The Thief of Bad Gags

How long did Milton Berle have a reputation of stealing everyone else’s material?

Years before he went into television.

Back in the days when Ed Sullivan was a Broadway columnist, he wrote about it. Here’s a chunk of his New York Daily News column of August 19, 1932.

Berlesque
HE swears it's true, and I have ever found young Milton Berle to be an honorable and truthful man, so we will run it here and let you be the judge.
"At 3 o'clock, yesterday morning," says Milt, "I was passing the Palace. Right ahead of me a drunk was staggering along. At 46th St. he stopped at a letter box, and he stopped so suddenly that I bumped into him. 'Give me a penny, buddy,' he mumbled.
"I'd just been paid at the Capitol, so I gave him a penny. Deliberately he dropped it into the letter box. As the penny dropped out of sight, he looked at the hands of the Paramount clock, bleary-eyed, and squawked: 'How d'you like that? I lost twelve pounds since I weighed myself here last night.'"
About Mister Berle
ADVERTISING experts might be interested in studying the strange case of Milton Berle. His experience on Broadway, since he made his debut not long ago as a vaudeville comedian, apparently proves that there is no such thing as bad advertising. The old gag, "Say any thing at all about me so long as you spell my name right, is proved to be a fact.
As a matter of record, Berle owes his success, like the first Ford car, to the ridicule which other comedians have directed at him. They've panned him so much and kept his name so persistently in the limelight, that the youngster can thank his attackers for making him. Chief complaint against Berle has been that he has "stolen" material from other comedians. He has been described as a composite picture of Jackie Osterman, Ted Healy, Ken Murray, Bert Lahr and Jack Benny.
The witty Osterman expressed this best when the promoter of a certain benefit asked Osterman to bring along a lot of acts. "I could bring five comedians," cracked Osterman, "but Berle is playing at the Capitol."
Every comedian in town has coined gags about Berle, none of them complimentary, but all serving the one definite purpose of keeping his name alive. As a result, the youngster is going along great. His ingratiating personality appeals to the audiences and, right now, he's sitting pretty with an Earl Carroll contract for the next "Vanities."
Broadway, which is violent in its likes and dislikes, has been torn asunder in attempting to determine whether this kid is a great comedian or a flash in the pan. In the meantime, and because of all the excitement, the youngster is working every week while the layoffs stand in front of the Palace and coin jokes about him.

Sullivan’s story was hardly a revelation. In 1948, columnist Jack O’Brian wrote about an ad placed by Irving Brecher in Variety during the Depression when the future screenwriter was still an usher: “Berle-proof gags for sale—so bad, even Milton Berle won’t steal them.” Berle ended up not stealing them. Instead, he hired Brecher to write for him.

It seems odd there would be any debate today about whether Berle would be a flash-in-the-pan. But who was to know in 1932 that the alignment of the stars in the entertainment universe in 1948 would shoot Berle to huge popularity. He had been signed by Texaco for a radio show that it moved over to television. Networks were finally operating in prime time Monday through Friday, though the majority of the few TV stations then were in the eastern US. Berle’s video brashness captured the growing audience.

Let’s jump almost another 50 years. It’s November 6, 1996.

‘There's Only One Milton Berle’
So say his admirers in a gag-filled tribute to the TV pioneer
By Frazier Moore
Of the Associated Press
NEW YORK—MILTON Berle faces a room full of people in tuxes and gowns. He thanks them for coming and for bestowing on him this, his zillionth honor. Then he recalls that he was in this very Manhattan banquet room a year ago.
"But not to entertain," he says, teeth bared in his rabbity grin. "It was for a seminar. A seminar on premature ejaculation. I left early."
At age 88, Milton Berle just won't quit. In his astringent, blaring voice, he goes on to recount an exchange between "two guys over 90," one of whom is recently remarried. No, the man admits, his bride is hardly a looker, she can't cook and she's none too great in the bedroom.
"So why did you marry her?"
"Because she drives at night!"
With some 20 minutes of such gags and shtick did Berle return the favor, as the New York chapter of the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences recently gave "Mr. Television" its first Lifetime Achievement Award.
Attendees, each of whom had paid several hundred dollars to pay homage, heard Berle lionized by New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani, former "Golden Girl" Bea Arthur, even-older-than-Berle funnyman Henny Youngman and who-knew-he-was-funny Hugh Downs, who made special mention of Berle's generosity.
"Earlier this year, I had surgery for double-knee replacements," Downs said. "Milton Berle was my donor."
Then veteran comic Joey Adams weighed in.
"There's only one Milton Berle," he declared. "I found that out by looking in the telephone directory."
But dust from ancient jokes like that had no time to settle. There was too much to unearth from Berle's long career.
He played an infant in silent films and modeled as the Buster Brown Shoes kid. He headlined in nightclubs, made a few films and had several radio series.

