He Was Always a Boy

The sub-headline in the Hackensack Record of October 13, 1923 read “Walter Tetley, Seven, of Ridgefield Park, Can Imitate Famous Scotchman to Perfection.” The same newspaper of May 11, 1926 gave his age as nine. Five years later in 1931, a wire service story proclaimed he was 10. Four years later, several newspaper articles stated he was 15.

Which was correct? None of them.

Tetley was born June 2, 1915. He was eight when it was claimed he was seven and 20 when it was said he was 15.

In case you don’t know who we’re talking about, Tetley was the voice of Sherman in the Mr. Peabody cartoons on the Rocky and Bullwinkle show. He played Andy Panda in the later 1940s for Walter Lantz, who also employed him as the voice of Reddy Kilowatt in commercial cartoons. But his main fame came from when he scored hits as a child voice on The Great Gildersleeve and The Phil Harris-Alice Faye Show. He was in his 40s when Gildersleeve finally went off the air, but he was still playing a pre-teen on the air.

Lying about his age gave him a crack a while longer at juvenile roles. And that’s all Tetley could play. He had some kind of condition where his voice never changed. But he aged; pictures make it look like he had the face of the man but the body of a child.

None of this was ever referred to, of course, during Tetley’s career. He seems to have been reticent to do interviews.

Here’s a feature story on him in Radio Life, that fine Los Angeles-based magazine, from October 8, 1944. The murky scans below are the best we can do to provide the photos that accompanied the article.

"HO-HO! What a Character!"
By Malcolm Boyd
In Which We Introduce Walter Tetley—Alias Nephew Leroy
Sunday, 8:00 p.m.
NBC-KFI
HO-HO! WHAT a character!"
To millions of radio listeners this is the special trademark of "Leroy" who is helping his ether uncle, Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, rake in the nation's top ratings on listener popularity. But success is anything but new to "Leroy," alias Walter Tetley who, at the tender age of ten, was salting away more than $100 a day as a radio actor.
Now further along in years, Walter has dwarfed his ten-year-old salary by playing movie parts, freelancing in many radio shows and becoming a permanent fixture on the top-notch NBC comedy show, "The Great Gildersleeve." Walter can point to the future and say, "Life Begins at Twenty." His star shows no signs of waning. "I started in show business when I was five years old doing a single act in vaudeville," Walter says. "I was seven when my mother was working on a case as a registered nurse and the mother of the little girl she was taking care of knew that I was working. She suggested that I do some radio work and got me an audition with NBC. The next thing I knew I was singing Scotch songs on the Children's Hour over WJZ, New York, every Sunday morning."
Walter's next radio job, also on NBC in New York, was a part in a kid's strip show called "The Lady Next Door." It was Walter's first script reading experience. "Everything on the green earth happened," he says.
Accidental Casting
When Walter landed a part in NBC's children's serial, "Raising Junior," it was quite by accident. When tryouts were held for a part in the show, Walter dropped around with a friend. His friend got the part and Walter didn't even try out. Then on the day of the program, Walter was in the studios doing his part in "The Lady Next Door."

When he had finished he calmly walked into an elevator going down. But, at that moment, a hand grabbed him by the collar through the elevator door. He was whisked into a studio and told that he would have to read his friend's part in "Raising Junior." His little chum hadn't shown up and time-to-go before the show would hit the air was approximately four minutes. With nary a look at the script, Walter found himself doing the part into a live mike. He repeated this process weekly for the next four years by landing the part permanently then and there.
With Fred Allen
Fame and fortune really arrived when Fred Allen gave Walter a call to be on his weekly show. For Walter it was invaluable experience. He had to play all kinds of characters and master such dialects as English, Irish, Scotch, hillbilly and tough brat. When Allen came to Hollywood he brought Walter with him. But when Allen returned to New York, Walter stayed right here.
It was a wise choice, because before he could turn around the movies called him. And Walter found himself in "Lord Jeff" with Mickey Rooney and Freddie Bartholomew and in "The Spirit of Culver" with Jackie Cooper.
In the Abbott and Costello film, "Who Done It?" Walter was assigned to a small part in one scene. The next thing he knew Costello requested added scenes for him. Walter ended up in ten good scenes which ran through the entire picture!
In one sequence of the movie, Walter is seen walking into a drugstore. Costello is seen standing behind the counter.
"How much is your orange juice?" asks Walter.
"Fifteen cents a glass," answers Costello.
"That's too much money."
"Not the way I make 'em."
"I betcha a dime I can drink the orange juice faster than you can make it."
"That's a bet."
Costello proceeds to make the orange juice and Walter proceeds to drink it faster. After ten glasses, Costello gives up.
"You win. Here's your dime," he says.
After ten takes of the scene, Walter had drunk one hundred glasses of orange juice in one day alone. Everything would have been all sight—only Walter is allergic to citrus juices.
Peary Sends For Him
Whenever Fibber McGee and Molly had a boy's part on their show, they called Walter. Hal Peary was also on the program, playing a part he had created and named Gildersleeve. Three years ago when Peary went his own way and a sponsor became interested in the prospect of a new comedy, Walter had returned to New York with his family. A wire from Hal Peary brought him out to Hollywood where he has remained ever since.
Walter's characterization of "Leroy" has become so famous that many listeners react as though he were one of the family. "Uncle Mort" had to give "Leroy" a spanking over the radio recently. Along in the mail the following week came a package addressed to Walter. It was for "Leroy" to use in protecting himself from "Uncle Mort." It's name? "The Van Court Scientific Course in Boxing!" Typical scene from the script:
GILDERSLEEVE: Who hit you, Leroy?
LEROY: Eugene Clanahan. The big cheater.
GILDY: Clanahan! Here, wipe your nose.
LEROY: Okay.
GILDY: Not on your shirt! I'm giving you a handkerchief!
LEROY: Thanks.
GILDY: What do you mean when you say Eugene cheated, Leroy?
LEROY: He started throwing rocks.
GILDY: Just like his father, by George. I'll go and see that Clanahan! I'll knock his block off!
LEROY: (cheering a little) Attaboy, Unk! Can I watch?
GILDY: Well—maybe I'll just speak to Eugene.
LEROY: He's the toughest kid in the school.
GILDY: He is? Confound it. Leroy, why can't you plug peaceably with your friends?
LEROY: How can we play peaceably? Eugene's gang won't leave us alone.
GILDY: Wait a minute. What is this gang of yours?
LEROY: Just a gang. that's all. Only our gang fights fair, and Eugene's gang cheats, throwing rocks all the tine. MARJORIE: Didn't I see you throwing rocks yesterday?
LEROY: (Indignantly) We never throw anything but dirt clods!
MARJORIE: Well, yesterday you threw a—
LEROY : If there's a rock inside of it, that's an accident!

