Whistling Doesn't Always Work

“If you need me, just whistle,” says a bulldog (Billy Bletcher) to Jerry after the mouse springs him from a dog catcher’s van. After Tom gets pummelled (and turned into an end table) by the bulldog when Jerry whistles for protection, the cat gets an idea. He puts paste on a gumball so when Jerry munches on it, he can’t whistle.

Jerry finally gets an idea after fruitlessly trying to communicate with the bulldog. A bubble. His face turns red, then purple.



Tom gets ready. Then the take.



Huge bubble, huge trapped whistle unleashed. Tom sees the end now, digging his own grave and indulging in some cliché gags.



But something is amiss.



In a Joe Barbera plot twist, the dog can’t help Jerry because he’s been recaptured.



The cartoon ends with Jerry whistling and chasing after the van, with Tom following as they head into the distance and the iris closes to end the cartoon.



Ken Muse, Ray Patterson, Irv Spence and Pete Burness are the credited animators. The cartoon is The Bodyguard from 1944. Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera reused some of the ideas in this short in Pixie and Dixie cartoons at their own studio.

A Goat, a Groundhog and a Grauer

When radio started in the early 1920s, you had a guy who would introduce the various acts, fiddle with some dials, read news from the paper, and maybe even sing or play an instrument. As radio expanded, his duties would expand, too. He would go on location for remote broadcasts, such as dance bands, interviews or special events.

Over time, duties became specialised, especially at the network level. But announcer Ben Grauer carried on being a jack of all trades, even when network television grew.

Here’s a fine profile of his career, to date, published in newspapers starting November 5, 1950. It gives you an idea of the many, many things he did in broadcasting. I wish there were more about the goat story.