But the real reason for this Emmy gala, the real reason for Berle's unshakeable status as a legend and a pioneer, came down to a pivotal phase of his hamsmanship that began long ago, when Harry Truman was president, but which barely lasted into Dwight Eisenhower's second term.
These days, "Mad About You" and "Something So Right" occupy NBC's 7-to-8-p.m. Tuesday slot, just as lots of shows have lighted there in seasons past. But no one has outright owned that TV hour, or any other, like Berle, who on Sept. 21, 1948, became host of the "Texaco Star Theater." And an instant sensation. Berle brought with him the boisterous, anything-for-a-laugh tradition his vaudeville years had taught him. Then he delivered it to the public en masse, as if by magic, on their television screens.
Maybe vaudeville was dead, but "vaudeo" was born.
Successful? Early on, about three-quarters of all TVs were tuned to Uncle Miltie on Tuesday nights. By comparison, last week's top-rated series, "E.R.," won about 16 percent.
Granted, the total number of TVs was minuscule in those days. There were only a half-million when Berle went on the air; today, the number of homes with at least one TV totals 97 million.
But if Berle's reach seems picayune by today's standards, his impact helps account for why TV is everywhere today. It was Berle who lit the fuse. Back then, he guaranteed viewers something irresistible to watch, and gave everyone who didn't own a TV a powerful incentive to buy one (by 1951, when his show's popularity crested, almost one in every four homes had acquired a set).
Meanwhile, his riotous acceptance demonstrated to other, more chary entertainers that TV was the Promised Land after all.
"From Burns to Benny to Gleason, they asked me at first, 'What are you doing this for?' " Berle tells a reporter.
"I said, 'Well, we gotta go with the progress.' I'm proud of having the guts, or whatya call chutzpah, to be the first one to jump into TV and take a shot." But it's more than that and always will be, which is why Milton Berle is worth remembering (as if he would ever let us forget).
It's why he's Mr. Television. Berle does nothing less than help explain TV for all of us who watch it.
He helps explain the viewer in us to ourselves.

Milton Berle may have been adept at stealing gags, but he didn’t steal fame. He created it on his own.

Outhouse of Tomorrow

A joke about post-war pre-fabricated housing opens House of Tomorrow (1949). The hands of (presumably) narrator Frank Graham open a little package.



Cut to a wider shot.



“And there it is! Modern in every respect!”



Up pops an outhouse.



Jack Cosgriff and Rich Hogan helped Avery gag this one.

Turnaround

Woody Woodpecker realises he’s lost his dime in Bathing Buddies (1946). Here he is turning around, one drawing per frame.



Paul J. Smith and Bernard Garbutt receive the animation credits on screen but this scene is by Emery Hawkins. Read more here.

Royal City Benny

Mobs of fans and Canadian military members came to see Jack Benny broadcast his show from Vancouver in April 1944, but that wasn’t his first stop when he arrived in British Columbia to raise money for the Victory Loan drive.

Two days before taking the stage at the old Forum, the Benny gang gave a performance in New Westminster.

Even then, it was an easy drive or interurban trip (the two cities are maybe 10 miles apart downtown to downtown) for people from the Royal City to go to Vancouver for a show. But evidently the local Victory Loan Committee decided a stop in the former colonial capital was a good idea (New Westminster has been overshadowed by the newer, larger city for decades).