With his family, Walter lives fifteen miles outside of Hollywood in the San Fernando valley. They have an attractive white stucco Spanish-style house, a swimming pool and, believe it or not, a farm, where Walter's dad spends all his time. They call the place the "Big Oak Ranch" because the house is built around a big oak tree whose branches afford a natural cooling system. Walter's mother is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Women's Emergency corps and is in charge of a free canteen for servicemen in Beverly Hills.
Mr. Tetley was in the New York post office for thirty-five years until he retired on a government pension around a year ago. Walter's brother is a precision parts inspector in a nearby defense plant.
The Tetleys also have a stable with two horses. One of them pulls an old-fashioned "Surrey with the Fringe on Top" which stands on the farm and has been used in many old-time movies. The Tetleys have four dogs, five cats, two hundred chickens and two ducks—which Walter named Hedy and Lana.
After a busy day in downtown Hollywood this famous young radio actor can retire to the peace and quiet of the San Fernando valley and make plans for his future career.
He'll stick to radio, but don't be surprised if he ends up by being a writer or producer.
"Why, Walter, you'll probably be producing the biggest shows on the air," says a friend.
"Are you kiddin'?" says "Leroy."

Tetley started out as a Harry Lauder imitator, but he was Scottish on his mother’s side only. His last name was Tetzlaff; his father Fred was of German descent (though born in New York) and worked in the Ridgefield Park post office. His mother’s last name was Campbell and born in Scotland.

An affinity for Scotland, Tetley had, beyond being a Harry Lauder impersonator. Witness this story from the Province of June 17, 1950, of a trip to Vancouver.

Only a guy with a name like 'Walter Campbell Tetley' would travel a thousand miles just to blow into a bag-pipe. Obviously an embittered soul driven to the 'instrument of hell' by the vicious pace of life along Sunset Boulevard, Walter will hie himself all the way from Hollywood to Brockton Point July 1 to add a dash of levity to the Police Sports show and become an honorary member of the Police Pipe band.
Mr. Tetley masquerades professionally under a couple of well-known aliases. He is "Leroy" on the Gildersleeve radio show and "Julius" on the Phil Harris show. He loves his sponsors, picks up his cheques with either hand and is figured a whiz at adding a bright touch to sombre track and field productions.
Det.-Sgt. John Gillies, drum-beater for the PMBA-sponsored meet, informs us that W.C. comes at his own expense at the urging of another honorary Police Piper and veteran of the '48 Caledonian Games—Bill Thompson, also of Hollywood.
Thompson, another sucker for the old Aberdeen squeeze-play, is the Wallace Wimple of the Fibber McGee and Molly show. As you see, our police deal only with characters.

Tetley was very community minded. He was a member of the Kiwanis club, he became a Mason and later joined the Mystic Order of Veiled Prophets of the Enchanted Realm, better known as the Grotto, an organisation of Masons that helps children with cerebral palsy. He got up to Master of Ceremonies (akin to second vice-president) of Cinema Grotto and was Tyler of his Masonic Lodge in 1974 but his cancer was slowly spreading. He died September 6, 1975 at age 60, with a memorial service conducted by his brother Masons.

