were looking for work. Cartoons didn’t involve building and lighting sets, blocking actors and so on. As a result, there were almost countless numbers of animated commercials on TV through the ‘50s.

Harry Wayne McMahan, formerly of animated TV producer Five Star Productions, wrote a book in 1954 on effective TV advertising, then enlarged and updated it in 1957. It has some wonderful reproductions of frames of commercials, including animated ones. Unfortunately in some cases he doesn’t reveal which studio was responsible for them. But allow me to pass on some that were identified.



Animation Inc. was run by Earl Klein, Storyboard was John Hubley’s company while Ed Gershman was in charge of Academy Pictures (with Bill Tytla as a vice-president for a time). Sam Nicholson was creative director at TV Spots at the time this book came out. There were many other studios, of course; these were among the West Coast commercial producers.

Here are some examples McMahon gives of styles.

Like everything else in popular culture, the animated commercial fell out of favour toward the end of the ‘50s. It, like just about all animation, was determined to be kiddie fare. Cartoon animals hawked breakfast cereal and not much else during time slots aimed at children. It’s too bad. There’s still a place for Bert and Harry expounding gleefully on the wonders of a really lousy regional beer.

King-Size Canary Backgrounds

As the characters grow in Tex Avery’s King-Size Canary, so the scene of action gets vaster. They start inside a home, then around a suburban neighbourhood, then around big city downtown skyscrapers, then the great outdoors and finally, the whole planet.

Here are some of Johnny Johnsen’s backgrounds in the latter part of the cartoon. You can get the idea of the colours and shading he used for good effect. He even fits some green in the strata lines of the Grand Canyon. You can probably recognise the skyscraper designs; he used them in cityscapes in other MGM cartoons. Same as the lattice-work billboard signs; he liked that a lot, too.



John Didrick Johan Johnson was born on July 23, 1885 in Denver, at least according to U.S. census and military records. But his parents, Didrik Johan and Karen Assine (Aanonsen) Johnsen didn’t emigrate to the U.S. from Norway until 1893, and Norwegian baptismal records state he was born in Norderhov, Norway and christened there in 1886. So I’m stumped. (To add to the confusion, his sister Rakel was born in Norway in 1888. His brother Taule Arnt was born in St. Paul, Minnesota in 1894). By 1906, the family was in Los Angeles where Johnny was working as an artist for the Los Angeles Express in 1908. He was a commercial artist for Neuman-Monroe Co. in Chicago when he registered for service in World War One. By 1920, he was working in the Detroit area (Highland Park) and then back in Los Angeles by 1930.

Johnsen joined the staff at Leon Schlesinger some time in the 1930s; Griff Jay and Bugs Hardaway were on staff and both former newspaper artists. Johnsen’s work can be seen in Tex Avery’s Merrie Melodies and he stayed at Warners briefly before joining Avery at MGM in 1941 or 1942. When Metro got rid of its Avery unit in 1953, Johnsen retired. He died on February 7, 1974.

Czech That Pain

Gene Deitch sure loved those spikey effects, didn’t he? He used them for both impact and pain in his Tom and Jerry cartoons.

Here’s just one of a number of examples from High Steaks (1962). High comedy erupts when Jerry traps Tom’s tail in a barbecue. It sounds like Tom’s saying “no, no, no” over and over again as he tries to extricate his tail but it’s hard to tell because his echoey voice is being drowned out by the muffled music (there’s a fair bit of vocal ambient noise in the cartoon).



Here come the coloured spikes. Deitch has these four on a cycle, while Tom moves around, all on ones.



Mismatched shots. These are consecutive frames.



This was the fourth of the 13 Tom and Jerrys that William Snyder produced for distribution by MGM. Deitch directed this one at his studio in Prague, although there’s also an “animation director” credit.

A Division of Gimbleco Enterprises

In the summer of 1977, I spent five half-hours a week marvelling at the concepts and performances on a TV show designed to live only 13 weeks. And almost 40 years later, I still think Fernwood 2 Night was one of the most creative shows ever put on television.