Ben Grauer's Radio Career Yields Both Thrills, Chills
BY SAUL PETT
Associated Press Staff Writer
NEW YORK, Nov. 5—Ben Grauer's radio and television career is now 20 years old. But there were times when he thought he would never make it.
Broadcasting from a diving suit 70 feet under the Atlantic, he was almost throttled by the guide rope. Covering Jimmy Walker's "beer parade" in 1933 from a blimp, he narrowly missed stepping through an open door. During the Lindbergh kidnapping, he slept on the police fingerprint files and caught pleurisy.
But the hazards of being a radio-television reporter, announcer, narrator and master of ceremonies are not all physical.
Interviewing Lucius Boomer, famed hotel keeper, Ben called him "Bloomer." This proved unsettling, At the end of the show, when he was supposed to say, "This is Ben Grauer speaking," he said, Is this Ben Grauer speaking?
Horseplay in Studios
He survived 16 years of announcing for Walter Winchell. This is not to say that Ben didn't enjoy them but he does recall some harrowing moments. After an intense broadcast, he says, Winchell frequently relaxes by making faces at the announcer during the commercial. Once, Ben recalls, he was sprinkled with water. The early days of radio contained more horseplay in the studios. And Ben survived that, too.
Winding up a newscast, he was just getting to the stock market reports when a wit in a tiny studio began tickling him. Being on the air, he was powerless to resist. He was tickled and disrobed without missing a single market quotation.
Being a victim, he was destined to become a practical joker himself. Years ago, when Phil Spitalny headed the NBC stand-by orchestra, Ben suddenly rushed to a mike and announced that due to atmospheric conditions a show from Chicago could not be continued and that the audience would now hear some music. Grauer signalled Spitalny. Spitalny raised his baton and the orchestra played nothing but sour rotes. It was several hours before Spitalny learned all the mikes were dead.
Goat Beauty Contest
All this and more, Grauer managed to survive.
Today, at 42, this short, brown-eyed, ubiquitous bundle of energy and words is one of the busiest and best paid reporters and announcers in the business. He says he likes the work because "I think it's interesting and fairly varied." This is flagrant understatement.
In one week, you might hear or see Ben Grauer covering the United Nations, interviewing a puppet, introducing Eleanor Roosevelt or Arturo Toscanini, describing a golf match from a ladder on top of a bouncing jeep, narrating a solemn documentary or leading a game of charades.
He has broadcast from 11 different countries. He flew with the Berlin airlift. He was in Israel when Count Bernadotte was assassinated. He once flew all the way to Brazil for five minutes of an eclipse.
He has broadcast every presidential convention since 1940 and every major UN meeting since 1945. He has been master of ceremonies at a goat beauty contest.
Played in Silent Movies
He has interviewed groundhogs, and for a "Seeing Eye week" broadcast was blindfolded while walking through Manhattan streets led by a dog. In 1948, he was on TV for 16 consecutive hours reporting the election results. In 1934 he put the first survivor of the Morro Castle disaster on the air. The survivor had swum seven miles to shore. Grauer interviewed him in a telephone booth with the line hooked into the network.
Grauer was born in Staten Island and as a child played several roles in silent movies. He majored in English at City college and hoped for a literary career. That proved futile so in the fall of 1930 he went to NBC for a dramatic audition. Two hours later he came out with an announcer's job.
That began a bustling career which saw him connected with more than 40 regular major shows in 20 years.
He has announced for such diverse personalities as Henry Morgan, Eleanor Roosevelt, Toscanini, Babe Ruth, Bob Ripley, Joe Cook, Kay Kyser, Vaughn Monroe, Perry Como, Garry Moore, Floyd Gibbons, and Winchell.
"People often ask me," Grauer says," who talked faster, Gibbons or Winchell? I think Winchell did, and does, at least in the first minute.
His most satisfying experience, Grauer says, has been his coverage of the UN on video. It represents a cause about which he believes more and more people should be informed.
He's especially proud of a letter of praise he received from Warren Austin.
His biggest single thrill, he says, came in covering New York's reception for Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1945.
"When the general landed at LaGuardia and the motorcade formed," he recalls, "we in the NBC mobile unit were second in line right behind Ike. Then a cop got his signals crossed and shoved us back to the end of procession.
"Going into Central park, we were still last. NBC called and said I would be on the air at 11:02, about eight minutes away. I complained I couldn't because I had nothing to describe but backs of cops. They said I would be on the air anyway. I was scared stiff, so we gambled. While the procession moved south through the park, we raced west, went down the other side of the park, through red lights and whistling cops, cut back across the lower end of the park."
Leads Parade
At about 11:01 Grauer's truck met the motorcade coming out of the park. At 11:02, he was on the air at the head of the procession, saying, "Here we are, ladies and gentlemen, as New York says hello to Ike Eisenhower. Now let's lead the parade down Fifth avenue."
He did, too.
Grauer is a bachelor, who is "still shopping around." His hobbies are producing plays off Broadway, collecting rare books and information about Mexican archeology.
That brings us to his most embarrassing moment. It was during a shortwave broadcast beamed to South America. He was being interviewed in Spanish about his many trips to Mexico.
After a few shaky answers, he began an apology for his lack of Spanish fluency.
"Estoy tmbarazado," he said and immediately was crowded off the air by the chatter of his excited interviewer.
Ben had intended to say, "I am embarrassed." Instead, he said, "I am pregnant."

Ben Gross of the New York Daily News marked Grauer’s career with some bullet points in the November 17, 1950 edition.

Grauer's 20 Years . . . Ben Grauer of NBC, at the age of 42, has just celebrated his 20th year on the air. Go over to NBC and ask "Just what does this guy do?" and they won't be able to give you a clear-cut answer. For the truth is, he has no classification at the network. He's a famous news and special events reporter and commentator—and yet he does not belong to the news department. He's also a sportscaster, but the sports department can't claim him. He's also a narrator of dramatic shows and documentaries, an emce and moderator of forums, both on radio and TV. Running over his two decades before the mikes and the cameras, Ben sums up some highlights of his career in this way:
Favorite Broadcast—"My reporting of General Eisenhower's triumphant return from Europe in 943. I covered his receptions in Washington, New York and Abilene, Kansas."
Most Taxing Job—"Giving the Truman-Dewey election returns in 1948 over NBC-TV. Worked 16 straight hours, from 8 P. M. Election Night to 12 Noon the following day."
Most Uncomfortable Broadcast—"Putting on the air a 16 piece orchestra from an airplane in flight, in 1933. We were so cramped for space that the tuba player sat in the men's room."
Favorite Fan Letter—"Dear Mr. Grauer: You talk too much. Mrs. A. C. Reisted, Depue, Ill. P.S. Don't bother to answer this letter. Just shut up!"

