Poochini Ballerina

The comic transitions are quick in Tex Avery’s masterpiece Magical Maestro. A scene where Poochini changes into a ballerina lasts five seconds, enough for the silliness of an opera singer doing a little ballet dance to hit the audience, then it’s on to the next gag.

Here are some poses.



Avery once said it took five frames for an anvil to drop from the sky and hit something, and the action would still register on the audience. It takes five frames for the tutu to drop to the floor. He sets up the suddenness of the drop by keeping Spike with his arms up in the air for 14 frames, although there is a little bit of movement so the movie isn’t static. Avery was as much a master of animation timing as anyone else.

Popeye Take

A steady stream of ad-libs from Jack Mercer, skinny Olive flailing her arms and legs in all directions and a wonderful scene where Popeye punches the colouring out of Bluto highlights the 1937 short Fowl Play.

I also like this Popeye take when he realises the pet parrot he gave Olive has escaped. Here are the drawings.



Here’s one of those fear effects some of the New York animators (Carlo Vinci was one) were fond of. Two drawings of Popeye alternate in the take as his hat is animated. One with smooth lines and one with wavy lines.



Dave Tendlar and William Sturm are the credited animators.

Tralfaz Sunday Theatre – Slapstick

Silent comedy films—the best of them, anyway—are just as entertaining today as they were when they lit up movie screens 90 and 100 years ago. Tossed pies are still funny. The stunts performed by Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd are still fascinating to watch. Personally, I love looking at old box-shaped Fords and Chevrolets, steam locomotives, and streets dotted with three-storey, front-porched wooden homes.

Growing up in the ‘60s, you couldn’t see a full silent picture on TV. They were chopped up into little segments and plopped into documentaries. ABC even bought a series of them from producer Paul Killiam and broadcast them in 1960 as a Thursday night summer replacement series called “Silents Please.”

Killiam was a lawyer’s son who graduated from Harvard, then became a newscaster on WOR in the mid-‘40s before opening a club/cafe on New York’s east side called the Old Knick. There he mounted musicals, staged audience sing-alongs and screened silent films. In 1953, he parlayed it into a 15-minute show on WCBS, where he ad-libbed narration on a 15-minute show of old Edison reels (“his humor ranges from pure corn to deft satirical barbs,” decreed Variety, which also pronounced his spiel “erractic”). Killiam had formed a syndication company in 1950 with the idea of putting the same kind of show on stations across the U.S. (one trade ad revealed he found buyers in three cities). Later, he and his companies had to defend themselves in several lawsuits over ownership of the ancient films he was incorporating into his documentaries. He died in 1998.

Enough about Mr. Killiam. Here’s one of his half-hour shows, “Slapstick.” The print isn’t great and the sound wows but it doesn’t spoil watching some of the great silent comedians in action.

Benny vs Hope (and Bud and Lou)

Jack Benny’s radio broadcast from Vancouver in April 1944 is mainly noted for being the final one for singer Dennis Day until after the war, as he had been inducted into the U.S. Navy that month. But it was also one of many, many stops Jack made in helping the war effort. He and most of his regular crew spent a week in the city, visiting soldiers, putting on performances, meeting dignitaries and, of course, doing two broadcasts from the old PNE Forum on Sunday night. Jack generously paid the line charges and all expenses for his entourage.

Vancouver wove its way into the Benny life story. It was here he met Mary Livingstone as a girl in her home on Nelson Street east of Denman (the house was replaced with an apartment building decades ago). Vancouver was also one of the stops on the Orpheum circuit which Jack played and many years after vaudeville died, he performed a benefit to raise funds to save the Orpheum theatre (albeit a different one than he visited in the early ‘20s; it was the one Fred Allen played in late April 1928).

The Benny brigade arrived at the Great Northern Railway terminal in White Rock, which was then a small bayside resort town not far from a brand-new two-lane highway that went for miles past fields and brush and a few homes. The train stopped at 1 a.m. Despite the early hour, several hundred fans greeted Jack and reporters boarded the train for the remainder of the ride into Vancouver (with a snort or two along the way, I strongly suspect).