Both men who played Gildersleeve, Hal Peary and Willard Waterman, and Elliott Lewis, who worked with him on the Harris-Faye show, praised his acting abilities. Tetley’s Julius on the Harris show was so ridiculously over-the-top, he was very funny but still believable. He seems to have been a nice man, too. Considering that, he can be forgiven for fudging about his age all those years.

Viva Unmatched Shots

Willie Whopper storms the hideout of some banditos in Viva Willie and crashes into a wall.



Evidently the crash was so great it somehow knocked him into a corner ahd gave him a shadow. These are consecutive frames.



Considering this was the last Willie Whopper cartoon (released October 4, 1934), maybe the artists weren’t too concerned about unmatched shots. (MGM began releasing the Harman-Ising cartoons that replaced them the previous September 1st). Henceforth, the Iwerks studio would only make ComiColor cartoons and release them independently.

Grim Natwick and Berny Wolf got animation credits and Carl Stalling provided the music.

Blitz Wolf Background

There’s a pan shot near the start of Blitz Wolf (1942) from the ersatz Practical Pig’s trench through the blue-ish forest and ending on a black battle ground with scarlet skies. I can’t snip it together from frames in the cartoon because it appears Jack Stevens or whoever was operating the camera darkened the scene at the pan continued. The colours don’t match. And a tree and its branches are on an overlay that is panned at a different rate than the background.

However, here’s a part of it, showing the house of sticks, the house of straw, and the edge of the forest (the large leaves are on the overlay).



Tex attracted a lot of loyalty. When he left Lantz for the Leon Schlesinger studio, animators Virgil Ross, Sid Sutherland and Cecil Surry went with him. When he left Schlesinger for MGM, writer Rich Hogan and background artist Johnny Johnsen joined him (Hogan tried to get out of his contract early to go to Metro). You see Johnsen’s work in this cartoon and, as far as I know, all of Avery’s shorts in the 1940s.

The Towel and Billboard Lady, Phyllis Newman

Game shows in the 1960s had a number of guest panelists who popped by on occasion, and audiences likely weren’t aware of the range of their talents because they appeared elsewhere than on television.

Phyllis Newman was one.

She did the Goodson-Todman shows out of New York—“What’s My Line?”, “To Tell The Truth,” “Match Game” (the original version), as well as “Password.” But her real fame came from the stage, where she had a very long career. Newman was nominated for a Tony at one point, and appeared in a well-received one-woman show, “The Madwoman of Central Park West.”

Let’s go back to her Tony-nominated role in this syndicated newspaper feature story from February 18, 1962.

Toweled Phyllis Newman, ‘Subways’ Show Stopper
By WARD MOREHOUSE
North American Newspaper Alliance
NEW YORK—Phyllis Newman doesn't wear silk or satins or feathers or furs in "Subways Are for Sleeping." She wears a towel—a plain blue terry cloth towel that must have cost all of $2.98—and she's the hit of the show. Socko, as Variety would say.
Phyllis is extremely fetching in a towel, but it takes more than that to stop a show, as she does in the musical play at the St. James. She also is an adroit comedienne, and in the role of a "Miss Mississippi" runner-up, she's fairly irresistible.
"Is there any possibility that the towel will slip?" I asked as a matter of academic interest.
She said: "No, it's attached to a bra, so there's no danger of that. I have two towels, but I've never worn the other one because I'm superstitious about it. I stick to the towel I was wearing the first time we stopped the show in Philadelphia. They keep it washed for me."
• • •

IN "SUBWAYS," Phyllis plays a po’ little Southern girl with show-business aspirations, holed up in a room at the Brunswick Arms Hotel in New York. She owes the hotel $1,100. And she figures, with deadly feminine logic, that the management would be embarrassed to haul her screaming to the street in a towel, so she never wears anything else.
“I’ve tried to copy the accent of a friend of mine, Boaty Boatright, who was born in the South," she said. “Through Boaty I’ve met some other Southern girls and they all have such lovely manners.
"Where was I born? In Jersey City, the home of gracious living."
Phyllis, a bright and lively brunette (she wears a blond wig in "Subways") is married to Adolph Green, who with Betty Comden wrote the book and lyrics for "Subways" and other Broadway successes.
• • •
“THERE was a lot of opposition to my appearing in the show,” she said. “I had to do a number of auditions for David Merrick (the producer), Michael Kidd (director), Julie Styne (composer) and Betty. Adolph stayed away from them. I’m not sure that I'd want to do another show that's connected with Adolph because it's hard on him.
"He and Betty worked so hard on the road. They were writing all night until 6 in the morning then they'd sleep about four hours and start again. Their first script was much better than the one we have now...but we're selling out and people are liking it. It’s getting an excellent reaction.”
Phyllis met Adolph Green when she auditioned for "Bells Are Ringing." another Comden & Green musical. She was signed as standby for Judy Holliday.
"A few weeks later Adolph asked me for a date, then he didn't ask me for another date for a long time," she recalled. "I knew Adolph was an intellectual and on that first date I tried to impress him by dropping the names of books and authors I hadn't even read. He's found me out since then, obviously."
They have a year-old son, Adam, and an apartment on Central Park West. Phyllis is not the housewife type. "I don't sew or tat or make things, and I can't cook at all. My husband deserves better than my cooking."
Phyllis appeared on television in "Diagnosis Unknown" in 1960 and in four other Broadway productions. But she never stopped a show before. "It's thrilling. Orson Bean is so much fun to work with, and Sydney Chaplin is terribly attractive to the ladies."