These days, unless you’re an old-time radio fan, you think of Grauer in Times Square counting down to the New Year. But, as you can see, he did more than that. He died at age 68 in 1977 but packed in a lot of broadcasts during his career.

Roller Skate Rockabye

Chilly Willy wheels a roller skate into place in his battle to get rid of a hungry bear and claim all the blue fin tuna on a ship for himself.



He succeeds. Look at the eye take on the bear! Tex Avery’s unit at Walter Lantz was a beacon of light in low-budget darkness.



Here’s how you do a swirl turn to become upright again.



The bear (played by Dal McKennon) rocks the dog to sleep.



The Legend of Rockabye Point is probably my favourite Lantz cartoon of the 1950s. Avery’s pace is quick, the story is well-constructed and the gags are good variations on the kind of stuff Avery did with writer Heck Allen at MGM. Here he has Mike Maltese, who once admitted he got miffed with Avery for not using his material.

Ray Abrams, Don Patterson and La Verne Harding are the animators of this 1955 short.

Claw Hands

Fingers are pointed like claws in the Ub Iwerks cartoon The Office Boy (1932).



Some gum stretching and snapping the break up the monotony of typing.



Instead of a carriage return bell, there’s a gong. The carriage goes up instead of back to the left. Now that’s comedy!



There are no credits on this Flip the Frog cartoon other than Iwerks, who supposedly drew this.

All Roads Lead to Jack Benny

Let’s peer into the Tralfaz question box.

Today’s query comes from Kathy Fuller Seeley from Coldernell, Texas. “What is the ‘I Cook and Cook’ Show?”

There is a Jack Benny connection here, but we have to set things up.

“I Got to Cook and Cook and Cook” isn’t a show. It’s part of the lyrics for a jingle for Hunt’s Tomato Sauce that was big on television in 1954. It was so big the jingle singer, Peggy King, was offered a contract with Columbia Records. She was also hired for The George Goble Show for which she was nominated for an Emmy. Along the way she also made a guest appearance on the Los Angeles TV game show Musical Chairs where one of the regulars was Mel Blanc.

But Mel isn’t the Benny connection in this case.

Peggy appeared on an episode of the Jack Benny TV show in 1955. A gentleman named Marc Myers interviewed her several years ago for JazzWax.com. She brought up Jack in the interview.

JW: You also worked with your share of top comedians. Was that tricky — making sure you didn’t laugh too soon?
PK: Jack Benny was my favorite. The strange thing is he was anything but tight with his money. He was a very generous guy. I did a five-week tour with him. He thought I was a good straight-man. It was hard not to laugh at Jack.
JW: How did you avoid doing that and blowing his jokes?
PK: It has to do with being an actress. You develop a sense of timing. I learned my timing from Jack and Bob Hope. The trick is to listen very carefully to what’s being said, even though you’ve rehearsed it. When Jack or Bob delivered the line, I had a way of counting to myself, “One, two — then I’d make a little face,” which would compound audience laughter. You have to put the punch line out of your mind and imagine you haven’t heard it before. Otherwise, you’d instinctively telegraph it. Working with Jack was a little harder than most because he made those great faces on his own. So I had to avoid laughing and wait until he finished completely before making my face. I also did this with TV, in general. I just thought of it as radio with everybody staring at you. I got to the point where I didn’t think about the lens much. I just thought about what I was doing.

Peggy King is yet another in show business who has a tale similar to what you’ve read from others on this blog, that Jack Benny was a great person, a generous man, with an expert sense of comedy timing. Her show with Benny and guest star Art Linkletter is on line.