The three Vancouver papers gave almost daily coverage to the Benny trip (papers in those days could not publish on Sundays due to the Lord’s Day Act). Plenty of photos exist in the Vancouver Archives, taken from the files of the long-defunct Vancouver News-Herald. The Vancouver Sun’s Ray Gardner, who was once accused of being a Russian spy, was on the Benny beat, and he came up with two stories about Jack’s writers, the second of which appeared in his “After Dark” column. His writing style reminds me of other newspaper scribes of the day who somehow injected themselves into what they were covering.

The first story is from April 20, 1944 and gives you an idea of how the Benny show was put together. The photo appeared in the paper, though it looks like a photo retoucher did something with Milt Josefsberg’s head.

Script Writers for Jack Benny Show Tell How It’s Done
By RAY GARDNER
Gag writers carry on just like the drug-store cut-ups, especially for reporters which is okay by the latter because all they have to do is relax, listen and copy down the script.
Lacking the protection of even a Joe Miller joke book, this reported stumbled upon Jack Benny’s four script writers in their hotel room Wednesday afternoon.
SILVERWARE, TOO!
They were about to go downstairs to the dining room for a cup of coffee and some silverware while waiting for Benny, Mary Livingstone and the gang to return from Shaughnessy Military Hospital.
“Reading from left to right,” announced the one who was swinging from a chandelier,” we are Sam Perrin, George Balzer, Milt Josefsberg and John Tackaberry.” “Jokes and funny sayings. Just like that,” said Balzer, and he snapped his fingers just like—well, just like that. No kidding, it happened that way. The rest of the script went like this:
Balzer: I have never been in prison. You can quote me on that.
Perrin: He’s just talking for himself.
Balzer: I haven’t been writing gags long. I used to be campaign manager for Willkie.
(Balzer was back with another. The other three must owe him money.)
Balzer: I won seventeen dollars from Benny at poker and I lost my job.
Josefsberg: I lost seventeen dollars to Benny and I worked five years to pay it back.
(The photographer snapped their picture.)
BE DOWN EARLY
Josefsberg: What time does your paper come out?
Cameraman: At 11:30.
Josefsberg: We’ll be down at 11:29.
Tackaberry just sat there, mugging furiously and looking out the window hoping to catch the arrival of television.
Here, by the way, is how Benny and staff build the weekly show:

The comedian and the writers gather right after the close of the Sunday night broadcast and in 15 to 20 minutes conceive the general story line for the following week’s show.
Monday the four writers go on from there.
Tuesday or Wednesday they meet with Benny and the real work begins. The five of them work until they have a full script ready for a Saturday morning rehearsal. The cast doesn’t see the script until they arrive at the studio for this try-out.
This script runs about 10 minutes beyond the length of the actual broadcast.
CAST HELP CUT
Benny and the writers, acting on suggestions from the cast, then spend Saturday cutting the script down, rewriting parts of it.
The orchestra attends the second rehearsal Sunday morning and the sxript is revised again on the basis of their reaction to it.
A final “dress” rehearsal is held Sunday and later, while the writers are led away in chains, Benny et al go on the air.
Benny and the gang did a thorough job of entertaining patients at Shaughnessy Military Hospital, Wednesday afternoon.
For more than an hour after their 45-minute program in the hospital’s auditorium they wandered through the wards chatting and wise cracking with the patients, and autographing everything from canes to plaster casts.
“I’m not leaving till I’ve visited every ward,” the genial Benny declared firmly when reminded that the party was behind schedule for its next appointment. Rochester met a boyhood pal in Vancouver Wednesday. He is Pte. Roy Williams of the Kent Regiment, stationed at Little Mountain. They knew one another as boys of 11 or 12 in Chicago, later were in show business.
VISIT CITY HALL
Benny and his party, also visited City Hall yesterday where the comedian tried on the mayor’s robes and chain of office.
“The best mayor that money can buy,” he cracked.

Gardner revisited the writers and came up with this column on April 22nd. It’s fascinating for its revelations about other radio comedy shows. It’s also a little contrived. If the City Editor didn’t like his original story, why was it allowed to be published?