The show in New Westminster was a smash, according to the following account in the Vancouver’s Province newspaper of April 21, 1944. Actually, there were two appearances, as Mary Livingstone skipped the first. You can get an idea how much Jack was loved in the southwest corner of Canada.

(The photo above was taken at a performance in Vancouver and is courtesy of the City Archives. Read about it in this post).

RADIO STAR IN SHIPYARD RUSH
JACK BENNY STORMS ROYAL CITY
5000 Admirers Give Comedian Big Hand at Victory Loan Show
NEW WESTMINSTER, April 21.—It must have been just like old times for Comedian Jack Benny here Thursday when the comedian staged a Victory Loan show, complete with a genuine Maxwell car, chauffeured by Rochester...just as he has done many times on the national radio. He even played "Love in Bloom" on his violin.
To the lusty cheers of some 5000 admirers, Benny, Rochester, Phil Harris and other members of the troupe arrived at the New Westminster City Hall aboard the ancient Maxwell. Mary Livingstone, feminine lead in the troupe, did not attend.
WELCOMED BY MAYOR.
They were officially welcomed by Mayor W. M. Mott, who introduced Don Wilson, announcer. A speech by Wilson was followed by an informal act by Jack Benny in which he "kidded" the crowd and his own assistants, spoke briefly to the Victory Loan, and finished with his famous violin solo.
Wavy-haired Phil Harris sang a "jive" song, and later introduced Rochester and his cigar. He received an ovation from the crowd as he stepped up to the microphone. The dusky comedian told several stories, mainly at the expense of his boss.
Girls' Bugle Band from the Duke of Connaught High School played several selections.
Thousands In Rush At City Shipyards
All available guards were pressed into service to protect Jack Benny and his troupe when they appeared before several thousand workers at a Vancouver shipyard and at Dominion Bridge Co., Burnaby, Thursday.
So great was the rush to see Benny and his troupe when they approached the flight deck of an aircraft carrier that two girls were trampled and received minor hurts.
Guards were required to form a ring about the famous troupe in order to protect them from the wildly enthusiastic crowd of some 3000 to 4000 shipyard workers and navy personnel.
GETS CHOICE SEAT.
An added touch to the hilarity of the scene was the appearance of one shipyard worker who took up a position on the swinging "hook" of a giant dock crane in order to obtain a clear view of proceedings.
Following his show, Jack Benny made an urgent plea for greater-than-ever support of the Victory Loan. Benny told workers and others that he had come to fully realize the importance of such loan campaigns from knowledge gained first-hand at the war fronts.
Mary Livingstone was presented with a bouquet of roses and iris by a woman worker.
RUSH FOR AUTOGRAPHS.
Similar precautions were necessary to protect Benny and his company from the welcome of about 1500 employees of Dominion Bridge fabrication and ordnance plants attending the second personal appearance show. With 50 per cent, of the audience women workers, there was a frantic crush for autographs and only swift action of guards in helping the visitors to leave quickly after their performance kept them from being mobbed by the crowd.
AT UNITED SERVICES.
Civilians and members of the armed services—500 strong—waited outside the entrance of United Services Centre Thursday night for arrival of Jack Benny, Mary Livingstone, Rochester, Bill Harris [sic] and Don Wilson.
Inside, a uniformed throng of 2500 thundered their approval of the air waves and screen celebrities.
Applause followed each as they went into their routines with the servicemen going "wild, simply wild" over Phil Harris.
Mink-coated, diamond-bedecked and stunningly gowned Mary Livingstone presented a picture and friendly smiles and merry laughs.
Screaming for more, the crowd forced the troupe to overstay its schedule, demanding encore after encore.

Paul Frees

What does Larry Mitchell, Crime Correspondent, have in common with Baron Otto Matic of Tom Slick?

They’re both played by Paul Frees.

Mind you, that applies to an awful lot of characters on radio, TV and films. Frees even played himself; a radio station hired him for a late-night show for a little while in the early ‘50s.

In 1949, Frees landed starring parts on two shows—the aforementioned Crime Correspondent and then the title role in The Green Lama.