Newman worked with Orson Bean on “To Tell The Truth.” But she appeared on another TV show that many may not remember her on, the American version of “That Was the Week That Was.” This AP column was published January 10, 1965.

They're Banging on the Door of Phyllis the Satirist
EDITOR'S NOTE: Phyllis Newman thought she was just doing satires for her own amusement until she tried them on TW3. Now she's famous for them, though it's a weekly scramble involving idiot cards the size of billboards, and her success has brought offers from all sides.
By CYNTHIA LOWRY
Associated Press Writer
New York — Not long ago Phyllis Newman's four-year-old son, Adam, was asked in nursery school what his mother did—professionally speaking. The little boy replied: "She gets up and she sits down."
"Well, it was true," said the dark-haired young performer later. "The only time he'd seen me on television was in To Tell the Truth, and although I did some talking, the only movements I made were to stand up or sit down."
Miss Newman, while still collecting a healthy weekly check as a regular member of the day-time To Tell the Truth panel, currently is causing comment as a regular member of the troupe that each week cooks up some mischief in a TV revue—or, more precisely, review—called That Was the Week That Was Tuesdays at 9:30 p.m. on NBC.
"I was dying to get on the program," she recalled. "I'd known Leland Hayward (the producer) since I had a part in his 'Wish You Were Here.' And my husband and I kept running into him at parties. Each tune he'd say something like, ‘We've got to have you on the show,’ but that was as far as it went."
• • •

FINALLY, however, she made it, and surprised a large number of viewers by launching into a wicked and extremely funny imitation of Barbra Streisand, complete in mannerism and voice. Since then she has gone to work with the same naughty efficiency on Audrey Hepburn, Ethel Merman and Linda Bird Johnson, a portrait gallery which suggests her range.
"The only one that made me a little bit nervous was Ethel Merman," she added. "Partly because I personally think she's so great, and partly because she's not easy to mimic."
Phyllis really was not surprised that the TW3 people were not exactly beating down the door to get her. "Nobody thought of me as a satirist," she said, "In fact, I never really thought of myself as anything more than a bathroom satirist — like a bathroom tenor, doing those things for my own personal fun. In fact, nobody in show business was doing much thinking about me at all — I've been mostly on a daytime TV show lately and not many show business people watch at that time."
She laughed.
"And now," she added, "nobody thinks of me as anything but a satirist."
• • •
SHE HAS BEEN MARRIED for almost five years to Adolph Green who, with his partner Betty Comden, has turned out a long string of Broadway hits. She met him when she was Judy Holiday's understudy in the Comden-Green "Bells Are Ringing." Later, she auditioned five times for a part in their "Subways Are for Sleeping," finally won it, and received a Tony Award as the best supporting actress of the season. But it was one of the loneliest times of her life—the rest of the cast eyed her nervously and from a distance, because the author was her husband.
During the period before the birth of her daughter, Amanda, last year, Phyllis decided that she "had the ideal job for a pregnant performer: The panel show.
"I stayed on the show until a couple of days before she was born," she recalled. "All it took was a couple of mornings a week, a few changes of blouses or tops—all that showed was the tops."
• • •
IN TERMS of hours spent, TW3 also makes modest demands—but the hours themselves are crowded and frantic.
The whole thing is all so very urgent," she said. "Right up to air time— we're live, you know — they keep making changes to keep up with the news."
For one show she had an hour in which to learn the notes of a song and get a little familiar with the words. She is extremely myopic and unable to wear contact lenses.
"So when I work I can't use an electric prompter or even ordinary-sized idiot cards," she said. "When they hold up cards for me to read, they are about the size of billboards."
Now that the night-time audiences have discovered Phyllis Newman, all sorts of opportunities are flowing her way.
"I get sent scripts. I've had series offers from California —and I've been offered so much money you wouldn't believe it to make commercials."
• • •
THE TELEVISION networks fret considerably about the audience ratings of its programs, and NBC is something of a brave trailblazer in putting on TW3 in prime evening time. They know full well that sharp wit, satire and kidding the most dignified, powerful figures in the world is not exactly everyman's idea of the perfect TV show — not when Westerns and comedies top the ratings.
"I think we should have small ratings." she said. "As long as NBC is happy, I think small ratings give us a kind of class." There’s a tribute to Phyllis in this story at Broadway World.

Two Remleys, Part Two

Dennis Day had two shows. Phil Harris had two shows. That was a running gag on Jack Benny’s radio show. It was used as another put-down of Jack, who only had one show.

Someone else had two shows. Frank Remley.