Sugar Bear

There are people like Mel Blanc and Paul Frees and Hal Smith and June Foray who you’ll hear in cartoons all over the place. Then there are others who seem to show up in one animated series and that’s it.

Gerry Matthews was one of them.

Matthews didn’t seem to need more than one character to earn a living. He was the voice of Sugar Bear on the Linus the Lionhearted series and on the Post cereal commercials. He was kind of a mystery man otherwise.

Well, before that he was an actor on the stage, television and night clubs.

Here’s a bit of a profile from the Fort Worth Star-Telegram of March 27, 1961. It’s one of those local-boys-makes-good pieces.

OFTEN GETS JUVENILE ROLES
Waco Comic Hit in New York
BY WILLIAM WOLF
NEW YORK, March 26 — Comic performer Gerry Matthews, who hails from Waco, is the son of Harold J. Matthews, who as former head of the Texas Youth Development Council, led the state's program for aiding juvenile delinquents.
Gerry has frequently been cast in the role of juvenile delinquent in various parts he has performed on television.
"In fact, you might say I used to be something of a delinquent myself," Gerry joked citing some exploits of his impetuous youth. His flair for having fun while he was going to school has been productively channeled into a growing career in which he is becoming known for his ability at off-beat humor.
CURRENTLY he is performing in a new musical revue, "Dressed to the Nines," at Julius Monk's oddly named "Upstairs at the Downstairs" supper club.
Gerry was stretched in exhaustion on a dressing room cot before his second show one night. All day long he had been busy taping a special "Play of the Week" musical for television. He had come to the club to perform his two shows, and then was due back at 2 a m at the television studio to continue working on the taping. But as tired as he was, the idea of talking for a Texas newspaper appealed to him.
Born in Waco, Gerry moved to Houston as a youth. He has uncles and aunts, Mr. and Mrs. Latham Downs, and Mr. and Mrs. Wesley Downs, currently residing in Waco. His parents now live in Austin.
IT WAS WHILE going to high school in Houston that Gerry's performing talent began to show itself. As he explained: "In high school, if you're not an athlete or a scholar, it’s a little hard to get attention. I was neither. I got a longing to do variety shows, got a lot of laughs and became very popular."
This continued at the University of Texas, where he struck up some important friendships with young men who have since brought a major Texas contribution to the New York theater. He became pals with Tom Jones, Harvey Schmidt and Ward Baker and they decided to have a try at show business in New York one day.
All have made good on their intentions. Jones, Schmidt and Baker succeeded by presenting one of the most successful of off-Broadway shows a musical called "The Fantasticks." Jones and Schmidt wrote the "Play of the Week" revue in which Matthews recently appeared, and much of their material has been used at the Monk club.
AFTER PERFORMING in Houston and touring Texas, Gerry got a job with the Penthouse Theater in Chicago, where he met Tom Poston, who since has risen to TV and stage fame as a result of his work on the Steve Allen show. Gerry, Tom Jones and Poston worked up a night club act and got their first break with it at the Reuben Bleu in New York.
Matthews has had considerable TV work, including appearances on the Kraft, Studio One, Kaiser Aluminum, Red Buttons, Imogene Coca and Garry Moore shows. He has demonstrated his ability to do numbers of a serious mood as well as clown through such skits as a Japanese-type version of "Casey at the Bat" and frenetic rock and roll numbers.
"I believe the trend is now away from the old-fashioned stand-up comic," he observes. "That's corny. People now look for more complete well-rounded humor."
NOW A FAMILY man, Gerry is married to a Brooklyn girl. He and his wife Dolores have a son, 3, and live near West Point N.Y., which is a substantial commuting distance from the city.
He has special praise and gratitude for Monk, who has earned a reputation in New York for introducing new talent. As Gerry puts it: "He is the only man who would take completely unknown people. audition you. and make you feel like a human being. He helps you. His genius is picking out potential talent and giving you the right material. He has brought me to where I am today."