Benny Writers Sweat An Hour Over One Line
By RAY GARDNER
The other day I did a short piece about Jack Benny’s four gag writers which made them appear to be nothing more than four joke files wired for sound when actually they are not like that at all.
As a matter of fact, my city editor remarked about that story that it was the first time he had ever seen an egg laid in ten point and hatched in blackface. It was also the city editor who glanced at the names, Perrin, Balzer, Josefsberg and Tackaberry and said, “Hmm, sounds like a law firm.”
“Yes,” I said, “and a high-class law firm at that. They have their own ambulance!”
STANDS FOR “B, J AND T”
(No wonder people keep telling is that WE ought to be on the radio. Probably they mean instead of a lamp.)
Anyway, the first time I met Perrin and associates—a word I coined myself and which stands for Balzer, Josefsberg and Tackaberry—they put on the razzle-dazzle banter I described in that original piece about them.
But the second time I ran into them they gave every indication of being sane and were even willing to produce their honorable discharge papers from one of America’s best psychopathic wards.
Balzer began to fumble through his pockets in an unsuccessful quest for his, then gave up, explaining: “Hmmm, must have left it in my other strait-jacket.”
Physically they seem to be perfectly normal. They each have a body, two legs, two arms, two heads. Two heads? Oh, that. Well, there’s nothing really unusual about that. They carry one of them under their arms.
WORK IN LOBBY
Speaking seriously—as I always do when all the gags in sight are under lock and key—I was at a press reception for Benny when I was told Balzer and Perrin were down the hall and wanted to see me.
I finally found them in a small lobby of the hotel where they had set up shop. They had thrown their coats on a chair, opened up their typewriter and were working on the script for Sunday’s broadcast.
I found out right away that they are perfectionists. They had been working for an hour on one line, writing and re-writing it, and still they were not satisfied. And even when they have it polished to their liking, the chances are Benny may not approve and may re-write or even drop it.
Benny, they said, insists that every line “plays” right, a rule that applies even to the straight or feed line as well as to the punch or gag line.
DISGUISE JOKES
Bob Hope, among others, doesn’t demand such perfection and is happy as long as the gag line clicks.
You don’t need me to tell you that there is a different between the brands of humor dispensed by Hope and Benny, but a few words from Balzer and Perrin might be worth recording.
Perrin says, “We attempt to disguise our jokes. We hide them in the script.” Hope, on the other hand, is about as subtle as a putty nose, especially in that opening monologue.”
Mind, they don’t say which is the preferable type of humor; they merely point out the difference in technique.
Benny’s gags must also be plausible and fit into the general story line and be consistent with the character of the actor who speaks them. In contrast, Hope’s jokes are evaluated on their laugh-getting potentialities with no regard to story development.
“Hope will say ‘I slept in a hotel last night . . .’ to work in an hotel joke,” Perrin explained, “then a few minutes later say he slept in a subway because he has a good subway joke.”
SOME UNINTERESTING FACTS
Before I left, Perrin said the best writing teams are made by having a couple of quiet guys—“Like me,” he adds—and a couple of noisy exhibitionists.
Perrin and Balzer, incidentally, do the general story of the script while Tackaberry and Josefsberg are assigned to the writing of a particular incident. The two teams work independently of one another until the latter part of the week when they meet with Benny to turn out the finished product.
After leaving Perrin and Balzer I ran into Josefsberg and due to conditions beyond your control I will now set forth a few facts which were originally scheduled to be set forth at this time.
Among other things he said:
That gag writers are not born, but ad libbed. He began inadvertently by sending items to Walter Winchell. When Winchell printed them his friends told him he was good enough to earn a living at writing gags. They were right.
EIGHT WRITERS
That Bob Hope is tough to work for because he has no idea of time. He’ll call a story conference at his home for, say, seven o’clock at night and then may not show up till early morning.
That the manpower shortage is not caused by the fact that every man healthy enough to lift a pencil is writing gags for Bob Hope. He has a staff of eight writers. Each writes a complete script (Josefsberg has written a complete show in six hours) and the best gags in each go into the final broadcast.
That Abbott and Costello are an insult to the intelligence of radio listeners.
That A & C won’t accept a joke unless it is old and reliable. “It isn’t funny. We haven’t heard it before” is almost a stock criticism with them. But if the writer says the gag was used on, say the Hope show and again on Benny’s program and got a laugh track each time, they’ll consent to use it. They lift gags without changing a word from the original.
JOKES FOR SALE
That some gag writers possess voluminous joke files and make as high as $2500 a week by filling orders from comedians. If a comic wants to put on a skit about doctors, for instance, these gag collectors thumb through their files to the one headed “doctors” and supply as many jokes as are needed.
That Groucho Marx is a terrific gag “switcher.” He once gave 15 switches in five minutes to a gag Josefsberg had written for him.
That some of Fred Allen’s gags are so subtle and written specifically for the trade that they go over the heads of men who have been in the business only a few months.
That a writer may turn in a six-page script to Allen, hear him rave about it, sincerely. Then when it finally goes on the air the writer will be lucky if he recognizes one line of the stuff he has written.
I suppose, that inasmuch as today’s column is about radio gag writers, it should close with some kind of a commercial. Well, about the only thing I can think of is to ask you to “Remember that ‘gag’ spelled backwards is ‘gag,’ which means absolutely nothing.”