Frees was already catching the attention of columnists in the late ‘40s. This appeared in the Ottawa Citizen on May 29, 1949.

Here's a young actor who recently won two important radio awards in one week—one of which named him as the "outstanding supporting player of the year"—and still scarcely anyone, outside the business, knows who he is.
Did you ever hear of Paul Frees? Remember the deep, ominous voice of the narrator on "Suspense"—the guy who gives you the shivers as he introduces ". . . a tale well calculated to keep you in—Suspense!" That's Paul Frees.
Remember the hilarious Peter Lorre impersonation on Spike Jones recording of "My Old Flame." That's Paul Frees, too.
Frees is, in a sense, a victim of his own versatility—for he has so many voices that he has no single identity. Described by Spike Jones as "one of the greatest impersonators in the world," he has simulated the voices of virtually every celebrity you can think of, from the late Franklin Roosevelt to Sidney Greenstreet. He does every dialect known to human speech, and often takes several roles in a single production."
"It's fun," says Paul, "but I'd rather be a star."
If radio performers ever start electing their own stars, you can bet that Paul Frees' name will be high on the marquee—a thought which should be some consolation.

Cartoon fans know Frees from all kinds of places. In the theatrical world, he was hired by MGM, Walter Lantz and Walt Disney. On television, Jay Ward, Hanna-Barbera, UPA and Rankin/Bass found animated characters for his voices. Oh, and Format Films. Oh, and those Beatles cartoons. Oh, and... well, it’s probably easier listing where he didn’t work than where he did. This isn’t including animated commercials.

Let’s not bother with lists and move on to an unbylined article that appeared in a bunch of newspapers in 1961; I spotted this in papers published in August through November.

Paul Frees has never been able to follow the parental dictum that he be seen and not heard.
In fact, Paul is the talkingest man you're likely to meet and he's seldom seen at all.
One of the group of performers known as "voice men," he's virtually unknown outside casting offices and advertising agencies, yet there's hardly an adult in the United States that hasn't heard his voice.
Paul figures he's played in 15,000 radio shows, more commercials than he can count and currently, he's the voice of Professor Ludwig Von Drake on "Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color" and of Boris on "The Bullwinkle Show," both on NBC-TV. Of all the roles he's played, he likes Professor Von Drake best.

"Walt Disney gave me a lot of liberty in portraying the professor and I've made him more personal than any of my other characters," Paul says, resisting a temptation to slip into the German dialect he uses on the show.
"The professor is bright, good natured, has a sense of humor and is marvelously absent-minded at times," Paul adds. "But he has character. He's always driving at something and he's not beyond scolding you for lack of attention."
A German dialect like the professor's is just one of the things Paul carries in his bag of voice tricks.
"I can duplicate any voice and any dialect I hear," he says, confidently. Besides, he says he can deliver three or four versions of each of the common dialects and, in one feature picture, "A Time to Live and Time to Die," he took the speaking parts of 17 different German characters.
So good is he at voice duplication that he did the voice "stand in" work for stars like Orson Welles and Humphrey Bogart and once, he says, did a half hour radio show for Bogart when the actor couldn't make it.
Radio listeners will remember him as the voice of the old "Suspense" and "Escape" shows and TV viewers have heard him as the voice on “The Millionaire” series, among other shows.
Paul began training for his unusual profession when he went into vaudeville at the age of 13. Along the way, he's been a singer, dancer, nightclub emcee and impersonator. His impersonations paved the way for his present voice work.
Last year he won nine awards at the Commercial Film Festival. Those, he added to more than 100 others he's won over the years.
Paul has literally talked himself to success and, although he's a competent TV actor, he's happy right now to go on being heard and not seen.
"Sometimes it creates an ego problem," he admits, "but nothing so serious I can't overcome it when I look at the bank balance."

Frees had some great cartoon roles (Boris Badenov, Ludwig von Drake) and some mediocre ones (Charlie Beary, Squiddly Diddly) but he always gave a top performance and that’s why fans still love his work, even today.