It used the talk show format to satirise everything from right-wing gun-nuts to left-wing earth people. Some of the ideas were sheer brilliance—an expert claimed leisure suits caused cancer and brought on some fabric-wearing lab rats as proof, being one. The credit roll at the end showed all kinds of writers and consultants but a lot of the show seemed ad-libbed. And other than Fannie Flagg, I didn’t recognise any of the actors so they were more like real people (as opposed to someone playing a role). The casting couldn’t have been better. Fred Willard brought a great casual cluelessness to announcer Jerry Hubbard. Frank DeVol was wonderfully deadpan as bandleader Happy Kyne. Bill Kirchenbauer was perfect as the rug-wearing, lyric-forgetting lounge act Tony Rolletti. So was Terry McGovern as affected radio rock jock Larry Guy. The character that put me in a state of choking laughter was the president of the Tom Snyder Fan Club, who had the same hair-style and hurried staccato delivery and arm-waving as his idol. It was dead-on. The actor was one of the behind-the-scenes people on the show, a fellow named Harry Shearer.

(As an aside, you couldn’t pay me to watch one of those Ernest movies, but Jim Varney never had his talents showcased better than on Fernwood 2 Night).

Associated Press columnist Jay Sharbutt revealed on July 1, 1977 the show was intended as a summer replacement for Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, which was leaving the air because a) boss Norman Lear wanted to end it “before its popularity fizzled” (Sharbutt quote) and/or b) star Louise Lasser wanted off it. But Lear wasn’t prepared to end Mary Hartman altogether; he used the time Fernwood was on the air to re-work it without Lasser.

Allow me to dredge up a couple of newspaper feature stories from 1977 about Fernwood 2 Night. Both are from the King Features Syndicate. The first one answers the question I’ve always had about script-vs-ad lib. It appeared in papers around July 24th.

Fernwood Tonight First Talk Show For The Nobodies
By CHARLES WITBECK
“No, you can’t come on the show—you’re too well known” is the answer given to stars who wish to guest on Norman Lear’s new half-hour talk show, “Fernwood Tonight.”
The show is currently in the “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman” time-slot five nights a week until October 1st. “Fernwood Tonight” has no room for the customary celebrity guests booked for Johnny, Dinah, Merv, and Mike, since glamorous stars would seldom be caught dead in the mythical Ohio town where Mary Hartman lived until July 1st.

This, “Fernwood Tonight” becomes TV’s first talk show for the nobodies of the world, eccentrics dreamed up by Hollywood writers, portrayed by improvisational actors, who for the most part, wing their material.
“We’re not spoofing Johnny Carson, or Dinah, or anyone else,” maintains blond Martin Mull, cast as host Barth Gimble. “Our show is about people you never see on the air—the plumbers, inventors, hobos—characters that might live or pass through a place like Fernwood, O. We’re not trying to make fun of the human race either. We just want to complete the talk show picture.”
Familiar to “MH, MH” fans as wife beater Garth Gimble, who died last February only to be resurrected this past June as twin brother Barth, painter-comic-musician Martin Mull remains in Fernwood as the pompous talk show host while his soap opera pals have the summer off.
Backing up Mull as co-host is Fred Willard, formerly of the Ace Trucking Company, playing talkative Jerry Hubbard. Musician Frank DeVol becomes band man Happy Kyne; and Bob Williams, with his dog, Louie, who never does anything—one of Norman Lear’s favorite vaudeville and club acts—signs on as Barth’s dad, Garth Gimble, Sr. Dad is a security guard, hired by his son who wants to be sure Gimble Sr. earns his keep in his old age.
After Williams, the field is wide open for Hollywood actors skilled at improvising at the drop of a cue card. One of the best around, Kenneth Mars will appear frequently as Will W.D. (Bud) Prize, Fernwood’s Ambassador-at-Large. Character actress Fannie Flagg is another chatterer adept at spinning thoughts of giddy ladies.
So far the only celebrity is singer Tom Wait [sic], a self-styled hobo, and an original. He pulls up a chair next to host Gimble, pulls out a bottle and begins yammering.
Success of “Fernwood Tonight” therefore, rides on writers dreaming up fresh wacky talkers, and the players’ ability to improvise the rest. Since two shows are taped a day, adrenaline runs high in the performers. At least Martin Mull and crew know that shows can be edited, lowering the fear of drawing a blank.
“We have real dead spots. No one knows what to say,” Martin admits. “It looks like a real talk show, the kind you see at 9 a.m. in little towns. I’ve seen my share touring with my act, and I love ‘em.”
Mull works from cue cards part of the time since he is the ringmaster, and improvises the rest. Ten years of performing on the road with his guitar and chatter makes the host post possible. But his first job acting came on “Mary Hartman” and that terrified the man.
“I was terrible,” Martin said. “You could see the sweat marks on my three-piece suit.”
But Mull impressed Lear when the boss caught Martin’s act at Hollywood’s Roxy. Mull was in top form. Suddenly, he stopped and called out, “Norman, do you need to see any more?” Ten years on the road just paid off, allowing Lear the gamble of going with a lead when only began acting within the year.
On the show you might even see Martin’s mom, Betty Catterton from Connecticut, appearing as a Fernwood librarian reading a list of famous people.
“To prepare, mother spent three days reading the phone book,” Mull said. “She was perfect, and had such a good time, she refused to take her makeup off.”