What’s Matthews doing today? Sugar Bear’s nemesis was Granny Goodwitch, played by Ruth Buzzi, who chucked show biz and moved to Texas. Matthews chucked show biz, too. He left New York in the late ‘80s and moved to Walla Walla, Washington where, at almost age 90, he runs The Museum of Un-Natural History, an odd and quirky place. You can read about it here. We hope Mr. Matthews is enjoying good health, as it sounds like he’s enjoying life.

Between a Rock and a Rock

The cattle-raising wolf tries over and over to hide behind rocks from Droopy’s sure-shot guns (Droopy’s reading comic books while the guns do all the work)—but to no avail.

The guns keep cutting down the rocks. First, to a teeny stone, then to The Thinker, and then to Venus DeMilo. The last two are intact for a moment before more bullets fly and shoot the heads into pebbles.



The cattleman runs down the winding road into the distance and then into his ranch house. I like how his cattle pay no attention to him.



Drag-a-Long Droopy has some wonderful gags, with Heck Allen assisting Tex Avery with them. Ray Patterson and Bob Bentley animate this short along with Mike Lah, Grant Simmons and Walt Clinton. Tex plays the cattle owner.

J.L. Will Hear of This

Daffy Duck didn’t talk to an unseen artist for the first time in Duck Amuck, released in 1953. He did it in Ain’t That Ducky eight years earlier.

He’s treated better in the first cartoon.

Daffy looks around. Cut to a closer shot. “Hey, what’s the idea? What’s the idea? There’s supposed to be a barrel for me to hide in.” Daffy points to a spot on the ground, then whips out a sheaf of papers and points. “It says so right here in the script.”



“Somebody’s been layin’ down on the job,” he continues and points upward. “J.L. will hear of this!”



The artist quickly draws and paints in the barrel. The cartoon can now continue.



Mike Maltese came up with outraged Daffy gag for both cartoons, this one for Friz Freleng. Gerry Chiniquy gets the animation credit, and Paul Julian paints the backgrounds.

Bud Hiestand

It’s safe to say when you think of people who voiced animated cartoons in the Golden Age, Bud Hiestand’s name doesn’t come to mind. There’s a reason. Hiestand’s voice was only heard in a few theatrical cartoons and, even then, they weren’t originally designed to be shown in movie houses.

He was employed by John Sutherland Productions to narrate its industrial shorts. Some ended up being released by MGM, such as Meet King Joe (right), Why Play Leap Frog? and Make Mine Freedom.

Like just about everyone who voiced cartoons back then, he came from radio. He has a cartoon connection there, too, being the announcer on The Mel Blanc Show.

Another cartoon connection of sorts would be that Hiestand replaced William “Voice of Bluto” Pennell on the NBC Westinghouse Program in March 1943. Pennell was off to war. Hiestand would follow two months later.

Here’s an article about him from the great publication, Radio Life, of January 4, 1948.