This gets a little tricky, so bear with me. Remley was in Harris’ orchestra when it was hired to work on the Benny show in 1936. Over a number of years, Remley’s name was used whenever Benny’s writers needed a gag about someone more dissipated than Harris. When Harris was hired by F.W. Fitch to do a second show, hosting the Bandwagon in 1946, he needed a foil. Who better than Frank Remley? After all, there was instant name recognition from the Benny show. So now Remley was on the Benny show playing the guitar and on Harris’ show...well, kind of.

Movie fan magazines are not exactly noted for their veracity, but there’s no reason to disbelieve this story that Harris told Modern Screen in its June 1948 issue.

We had an awful time casting Frankie. Frank Remley is my oldest friend. We began in this business together, me a drummer and Frankie playin' guitar. When I got my own band, he came with me. We've played in every big and little place on the globe, lived together until we got married. I'm always kiddin' him about his age and all that.

Well now we were castin' for this part. Actors were readin' for us and we were turnin' 'em down right and left. Suddenly I say how wonderful if this guy were able to do it himself, after all he's a pretty amusing guy. So I call him up — he's got his own little combination by now and is playing around town. I don't tell what I want him for, just say, "Come over."

He brings his guitar of course. I hand him a script and tell him to read with me so the director and the rest can hear that he's an actor too. "Now Curly," he says, (he's the only one who calls me Curly) "I'm no professor." I tell him to shut up and start readin'. He keeps tryin' to tell me something but of course I won't let him. I got one thing on my mind. So we start and he goes like a wagon with a broken wheel. He's slow, his timing is impossible. I say, "Are you afraid, Frankie?"

"Look Curly, I've been trying to tell you something," he says, "it's something I've been meaning to tell you for several months. I got myself a pair of reading glasses, can't read without 'em now. I left 'em home today. I can't hardly see this paper I'm holding let alone the printing on it."

He'd been hiding this about the glasses because he knew I'd rib the brains out of him for growing old and all that. Well, before we got around to giving him another chance to read, a very good professional actor blew in, just out of the army and we gave him the job. And Remley works in the band, playin' the old guitar. He practically falls off his chair every week when he hears himself being impersonated.

Elliott Lewis was hired to portray Remley, so you now had the fake Remley on the air on the Harris show, and the real, guitarist-not-speaking-on-the-air version on the Benny show.

Through circumstances I’ve never understood, when Harris left the Benny show in 1952, his orchestra stayed with Benny; Walter Scharf continued to front a different band on the Harris show. That meant the real Remley was still plucking away with Benny. When that happened, the fake version played by Elliott Lewis on the Harris series unexpectedly changed his name to “Elliott Lewis” with an explanation that was more contrived than funny.

I’m glad you followed all that.

Remley (the real one) was lucky enough to get that far. Here’s a 1924 wire service story.

YOUTH IS KILLED AT MODESTO
By the Associated Press
MODESTO; Sept. 13.—Allen Young, 20, of Eagle Rock, Los Angeles county, was killed early this morning when as a member of a party of six musicians he was driving south towards Los Angeles. Their car tipped over directly across the Southern Pacific tracks at Hatch crossing, known as “death curve.” A Southern Pacific northbound train came along a few moments later and hit the wreck.
Young was taken aboard the train and died there in a few minutes. When the engine hit the car the gas tank exploded and the automobile was burned up. Other members of the party were Sloan Campbell, Berkeley; Frank Remley, Los Angeles; Rene Duplessis of Van Nuys; Gordon Glenn of Los Angeles, and Mark Murray of Long Beach. All are believed to be students at the University of Southern California.

Remley was a great travelling companion. Wire service stories reveal how Remley and Harris or Remley and Benny would hop in a car and go somewhere, including trips to British Columbia. Here’s an Associated Press story about an unusual cross-country auto journey. It’s from August 27, 1948.

Phil Harris at Fargo With Jack Benny's Car
FARGO—(AP)— Orchestra Leader Phil Harris and his guitar player, Frank Remley, were fishing near Detroit Lakes, Minn., Thursday. They arrived in Fargo Wednesday and went to Little Detroit Lake, where they are staying at the cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Paulsrud, Fargo.
Harris and Remley were driving an English car which Jack Benny bought on his trip to Europe this summer. Harris and his wife, Alice Faye, and Mr. and Mrs. Remley accompanied Benny on the trip.
“When we landed at New York, Benny intended to ship the car to California but Remley has told me so much about Fargo and the lake district that we sent our wives home by train and we're driving to Hollywood.”
Remley is a nephew of Nick Remley, fire chief at Moorhead, Minn.

Frankie accompanied Benny in performances on the road, too. They appeared together at the 93rd California State Fair in Sacramento in 1952. They also went to Korea together during the War in a taxing tour of military camps.

Remley’s name and off-mike laughter remained on the Benny radio show until it signed off in 1955. Benny was busy with television at the time and the real Remley actually showed up on camera a few times and spoke. He was also conducting his own orchestra by the mid-50s; Benny once plugged it on radio and its club appearances were broadcast for a while late night on KABC radio.

The most print Remley got may have been when he passed away on January 28, 1967. Newspapers all over North America picked up the story. There was a sad sidebar to it.