Benny’s brood left Vancouver on a ferry for a two-day stay in Victoria before returning to the U.S. One of the papers lauded Benny in an editorial for his generosity in helping the war effort. In a way, it’s sad to note that Jack’s programme was no longer heard on Vancouver radio within two months. The show took the summer off and returned in the fall for a new sponsor. As American cigarettes were not sold in Canada, and the sponsor was so interwoven with the show, the CBC could no longer broadcast it. Vancouver listeners had to pick it up from Seattle stations about 110 miles away. However, a little over two decades later, a chap named Jack Cullen ran old network radio broadcasts on his show on suburban CKNW, exposing the Benny gang to many new listeners and giving the 39-year-old miser a whole legion of young fans.

The King of Smokingdom

Tobacco companies spent a small fortune on advertising until they were told they couldn’t any more because they were making something that killed people. Each had a gimmick. In the days of network radio, there were chanting auctioneers, a bellhop stepping out of thousands of store windows, talk of a T-zone and Arthur Godfrey strumming an “ABC” jingle on his ukelele. In the early days of network television, there were leggy packages of cigarettes, stop-motion choreographed cigarettes and, yes, animated cartoon characters.

American Tobacco had Happy Joe Lucky, who cavorted with Gisele MacKenzie in live action. He was even in paid ads in the Sunday comic section of newspapers. Liggett and Myers decided it wanted its own cartoon spokesman, so its ad agency came up with the King of Smokingdom.

Unlike the Marlboro Man or Johnny the Bellhop, the king doesn’t seem to have lasted very long on TV. Daily TV-Radio announced his creation in early January 1957. Billboard reported on him on March 20th that year, but that’s about all I can find out about him. Here’s Billboard’s story.

Chesterfield’s King Crowned In Speedy Advertising Coup
• Tenuous reign with transportation ads suddenly grows into sizzling campaign of trademark
• McCann-Erickson agency dreams up wider usage of the king and his little herald and lion
Chesterfield has crowned the King of Smokingdom. The coronation took place at the beginning of the year at McCann-Erickson. And what began as a tenuous reign with a few newspaper ads and some transportation posters has developed into a sizzling campaign, one which has grown so rapidly that it has caught all hands off guard.

The response to this tall, slim, jolly ruler and his two pals—the cheerful, pudgy Harold the Herald and the docile, bewhiskered Bushy the Lion—is, in fact, running ahead of the coalition which put him in power. The agency as a result is just now working out many details on merchandising items and point-of-sale display to establish more firmly the king and his pals as a Chesterfield trademark.
On TV the campaign is already launched. Created by McCann-Erickson and produced by Hankinson Studios, which has so far delivered three 60-second commercials and has two more coming up, the blurbs are being used on Chesterfield’s network shows: “Panic,” “Hey, Jeannie!” and “Dragnet.”
Original art work on the Chesterfield King was done by Dan Keefe, art director at McCann-Erickson.
The TV campaign is a light and breezy one built on the theme of “the King has everything!” Copy calls for such expressions as majestic length, regal pleasure, commanding the pack, revel in the royal carton, royal flavor, etc. The voice of the king is being done by Dawes Butler [sic], who was associated with Stan Freeberg [sic] on several humorous records, including the “Dragnet” parody.
Just what else will be done to build this campaign is still a moot point. As yet Chesterfield’s spot campaign has not been solidified, nor have plans jelled on its one remaining sports show, “Boston Baseball.” It is definite, however, that the king and his court will reign on the new ABC-TV Frank Sinatra show in the fall.
With these plans to be ironed out, plus a magazine campaign to be done and new posters coming as well as display items, it looks as tho the king of Smokingdom is in for a long rule.