Radio Ruckus

Sonny isn’t impressed with snoozing dad listening to Mendelsohn’s “Spring Song” on the radio and changes the station to get a screaming-type Gangbusters show. Suddenly dad isn’t sleeping any more. Here are some of the drawings as he jumps from his chair. Some are animated on twos, others on threes.



The kid isn’t happy.

The animation’s reused in the same scene when an off-screen phone rings.

This is some of the gentle humour in the propaganda cartoon Meet King Joe, an industrial short by the John Sutherland studio. This was one of the Sutherland cartoons that MGM put on its release schedule after disbanding its Lah-Blair unit, no doubt in a cost move.

The Sutherland cartoons were slickly made. There are some stylised backgrounds in some scenes; building outlines over a flat colour. Former MGMers like George Gordon and Carl Urbano were at Sutherland when this was made but there are no credits on the short. Bud Hiestand is the narrator but I don’t know who is voicing Joe, though it’s a Hollywood radio actor.

Your 1930s Opera Reference For the Day

Frank Tashlin’s You’re An Education (1938) seems to have been made solely to see how many cultural and musical puns can be shoved into one cartoon.

Perhaps the most obscure one today is the one involving a man singing in front of a travel poster for Tibet.



It is opera star Lawrence Tibbett. Yes, the accent’s on a different syllable, but a pun is a pun.



There’s been some kind of edit before this scene takes place. You can hear part of a note on the soundtrack as the picture fades out and then the first note of whoever is doing the Tibbett singing is faded up.

Broadcasting Bing

He had a 30-plus-year career on radio, much of the time hosting a variety show, but he wasn’t a top comedian.

He’s Bing Crosby.

Crosby bracketed his career with a 15-minute singing show on CBS, the first one airing in 1931 and the last one co-starring Rosemary Clooney leaving the air in 1962. In between he may be best known as the host of the Kraft Music Hall starting in 1936 before changing network radio in 1946 when he insisted his new show, Philco Radio Time, be broadcast via transcription. Pretty soon, other major stars were recording their programmes for network broadcast.

Bing had a casual, breezy approach on the air which, no doubt, helped maintain his popularity. But it was all calculated; you can’t wing a half-hour variety show. Bing had the good fortune to have Carroll Carroll as his writer for a number of years. Carroll wrote the show to suit Bing’s relaxed style. The old shows are still enjoyable today.

A syndicated columnist named Homer Canfield dropped in on Crosby’s Kraft show fairly early in its run to do a two-part story on how it was put together. It appeared in papers on December 23-24, 1937.

It seems to me this was around the time where there was a gimmick where announcer Ken Carpenter told Crosby on the air he would not ring the NBC chimes. This function, by 1937, would normally be done by a network staff announcer, ie. someone other than Carpenter. In the second story, Carpenter’s intro has been modified by the columnist to delete the sponsor’s name. No free newspaper plugs!

HOLLYWOOD — I GLANCED nervously at the clock over the engineers booth. The hands were straight up and down. Here it was 6 o'clock, and Ralph Bellamy, the guest star, hadn't arrived, hadn’t seen the script nor rehearsed a line. It was Thursday and the Music Hall had to hit the air at 7 o’clock. (KFI). No excuses would be acceptable. Producer Calvin Kuhl and Writer Carroll Carroll weren't particularly worried. A two-year apprenticeship with the Music Hall had hardened them to this sort of thing. They knew Bellamy was tied up on a picture and would get there just as soon as he could. That’s the way producers, writers and stars on big-time shows have to work. All I can say is that it’s a good thing they haven't the Canfield nervous system.
Earlier in the afternoon I had dropped over to Studio B on the NBC lot to pay my respects to the Music Hall gang and watch Ken Carpenter’s masterful performance on the bells. On entering the studio at 4:30 o’clock, I had expected to find a boiling pot of activity. Instead, I found only a few stray musicians swapping stories. Bing Crosby, Bob Burns and John Scott Trotter were no where in sight.