Frank Remley Dies at 65
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. (AP) – Frank Remley, known to radio fans as the humorous drunk who traded quips with Jack Benny, is dead, a victim of heart failure.
The 65-year-old guitarist, a fixture on the comedian's shows of nearly 30 years, died Saturday of a cardiac arrest after open heart surgery.
His death came only a few months after the presumed death of his only child, Frank , Jr., 24, who disappeared with friend last Aug. 14 while sailing from Newport Beach to Portland, Ore. No trace of them was ever found.
Remley was born in Moorhead, Minn., on Oct. 23, 1901, grew up in Valley City and Fargo, N.D., and came to Hollywood in 1920.
He eventually joined the Phil Harris Orchestra and, in 1938 [sic], became a member of Jack Benny's group. He was a left-handed guitar player on the Benny show.
Survivors include his widow Helen; a brother Edward Kennelly; a sister Alice Schmallen; and his mother, Mrs. Nell Kennelly, all of Fargo.

Besides being travelling companions, Benny and Remley were great letter writers and exchanged correspondence, some of which would never be approved by radio censors. Benny wasn’t above using four-letter words off the air. Frank Remley seemed to enjoy life and have fun, and that sets a pretty good example for us all.

The Other Guy at Terrytoons

To your right you see a lovely bit of incorrect information. Perhaps it’s understandable.

Felix the Cat was maybe the most famous cartoon character of the silent era. He was so popular imitation Felixes showed up at other studios. Walt Disney had Julius, while the Fables studio had Henry. Henry is the cat you see to your right with animator Frank Moser.

The Des Moines Register published the photo on March 31, 1928 along with the following blurb:

Frank Moser Sends Some Original Drawings for Exhibit.
From Des Moines hailed the father of Felix the Cat.
Felix is one of the most popular creations in comedy films today. And Felix is the brain child of Frank Moser, former Des Moines artist.
This afternoon just how Felix is managed on the celluloid will be explained by representatives of the Cumming School of Art. Mr. Moser has sent back original drawings of Felix and explanations of how Felix is given his lifelike qualities.
It takes 5,000 drawings of Felix to produce an ordinary comedy film.
Felix is the most important member of Mr. Moser's "Aesops Fables" films. But besides his animal cartoons, Mr. Moser does landscape painting and he has sent one dozen of these same paintings buck for the exhibit in the public library.

Frank Moser was an animation pioneer who was manoeuvered out of his share of the Terrytoons studio by Paul Terry in 1936. Terry went on to become a millionaire. Other than sit at home and paint, I don’t know what else Moser did until he died in 1964; the 1940 census states he was an animated cartoonist in the movie industry but doesn’t reveal for whom.

The local paper in Marysville, Kansas wrote about Moser a number of times after he had moved away to work in the animation industry in the silent era. The following is from April 10, 1952 and gives a nice biography, as well as a story about Walt Disney. I would guess Moser paid a visit on Bill Tytla and Art Babbitt; they may be the best-known former Terry artists at Disney (there were other New Yorkers there, such as Norm Ferguson).

Artist Re-Visits His Home
A visitor in Marysville this week was Frank Moser, artist and pioneer in the field of animated cartoons. A former resident and graduate of the high school here, Moser had not visited his home for 13 years.
He was born on a farm west of Oketo. His last visit home was in 1939. He has three brothers in Kansas. Brother Rudolph lives in Toneka. Fred is a resident of Blue Rapids and Charles Moser lives in Marysville.
Frank Moser's home has been in Hastings-on-Hudson, a suburb of New York City, for the past 40 years.
Moser graduated from Marysville high school in 1907. He was captain of the baseball team while in high school.
He recalls with considerable satisfaction that his squad defeated Frankfort twice.
He also played some football, but he adds, "not much."
After graduating from high school here, Moser went to study at the Albert Reed School of Art in Topeka. He later went to Des Moines, Iowa, where he attended the Cummings School of Art.
He went to work on The Des Moines Register and Leader, working with J. N. Darling, famous political cartoonist who always signed his works with the word "Ding" crawled across one corner.
Another Marysville man, Russell Cole, was also working in Des Moines at the time.