So who was involved in the Hankinson Studios? If someone has some specifics, please post them in the comment section. About all I’ve learned is it was founded in 1947 by Fred Hankinson and Walter Klas was his production manager. The studio was at 15 West 46th Street in New York City and provided live action and animated commercials and industrials. At the time the Smokingham spots were made, Hankinson had produced TV ads for Chase Manhattan Bank, Gem Blades, Eversharp Pens, Chesebrough-Ponds, Columbia Records, Pepto Bismol, Ivory Snow and Quaker State Oil. My guess is he didn’t farm out his animation to other companies as he was a director of the Animation Producers Association and had animation equipment on site, judging by trade ads. That’s even though he used West Coast voice actor Daws Butler. I haven’t been able to discover who animated or directed for the company.

Here’s one of the King spots. You’ll notice some voices that found fame when Daws used them on the Huckleberry Hound Show a year and a bit later.

Smokers, Stooges and Crooners

Frank Tashlin directed with a string of Warner Bros. cartoons around 1937-38 with things on store shelves coming to life. It was books and magazines in Speaking of the Weather. It was books in Have You Got Any Castles? And it was pipe-cleaners and matches in Wholly Smoke.

There are parody products in the background, some of which you should still recognise today. Camels and Raleighs, to name two. Porky is accompanied in this scene by Nick O. Teen, an imaginatively designed character.



Wooden matches light themselves to blacken their heads and turn themselves into a quartet. Among their lyrics: “Light a fag and take a drag.”



Bull Durham tobacco. Is this Rod Scribner’s early work?



Fatima cigarettes. Basil Rathbone plugged them on radio for a while.



Night Owl cigars.



I love the “tongue sandwich” gag in some cartoons where a tongue in a sandwich flaps around singing. Here we get chewing tobacco that chews.



Stogies become stooges. Three of them. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!



Corona Corona cigars get parodied. The crooners in question are (if you don’t already know), Bing Crosby and Rudy Vallee. Sinatra wasn’t around in 1938.



An inside gag. Henry Binder was Leon Schlesinger’s right-hand man. The pipe cleaner dips his head in a pipe to emerge as Cab Calloway.



George Manuell received the story credit on this cartoon, while it was Bob Bentley’s turn for the animation credit. Volney White, Joe D'Igalo and Bob McKimson were animating for Tashlin around this time, and I think Ken Harris was assisting.

Putting Out the Dog the Van Beuren Way

1933 wasn’t too far removed from the silent film era, so maybe it’s not too surprising some of the cartoons made then didn’t rely on dialogue to put across their gags.

Here’s a sequence from the Cubby Bear cartoon Fresh Ham from the Van Beuren studio. Cubby and his unnamed boy cat cohort run a talent agency and audition acts; this may have been the first cartoon with that setting. The title character is a Shakespearean duck but there’s another act involving an opera-singing lady dachshund. Only she’s a fake. These frames can tell you the gag. She enters the cartoon to what you’ll recognise as the “Return My Love” theme from What’s Opera, Doc?”



Look how the cat’s arm is thicker at the wrist than the shoulder and just hangs off his body. Now that’s the illusion of life!



Cubby and cohort have diamond-shaped eyelids when closed.



Did theatres really use trap doors to get rid of bad acts?

Steve Muffati and Mannie Davis get the “by” credit.

The Second Wittiest Man

Bill Cullen is my favourite game show host. He always had some little asides for the audience that were more like funny observations than someone trying to yuck it up. He deserves as much credit as anyone for the huge success in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s of The Price is Right (especially considering the show managed to live through the quiz show scandal). Groucho Marx famously called him “the second wittiest man on the air.”

However, I must admit that even though I’m a fan of Cullen, I’ve never really wondered about his opinion of potato chips, monkeys, life insurance and/or after-shave lotion. However, if you have, then this post is for you. It’s from the November 1958 edition of the Radio-TV Mirror (cover photo to the right). The fluffy fan magazine asked him about all those things, along with quiz shows (the scandal hadn’t broken when the article saw print) and guns.