Being Sidetracked From a Radio Career Merely Meant, for "Bud," Aiding One of the Most Gigantic Operations of Wartime Radio
By ROBBIE COLE
JOHN HIESTAND is probably best known to listeners and studio audiences as the "Dean" of the Kay Kyser show. There, in a bright red robe and blue mortar-board hat, he works at the mike with the "Prof" throughout the "Comedy of Errors," and herds the contestants on stage as they compete for their prizes. John’s held down this post for eight years, on and off.
Around radio circles Mr. Hiestand is known as "Bud." The childhood nickname sticks with the now six-foot-one-and-a-half-inch announcer as a result of his having entered radio at an age when "Bud" was a very suitable moniker. Now it's as much part of the big blond man as is his 185 pounds.
Since 1933, John has been heard as both actor and announcer on a string of shows as long as your arm, ranging from the old Joe Penner and Robert Benchley programs, Al Pearce, Olsen and Johnson, and more recently, Burns and Allen, Frank Morgan's show. "Screen Guild," "Cavalcade," "Let George Do It," and many more.
"My radio beginning didn't carry even the dignity of those clear channel stations that were such crucibles of radio men. I began by digging a ditch," Bud quips. The ditch he laughs about ran from a Burlingame. California, high school room to the football field, and therein Bud and his class mates laid the cable that first piped the Hiestand tones audienceward as he announced the home games. In the ensuing twenty-three years, the cables have graduated magnificently in size and range.
After a time break that took care of graduation from Stanford University, Hiestand's background of advancement continued in the Pasadena Playhouse, early network stints, and lending a voice to films in the role of announcer or commentator, traveling with the Theater League, Inc., and even taking a small band around the world on the famous Dollar Line.
The travel line in the Hiestand hand must be a strong one, for even after firm establishment in the usually confining radio world, John wound up trekking some 40,000 miles with Kay Kyser before John, himself, made his one departure from radio row.
The leave-taking occurred in 1943. Withdrawing from the West Coast announcing line-up in April of that year, John kissed his wife and four-year-old daughter goodbye, and hied himself off to Sydney, Australia, where he joined the rapidly growing OWI staff. For a while, the work consisted of promoting cultural relations between the U. S. and Australia by means of documentary films, educational radio programs, still pictures, press backgrounds . . . anything showing American aims and ways of thought. It was during this time Hiestand originated "Last Week in the U. S. A.," then stayed on the air as its commentator for a year.
Opportunity Opens
At this stage, the New Guinea campaign opened up the way for. OWI's actual propaganda function of psychological warfare, directly under the supervision of General MacArthur.
Listening to John Hiestand talk about the days when he was writer-producer-announcer of the Philippine Hour is like reading a background to the stirring book, "A Guerilla in the Philippines." He'll reminisce volubly and fascinatingly about the "hitch-hike" rides in planes loaded with cases of shells, about magically digging up buried press and type to print propaganda leaflets distributed by ships flying low over Corregidor or cruisers stealing into the bay after dark. When it was all over, Hiestand turned over his desk as Acting Chief of the OWI for the theater to his hard-working roommate, and headed for home, family and the Kyser show.
"Working the Kyser show is like no other, as far as I'm concerned. It becomes a family thing after so many years. We've all had the same laughs, the same trips, and all of us admire the way Kay goes on year after year pulling the crowds in wherever he plays. Kyser's a real showman," sums up the man who has had plenty of opportunity to look over showmen.
Hiestand is married to Jeane Wood, daughter of Sam Wood, and sister of K. T. Stevens. He and Mrs. Hiestand met in a little theater production.
"Jeane gave up actual participation in little theater or radio when we were married, and almost gave up attending shortly thereafter. She had come to a show I was doing, the old Jello program. I was reading the commercial, giving it everything I had, and just as I came to the flavor list, beginning with ‘strawberry,’ I looked down into the audience, right into Jeane's eyes. Then, very clearly and loudly, I started to proclaim the six wonderful flavors, beginning with ‘strawb-e-l-l-e’! It was months before Jeane would attend a broadcast . . . if I was on it."
When John isn't spieling or the Hiestands aren't househunting, John divides his energies between being an ardent hobbyist at color photography, and his new offices, home of "John Hiestand and Associates," a radio properties and production organization. That makes "the Dean" officially an announcer, actor, packager of shows, producer and agent.

Hiestand performed in about 30 roles at the Pasadena Playhouse between 1930 and 1934. His first radio job was doing remotes from the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles over KFI. One of his radio shows, voice historian Keith Scott wants you to know, was the Mickey Mouse radio show that ran for 26 weeks in 1938, and included an uncredited Mel Blanc (the only person allowed an air credit was orchestra leader Felix Mills). By 1940, he had appeared in more than 40 movies, all as announcers (Broadcasting, Oct. 1, 1940). He continued acting and appeared in a 3-D film (The Glass Web, Universal, 1953). He was one of the last announcers on a network radio variety show being heard on the 1955-56 season of The Edgar Bergen Show.

Hiestand still had some cartoon work ahead. He was employed by Playhouse Pictures for voice-overs, was in The Man From Button Willow (voiced in 1962 but finally released in 1965) and got screen credit on Ken Snyder's quasi-educational animated TV series The Funny Company in 1963.

He died of cancer in Newport Beach, California, on Feb. 5, 1987 at age 80.