Scouting about a bit I found Calvin Kuhl in John Swallow's office. He was busy dictating wires to be sent to New York.
This young, friendly producer of one of radio's most popular variety hours bid your Uncle Canfield welcome, and I collapsed in one of the easy divans. Executives offices are always filled with easy chairs. Carroll Carroll was stretched horizontally along another divan. Both looked at me inquiringly. I knew they expected to be asked some questions, so I started: “How many weeks ahead do you work on the show? “
Carroll: “Well, I know exactly what’s going to happen next week up to the point where Ken Carpenter says, ‘And here’s Bing Crosby,’.”
Kuhl: “When you came in I was sending some wires east for clearances on next week’s music. You know, of course, that we have to have permission for every song programmed. That’s to prevent repetition of the same numbers on other programs. Then, too, we know that Basil Rathbone, Madge Evans and the Choral Society will be on next Thursday’s show. Otherwise, were as free as the birds.”
“How do you achieve that fine touch of informality which runs throughout the show?”
Kuhl: “By not over rehearsing. We usually run through the script once and then forget it until airtime. Because so many of our stars are busy with other work, we never do a dress rehearsal. In fact, we haven’t even gone over all of tonight's show. When Bellamy gets here at 6 o’clock well run over his lines with Bob and Bing.
“How do you get the stars to do and say some of the unusual things you write for them?”
Carroll, whose small stature and youthful appearance belie the fact that he’s one of the broadcasting bands ace scripters, gave this question a bit of thought. “That seems to be comparatively simple,” he replied. “Probably on Monday I’ll drop around and see Rathbone. We’ll just sit around and talk. Something will bob up in the conversation that will give me a lead. But maybe I won’t find anything. Maybe I’ll have to look up some of his friends and try to get an idea from them. What I search for first is a finish. It’s easy enough to bring the stars to the microphone, but it’s something else to end their act with something of a punch.”
“Do they ever object to the informal treatment they get in the Music Hall?”
“No. Most of them have heard the show at one time or another and are prepared for what’s to happen. Like anyone else, they’re eager for some fun. As long as the script doesn't make them appear ridiculous something we strive never to do they're willing for almost anything.”
Kuhl’s remark that the show never sees a dress rehearsal had just pierced my brain and awakened more questions.
“How do you get an accurate timing on the show? After all, you've got an even hour on the air, no more, and no less.”
“We know the exact number of minutes and seconds each individual orchestral, concert number and song will take. We time the dialogue at the first rehearsal. Then we add to this a few minutes for laughter and ad libbing, and we have approximately the length of the program. If necessary, we cut a musical number or a scene or have another musical number put in the show, depending, of course, whether or not were on the long or short side.”
“Is it as simple as all of that?”
“Well, not exactly. A good many of our cuts are made while the show is on the air. At a certain time in the program I know we're supposed to be at given place in the script. If we're running long then I have to figure out some cut that will make up for the time lost. Each broadcast has its own particular problems and I’ve yet to find two alike.”
“Would you like to come up to rehearsal with us now and watch the broadcast from the control booth?”
Would I? Would you?
“Just lead the way,” I said, “and I’ll try not to get in your hair.”
(More Tomorrow)

HOLLYWOOD — Yesterday we left off with Producer Calvin Kuhl inviting us to witness the last of rehearsal, and to catch the Music Hall broadcast from the control booth. And it's not like your Uncle Canfield to pass by an invitation like that.
Kuhl led the way upstairs to studio B with Carroll Carroll, the show's diminutive writer, and myself tagging along. The studio presented a far different sight than I had seen earlier in the afternoon. Much activity was now taking place.
Bing Crosby and John Scott Trotter were on the stage indulging in a bit of horseplay. You couldn't have missed Bing. Not with that red and white contraption he calls a shirt. And it's altogether impossible to overlook John. Why, with the poundage he's carrying, on a clear day you can see him ten miles away.
Paul Taylor, stubby and stout, and his Choristers are straggling into the studio. Anne Shirley, one of the guest stars, is comfortably tucked away on a folding chair, and looks delightfully youthful and deliciously beautiful what with her fur coat, red hair and intelligent eyes. But things are much, too much matter of fact for my money. No one seems in the least disturbed that it's now five minutes to six and Ralph Bellamy, a guest star, hasn't as yet put in an appearance. Of course, he hasn't promised to be there until six, but there's no time like the present to worry, that's the Canfield motto.