Along for the ride was his second wife, Ann, whose sister was married to game show host Jack Narz. The photos you see accompanied the article.

Right or Wrong—This is CULLEN
Bill and his wife Anne have no secrets when it comes to airing their honest but surprising opinions on everything from programs to people
By MARTIN COHEN
This is Bill Cullen "in the raw" — mentally. In the past ten years, many stories have been written about Bill as an emcee, husband, pilot and hobbyist extraordinary. This piece, however, is concerned with his opinions and ideas on such diverse people and things as potato chips, Godfrey, diets, after-shave lotion, Picasso, monkeys, love, Brigitte Bardot and many an unrelated subject. Bill is sharp. Groucho Marx called him the second wittiest man on the air. (You know who was first.) Bill's wit derives from a blistering curiosity and intelligent sensitivity.
The interview took place in his apartment, a couple of hundred feet above Manhattan's East River Drive. The scenery was beautiful. On one hand, through the picture window there was the metallic sweep of the East River. On the other, there was Bill's picture-pretty wife, Anne, who was invited to chime in with her comments on the following subjects:

Cocktail Parties. Bill: "Hate them. Never go." Anne: "I don't like them. Especially the big ones."
Children. Anne: "Well, I like them, but I don't have to have children to fulfill myself. I think Bill would make a marvelous father." Bill: "I think I'm almost too old to have them. I'm thirty- eight. Actually, I suppose I'm afraid of children under fourteen. I never know when they're going to haul off and kick me. And they're so unwieldy and noisy. To me, children are just cocktail parties without cocktails."
Diets. Bill: "I just go on eating what I like until my trousers get tight and then I diet. Dieting for me is simply knocking off bread, potatoes, spaghetti and such. Anne is lucky. She can eat anything and she never gets fat." (No comment from Anne.)
Ed Sullivan. Bill: "I always thought he was a good emcee. But, as the years have worn on, I'm firmly convinced he's a great one. He doesn't get on camera too much, doesn't get into acts, and he wears well. Besides, in my personal contacts, I've learned that he is a delightful man and very loyal."
Elfrida Von Nardroff. Anne: "I never watched her." Bill: "I never watch a quiz show that has questions over my head. It would ruin my vanity. But the Barry-Enright office is a very good office and I congratulate them on their success with Twenty One."
Extroverts. Bill: "Not for me, and I'm not one. The first argument Anne and I had was the night we met. She thought I was an extrovert! On the show, I'm paid to do a job. But, outside of that, I like a quiet, lonely existence. That's the truth."

Poker. Bill: "I like to play for an hour or two, but not penny ante. I don't think it's a game unless you're playing up to the point where you can afford it — and that frightens me now. I hate to lose. But, when I play for money, I don't get any great satisfaction out of winning. Can't help wondering how much it hurts the other fellow."
Jerry Lee Lewis. Bill: "I think he ought to pick on someone his own size."
Rock & Roll. Bill: "I'm not a rock 'n' roll fan. I'm not young enough to be savage. When I hear the beat, I don't want to get up and dance. I just feel like going to sleep."
Quiz Shows. Bill: "A good quiz show is a good show, and that's why a good one can go on for years. But there are too many imitations of the good formats and I think that's the problem today. The imitations hurt the good ones. So far as The Price Is Right is concerned, I'm particularly happy with the format. Basically, it's a good idea. We are not dependent on the popularity of any one contestant and have seldom had the same person on more than four or five times — and usually that has been on the daytime show. The game is the important thing."
Suspenders and Avocados. Anne: "I love avocados. Hate suspenders." Bill: Avocados are fattening. If you eat them, you've got to wear suspenders. I don't like either."
Funny Anecdotes. Bill: "I can't remember them. I don't feel funny these days. I'm serious. I have no desire to be a comedian or humorist. I'm sorry atomic energy was ever developed as such. I'm afraid that if one bomb gets into the wrong hands, it's goodbye-George. A terrible thing. Frightens me every time I see one in a newsreel. I truly, literally, get sick."
Godfrey. Bill: "I haven't been in touch with him in so long. When I worked with him, I found him easy to work with, good to work with. He hasn't hurt the world, nor has he given humanity any great gift. But he is very definitely a great performer. I think he will go on successfully for years."
Sack Dresses. Bill: "I like them." Anne: "I don't." Bill: "I hated them at first, but now I find them attractive. Besides, the skirts are shorter and I've always been inclined toward good legs." Anne: "The trapeze is horrible." Bill: "That I go along with."