Russell moved on to a job in New York and Moser, after two years on the Des Moines paper, moved to New York.
He attended art school in New York and went to work on The New York Globe as cartoonist and illustrator. He worked on The Globe for about four years.
Moser is one of the pioneers in the field of animated cartoons in the motion pictures. During his career in the making of animated cartoons, he worked for Pathe, Paramount, Fox, International RKO, and several other motion picture studios.
Moser and Paul Terry established the cartoon known as Terry-Toons, now released by Fox, in 1929.
"We made it through the depression," Moser says. Together the partners made $18 in 1932.
Moser sold out to his partner in 1936. Today, he devotes his time to painting in oil colors and water colors. His wife is also a watercolor artist.
He is a member of the Salmagundi art club of New York, the American watercolor society, and the Hudson Valley art association.
Walt Disney is probably one of the best known producers of animated cartoons in Hollywood today. Moser's work preceded Disney's by 15 years.
"Disney was a natural theater man," Moser recalls, "and he was a natural gambler."
An incident told by Moser gives some illustration of Disney's character. In 1939, Moser made a trip to Hollywood, stopping in Marysville on the way.
In Hollywood, he met some of the men who were then working for Disney but who had formerly been employed by the Terry-Toon organization.
The Disney studio, they told Moser, appeared to be facing a financial crisis. They felt that Disney's free-spending production methods might force the company into bankruptcy.
In order to put a check-rein on Walt, they had to ask his brother, Roy, to take steps to halt the spending. Roy, in turn, went to the firm's banker (A. P. Giannini, Bank of America.)
Giannini called Walt Disney in to have a conference. Everyone expected the banker to give Disney a dressing-down.
"But to show you what kind fellow this Disney was," Moser says, "He went to see the banker and instead of a paddling, he came back with another million dollar loan."

Where'd That Come From?

Things happen in Tex Avery cartoons that defy explanation. It’s always best not to think about comedy that makes you smile or laugh and just enjoy it.

Here are a couple of examples from Tex Avery’s I'm Cold, a pretty funny Chilly Willy cartoon. The plot is simple. Chilly tries to steal furs to keep warm. A guard dog tries to stop him. In one scene, Chilly is inside a bear fur, toodling along toward the door.



The fur passes over the guard dog. The fur continues on its journey and reveals the dog has grabbed Chilly.



How can the fur move on its own? Because in a Tex Avery cartoon, anything can happen.

In another scene, the dog tosses a bundle of furs into storage, pulls a lock out of his mouth and locks the door.



How can a dog go around with a lock in its mouth? Because in a Tex Avery cartoon.... well, you know the rest. Tex liked surprise laughter and said he wanted to do something the audience would least expect. You wouldn’t expect a lock to be in a dog’s mouth, would you?

Both scenes are animated by Don Patterson. Ray Abrams and La Verne Harding also receive animation credits. Clarence Wheeler, who gets bashed in some circles, did a nice job with this short; Avery seems to have brought out the best in him.

Popcorn Chicken

Tex Avery used exaggerated takes. Bob Clampett had animators who could stretch parts of characters in all kinds of ridiculous directions. Of course, this was in the late ‘30s and into the ‘40s.

Toward the middle 1930s, you wouldn’t find this very much in animated cartoons, certainly not at the Harman-Ising “We Wanna Be Disney” studio. In The Lost Chick (released in 1935), a pair of squirrels feed the little bird all they have in their home to eat—popcorn. The chick backs toward a fire with predicable results.

Here are some frames. The animation of the popcorn exploding inside the chick’s stomach is pretty tame and not all that funny.

The characters still look like something out of a Merrie Melodies cartoon a few years earlier; the designs would get more sophisticated by the end of the decade as Harman and Ising did their best to imitate Walt Disney’s shorts.

MGM pushed the Happy Harmonies cartoons in all the major film publications; to the right, you see a full-page ad. They generally got favourable reviews; the “Motion Picture Reviews” newsletter published by the Women’s University Club in Los Angeles called it “A delightful color cartoon.” One small town theatre manager wrote in the Motion Picture Herald “Every one of this series seems better than the previous one. They are bringing out some of the two and three-year-old kiddies and their parents. They are enjoyed as much as the feature.” Another said: “One of the best colored cartoons of the year. Give it preferred time.” Still another proclaimed it was “Delightful. In fact it's so good, I'm thinking of repeating it.” Another raved “You will not see a better all-color cartoon than this. I only wish they were all as good.”

The cartoon was one of the last in red-green Technicolor; the studio switched to full colour with The Old Plantation.

My thanks to Devon Baxter for the frame grabs.

Two Remleys, Part One

Elliott Lewis was one of those multi-hyphenates of radio. He acted, produced, directed, wrote and even created—“On Stage” with he and his first wife Cathy was one of his shows.

Lewis was an excellent dramatic actor, appearing on “Suspense, “The Whistler” and “Escape.” But he’ll probably be associated with Phil Harris in his long-running role as Frank Remley, first on “The Fitch Bandwagon” and then on “The Phil Harris-Alice Faye Show.”

Remley was a real person. This story from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch of December 5, 1948 goes into an explanation and sums up Lewis’ career to that time. Lewis’ life on radio went past the Golden Age; he was involved with several drama anthology revivals in the 1970s which were well acted, critically acclaimed and financially not viable.