Bing runs over a number with the orchestra, nonchalantly crooning into the microphone while he studies the expression of the engineer in the control booth. Bing makes no effort to save his voice for the broadcast. The pipe he's usually puffing on dangles out of his shirt pocket. Did I say shirt? Anyway, if he wasn't rehearsing a song he'd be off in some corner whistling or singing. It's natural for Bing to sing. I firmly believe he was born burping and boop-boop-ba-booing. It's just a very happy accident he gets paid for it. Ask Bing, he'll tell you the same.
Across the stage and back to the dressing rooms I take myself. I'm looking for Bob Burns. The tall Arkansan is an old favorite friend of mine. Bob is in the dressing room with his gagman, Duke Atterbury, concocting one of his fanciful tales to amaze the populace.
Bob's been pretty busy, so he's had to wait until the last minute to fashion this one. Burns is not any too happy about it because he's not patterned for this last-minute stuff. Out of desperation, a long winded yarn about Ralph Bellamy is given a verb and a predicate. It'll have to do. And it does, as I found out later during the broadcast.
Then back to the studio. It's five minutes past six. Bellamy comes breezing in the door. I shot a hasty look at Kuhl and Carroll. Not a change of expression. They're hardened to this last minute thing.
At 20 minutes to seven the audience is ushered into the studio. That means, by the time Bellamy settles down, they've got just 25 minutes to rehearse his lines. Which include two scenes, and to rehearse him in a song with Bob Burns playing a bazooka obligato. Not a great deal of time, you must admit, for a show as important as the Music Hall.
Bob comes bounding out of his dressing room like an old fire horse smelling a flickering ember. Bing is on the job and the three give their lines a try, so a reading veteran troupers, so a reading seems to suffice. Kuhl holds a stop watch on it, notes the result and makes some hasty tabulations on the script. He's worried about time. Are the scenes too long? Apparently not. He looks over at Carroll and gives a nod of satisfaction.
Now comes the Bellamy vocal rendition. "Home on the Range" is the song. Bob blows blast after blast of bazooka obligato as delicate as a hurricane.
With Bellamy's part rehearsed, the show is ready to be sprayed over the nation through the thin wires of the network. And it's just about airtime, too. The audience has filed into the small auditorium, which seats a little over 200.
Bing strolls around the stage like one of the hired help. He looks less like a big time radio and movie star than anyone in the business. Even Charlie McCarthy sports a top hat and white tie. But not Bing: He'll stick to the Hawaiian shirt and he walks around with his two arms hanging to his sides like he was expecting any minute to grab on to the working end of a wheelbarrow. He eyes the audience; makes cracks at Burns; thoroughly enjoys himself.
Producer Kuhl stays on the stage and Writer Carroll takes me into the holy of all holies, the control booth.
The engineer, partly surrounded by a panel of dials and gadgets, is clearing lines and waiting for the network’s signal. Ken Carpenter is at the mike watching the control booth. A red light flashes on. Ken takes the cue and says: “The Music Hall, starring Bing Crosby with John Scott Trotter and his orchestra, the Paul Taylor Choristers, and Bob Burns.”
A nation is listening.

Clocking the Clock

He punches a clock into little clocks and watches. Yes, that Popeye is a true example of masculinity.



Oh. Maybe not. He’s wearing a corset.



This is from Popeye’s debut in a 1933 Betty Boop cartoon. Seymour Kneitel and Doc Crandall receive the screen credits for animation.

Crazy Spike

After a wonderful huge-eye take, Spike sputters as he attempts comprehend there are two Droopys and is ultimately driven crazy in Droopy’s Double Trouble.



There’s a story hole at the end. Spike calls out Droopy. Droopy appears. But so does twin brother Drippy. Drippy isn’t impersonating his brother during the cartoon, so why he’d appear when his name isn’t called?

Rich Hogan is the gagman, while the animation is handled by Grant Simmons, Walt Clinton and Mike Lah, who uses some of those same odd geometrical mouth shapes you can find in his Yogi Bear and Pixie and Dixie animation at Hanna-Barbera.