Love. Anne: "I think it's wonderful. I'm in love and I enjoy it." Bill: "I think ninety percent of the people who say they're in love don't know what it means.
For some, it describes a need or a pleasant association or a convenience — and so they say, 'Well, I'm in love.' Most of them don't know whether they are or not. To me, love means something akin to worship or awe. No matter what a person does, no matter how vicious, you go along with him or her. It's selfless, all-giving. Like the old blues song the woman sings about the guy who left her, went off with another woman, got in jail, but she doesn't care so long as he comes back. Well, maybe I'm cynical, but that's the way I think it should be." Anne: "I don't feel that strong. If that were true, I don't think people would fall in love."
Horses. Bill: "I'm deathly afraid of them." Anne: "Bill gets nervous if he's watching a TV western and the cowboy walks by the hindquarters of a horse." Bill: "I never rode, because of my leg. But I think they are beautiful animals. Only cats are more beautiful."
Potato Chips. Anne: "I can take them or leave them." Bill: "All my life, I've loved potato chips. When I was a kid, I used to sit in the mohair chair listening to the radio and go through a half-pound bag of 'em every night. I was thin and the doctor told my parents I could eat all I wanted."
Brigitte Bardot. Bill: "I've never seen her except in stills. I personally think she's terribly over-rated, because I don't lean toward the animal or purely physical in women. In other words, the overwhelming optical effect. I think a woman should be pleasing in looks. If Anne hadn't been goodlooking, we would never have met — because I wouldn't have got talking to her, in the first place."
Shopping. Anne: "I like to shop." Bill: "I've changed. Used to be that, whenever I passed a store, I had to buy something. I couldn't go in for a new shirt that I didn't order a dozen — plus a gross of socks. But a couple of years back, when I found myself without a cent in the bank, I did an about-face. Now I think twice before I buy anything. I don't feel right if I don't put something in the savings account every week."

Cold Showers. Bill: "Anne can take them, but they're not for me. I cool down to tepid and jump out. I get a chill just watching other guys in a cold shower."
Picasso. Bill: "Love his work. We're collecting paintings, but only originals — so Picasso is out of our reach. Just can't afford him. But he's strong and makes you think." Anne: "I'd rather live with Matisse, because he's made more concessions to the viewer in terms of visual beauty." Bill: "Paintings are our hobby. Anne is a painter, and I've always been interested in colors and form. We have a routine on Saturday. Before dinner, we visit two or three galleries. We've gathered a fine collection of sculpture and paintings, but we have a rule — we don't buy anything unless we like it personally."
Frank Sinatra. Bill: "I think he's the greatest popular singer of our age." Anne: "I agree."
Guns. Anne: "I'm not afraid of them." Bill: "You can't outlaw them. If there were no guns, there would be more poison darts and more stabbings. You can't blame guns for the state of humanity. A gun in wrong hands is a dangerous instrument, but the wrong hands will always find something comparably bad."
Opera. Bill: "I like the corny ones like 'Madame Butterfly' and 'Carmen.' Wagner is too heavy for me. But Anne has a better understanding of serious music. Her father is a successful musician-composer." Anne: "But, still, I go mostly for light operas, too."
Surprise Parties. Bill: "I hate them. If anyone gave me a surprise party, I would be angry. I don't like to be given anything. I don't know what to say. It's easier for me to give than receive. Not more blessed, but easier. I don't know what it stems from, but presents bug me." Anne: "I love surprise parties. Bill gave me one on my last birthday. A real surprise. We'd often watched the sightseeing boats that go around Manhattan, and that's where Bill gathered my friends. It was a complete surprise and just wonderful."