This story has more of Martin Mull’s thoughts. It appeared in papers beginning August 5th.

‘Fernwood Tonight’ Just Right For Its Zany Host Martin Mull
By JOHN GOUDAS
NEW YORK (KFS) – If Johnny Carson decided to throw caution to the wind one of these nights and allow his humor to run wild, he might approach what fictional talk show host Barth Gimble is trying to do on "Fernwood Tonight." The syndicated five-nights-a-week entry is the latest brainstorm of the innovative Norman Lear; and, although it has still to find its way, the show has managed to shatter many myths inherent to TV talk shows since the early days of "Tex and Jinx" (who?).

Sitting down to a chat with Martin Mull, who plays Barth Gimble, "Fernwood Tonight's" ingratiating host on the show, one quickly realizes that his talents are only being scratched on the mere surface on "Fernwood." Mull is one of the wittiest and consistently funny entertainers on the scene today. Norman Lear should give Mull the half hour and allow his fertile comedy mind to explode with its wild, improbable and thoroughly zany observations about life's foibles.
When Lear first met Mull, the TV impresario asked the stand-up comic-singer what sort of part he envisioned for himself in the then running "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman." Mull, expressing a desire to use his talents as an artist (he has a Masters in painting from a Rhode Island art school), told Lear he saw himself as a high school art teacher who was instructing Mary's daughter, the teenaged Heather. Mull envisioned the artist as becoming obsessed with Heather as a model and having him paint her in a variety of poses, ranging from imitation Hallmark Card illustrations to Reubens' nudes. Lear laughed a lot and said no.
"That was the end of our meeting and six months later, I got a call to come and test for the part of Garth Gimble, the wife-beater on 'Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman,' " Mull recalled.
Fans of "MH2" became intrigued with the character of Garth, and Mull had fun portraying the smiling cad who ended up impaled on a Christmas tree ornament after being locked in a closet. This single incident, along with another character's drowning in a bowl of chicken soup, were the two most talked-about plot events in "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman."
When Lear came up with the idea for "Fernwood Tonight," it was a foregone conclusion that Garth's twin brother, Barth Gimble would become Fernwood's answer to Merv-Johnny-Mike.
The show got off to an outrageously funny start and after some bumpy episodes, may be beginning to find its stride. Although it was designed as a summer show, "Fernwood Tonight" now looks as if there's a chance it may go on indefinitely. Martin seems to be enjoying himself and is ready for whatever the future might bring. He's no stranger to TV and the decision-makers at networks. He was once involved with a network on a development basis and everytime he came up with far-out ideas for shows, they'd look at him askance and politely reject them.
The times seem to have caught up with him, and "Fernwood Tonight" is the perfect showcase for Martin Mull.

Just as Lear couldn’t let Mary Hartman go, he couldn’t let Fernwood 2 Night go, either. He came up with America 2 Night, basically moving Barth Gimble, Jerry Hubbard and Happy Kyne onto a low-budget network and adding celebrity guest stars playing themselves. The revamped and redubbed Hartman wasn’t as good as the original. Neither was America 2 Night. But not too many shows were.

Hole in One (Disney Mouse, That Is)

A drunken mouse in a Disney cartoon? Well, we’re certainly not talking Mickey. Or Timothy from Dumbo, for that matter. We’re talking pre-Mickey, back in the silent days when Walt Disney was making his Alice comedies featuring a live-action Alice and animated animals.

In Alice’s Tin Pony (1925), Alice doesn’t appear very much. It stars B-list Felix knock-off Julius. There are some good gags, but the best one doesn’t involve Alice, Julius or a tin pony (a pun on “iron horse” as the cartoon is centred around a train). A drunken cowboy mouse staggers into a peg-legged bear bandito. The bear kills the mouse, who collapses into a pile of mouse goo. Then he kills the mouse’s ten-gallon hat, which sprouts wings and flies out of the picture. A pretty imaginative scene. I really like how the mouse looks through the hole in his body and behind himself.



The drawing’s not at the calibre of even the earliest Mickey cartoons, but I’d rather watch an angel-winged cowboy hat than most Mickey cartoons any day.