The Two Frankie Remleys of Radio
Real One Is Musician, Other Uses Name in Comedy Role—Both With Phil Harris
By Harry Niemeyer
A Special Correspondent of the Post-Dispatch
Hollywood, Dec. 4
FRANKENSTEIN and his monster had nothing on modern day radio, whose comedy characters repeatedly encompass, swallow and digest the often bewildered actors who create them.
Marian and Jim Jordan became Fibber McGee and Molly, the late Marlin Hurt was Beulah to his listeners, Harold Peary is known even to intimates as Gildersleeve or "Gildy," and now actor Elliott Lewis seems about to have the same thing happen to him with his role of Frankie Remley on the Phil Harris-Alice Faye show, heard each Sunday at 6:30 p. m. in St. Louis over station KSD.
But in his case, Lewis plays the little man who IS there, the real Frankie Remley, long-time friend of Jack Benny and Phil Harris and for more than a decade a member of the Harris band. Frankie actually plays guitar and, three seasons ago, attempted bits of dialogue himself when Harris wanted a foil for his comedy.
As an actor, though, Frankie continued to be a good paid-up member of the musicians' local, and Lewis, who was hanging around a final Sunday night rehearsal, was eased into Frankie's "voice" role. As he clicked in show after show, his part was increased. This year Harris signed Elliott exclusively for comedy roles, billed him next to himself and Alice Faye and "built" him so much in general that there is little doubt but that listeners will soon be calling Elliott "Frankie Remley" more often than they call him "Lewis."
Elliott, quite naturally, is happy about becoming radio's newest comedy star. His exclusive contract with Harris means that he no longer has to work a variety of air shows to earn his board and keep at the Brown Derby around the corner. Just last season, he was heard regularly with Burns and Allen, Ozzie and Harriet, Jack Benny and Parkyakarkas and, not too long before that, he was featured on the Ann Sothern "Maisie" series.
In fact, he and his wife, Cathy Lewis, worked on so many shows in 1946 and 1947 that they were known around Radio Row as "Mr. and Mrs. Radio" and were found to have a combined rating of 169.2 (or more people than there are in the United States) in the Hooper surveys of listeners.
This year, Cathy is convalescing from serious illness which took her off the air last summer, and Elliott is down to Remley and one other show—"The Case Book of Gregory Hood"—in which he plays the title role. On that show, Elliott is the direct opposite of the brash, hep Remley character. As Greg Hood, he's a suave, wealthy San Francisco importer who dabbles in private eye work on the side.
♦ ♦ ♦

"It would be hard to find two characters more opposed," Elliott says, "but from an actor's standpoint it's wonderful to have such a combination available. I'm not like the traditional vaudevillian who wants to play Shakespeare, but I do have most fun in my work when I can play a variety of roles. Then I feel that I am adding to my ability."
He's been adding ability since he came to California in the middle 1930s from New York where he was born in 1917. He spent his boyhood in nearby Mount Vernon, N.Y., and had ambitions for the legitimate stage until he found his best offer was to usher at a little theater venture.
Migrating to Hollywood, Elliott enrolled at Los Angeles City College in a radio course which finally led to an audition and his first job. He got five dollars to play an incidental character in "The Life of Simon Bolivar," over a local station—and to rattle a stack of metal chairs during an earthquake scene. The synthetic earth tremor was a good start. In six months he was doing so much radio work that he quit school.
Elliott was already established as a radio star when he met Cathy during a sponsor's trial for a network show being produced by Bill Robson. "We both had been given a big buildup about the other before we met," says Elliott.
"Bill had told me about a red-headed actress from MGM who had the same last name as mine. She was rooming with Bill's girl friend and he was dying to have us meet . . . you know the routine. "She arrived, I asked for a date that night, she turned me down but said, 'Maybe tomorrow night,' and the courtship was on. But she wouldn't say 'I do until April 30, 1943, when I was home on leave from a Florida Army hospital. I still think she was so sorry for me she couldn't help herself."
The Lewises then proceeded to become America's hardest working radio family, working virtually every dramatic show out of Hollywood, and, last season, co-starring on their own thriller, "The Clock." Their plans for a big season together in 1948-49 with another new co-starring series were curtailed when Cathy, ill most of the summer, was not able to return to the air, even for her role on "My Friend Irma," on which she co-starred with Marie Wilson.
From the real Frankie Remley's standpoint, there had been moments of distress in having his name become a household word and all because of somebody else's voice.
"I always explain very carefully that Elliott plays me on Phil's show," Frankie says, "but usually the fans have dropped their jaws and given me the fish-eye the minute I spoke. In fact, some of them even suspect that Elliott plays the guitar for me, too.
"I only lied once," Frankie adds, and that was when a gorgeous dish breezed up and began to gush about my terrific comedy on the air. After all, Lewis or no Lewis, a guy's got to draw the line somewhere.

We’ll have more on the real Frank Remley in a post this weekend.

Washing Away the Housewife

Tom’s attempt at stopping a leaking pipe with a piece of gum doesn’t quite work in the oddly-named Joint Wipers, a 1932 Van Beuren cartoon. The owner of the house and her pets get inundated then swept down the stairs by the water.



The next three frames are used in a little cycle. Why is Tom sniffing on the floor? Does a Van Beuren cartoon need to make sense?



It appears one of her pets drowned. Only two follow her.



One of those two looks like a monkey. He started out as a wiener dog in an earlier scene.



The Van Beuren sound department uses the same squeaky toy for the voice of a dog and a mouse.

George Stallings and John Foster are responsible for this cartoon, say the credits.