Dogs. Bill: "That was one of our reasons in looking for a place in the country. Anne likes boxers and I like police dogs — so we compromised on French poodles. But it's never got beyond the talking stage, because we don't think it's fair to have dogs in the city. We're putting it off until we have a house."
Retirement. Anne: "I'd like a house in California with our own little swimming pool and enough closets for Bill's hobbies." Bill: "I'd like to 'semi-work.' Do one show a week and write the rest of the time. But I've been burned so often. I mean, when it comes to plans. Mostly my own fault. Due to mishandling of money. But it would be nice, even if just for a year, to do only one program a week. I could use the rest."
Bikinis. Bill: "I dig them the most — so long as Anne isn't wearing one. I'd like a law that all other attractive girls had to wear them. I'm a sun bug, you know, but wouldn't wear one myself. I've gotten soft over the years." Anne: "I love them. When we were house -shopping, I kept looking for pools or patios that were hidden by walls so I could wear a bikini."
Soap Operas. Anne: "Hate them." Bill: "All my life, I said that I didn't like them. But I'll tell you, if one came on now, I'd get involved and listen for two weeks. When I first came to New York, I used to turn on the radio and listen to programs like Snow Village and When A Girl Marries, and I found myself following the plots. Too often, people belittle them because 'it's the smart thing to do.' "
Do-It-Yourself Projects. Anne: "I think they're ruining people's imagination. I'm thinking of those painting sets where you draw by the numbers. However, if they lead people to work on their own eventually, then they're doing some good." Bill: "I love it for people who buy a house with their last dollar and have to finish off a room or attic themselves. But I can't drive a nail. If I had to have a bookcase and couldn't afford one, there's no two ways about it. I'd just roll up my sleeves and ask Anne to make it."
Monkeys. Anne: "I can't stand them. Too close to humans. They frighten me." Bill: "They always remind Anne of unfortunate humans. They remind me of fortunate animals. I can watch them all day. I think they're the world's greatest comics. Sometimes I like to stand back where I can't see the monkeys and watch the people. They're great, too."

After-Shave Lotion. Bill: "You bet." Anne: "I buy it for him by the quart."
Beethoven. Bill: "Great, and him I understand. A moving giant of a man — though I don't like quartets."
Compromise. Bill: "Very important word. Anne and I have unconsciously compromised — but we don't call it that. For me, Anne is the greatest woman in the world, so I find myself enjoying her to the utmost and saying to myself, That's fine. Now do something in return. But we don't compromise, in the common meaning. I once read that compromise may be, 'If you give up golf, I'll give up tennis.' That's not my idea. Too much like politics. I think that's bad." Anne: "People who are different have to compromise. But I agree with Bill. If you're conscious of it — if you have to 'trade' — that's bad."
Spaghetti. Bill: "Love it. And Anne's a wonderful cook." Anne: "Bill makes better spaghetti than I do." Bill: "Oh, no." Anne: "Oh, yes." Bill: "Anyway, I'm now experting on cheese souffles. About four years ago, I made friends with a chef who took me back into the kitchen and taught me. Well, the bugaboo in making a souffle is the fear that it will 'fall.' It won't, if you have confidence. The chef taught me something important — the only thing we must fear in making a souffle is fear itself."
Life Insurance. Bill: "Firm believer in it. I always feel if anything happened to me, I want Anne to be taken care of."
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Anne: "He better not." Bill: "I never have. That's a funny thing. All my life, I've been attracted to brunettes."
Books. Bill: "Sorry to say, my reading is dead. The shows have been devouring me.

Television. Anne: "I like it. I think you can get too involved with it. Sometimes you find yourself looking at terrible shows. However, Bill and I watch a lot of TV." Bill: "In the entertainment world, I think it's the most important thing that has happened in the century. I love sports and, consequently, watch ball games. When it comes to other programming, I think television has its moments. The trouble is with producers who imitate and follow suit. There are too many quiz shows and too many Westerns.
"I think," Bill concludes, "we have the right to expect at least as much from television as we got from radio. When I was at CBS Radio, there were Norman Corwin and the Columbia Workshop. And there were other such exciting shows on the other networks. Right now, I can't think of anything on television that is comparable to what was the best on radio. But it's not all the producers' fault. The recession talk is partly responsible. Sponsors insist on getting as many viewers per dollar as possible, because they want to move their products. When the sponsor doesn't feel so hard pressed, he gives the producer more freedom.
"At first, television dictated to the public. Now the public — with its seeming demand for quizzes and Westerns — is dictating to television. Obviously, a happy medium would be best for all."

100 Years Ago in Animated Cartoons

Ads for theatrical cartoons from Motion Picture News editions of March 1916. Click on each to enlarge.