Don't Simonize Your Car! Feminize It!

The censor appears to have been at work on the Willie Whopper cartoon Play Ball (1933).

The Sultan of Swat swats one of Willie’s pitches over the fence. Willie jumps over the fence and races after the ball in a flivver.



In the background, you’ll see a billboard for Barko. Next to it is a building with Chinese characters above the shuttered windows. Yes, the ball park is in Chinatown.



Naturally, this means a laundry gag. Willie runs into a laundry man.



When the laundry clears, there’s a shot of the flivver wearing a bra and panties.



But the shot lasts two seconds before a cut, hardly enough to register. Even though Carl Stalling’s music in the background maintains the beat (“Good night, Ladies” is on the soundtrack) it seems clear the censor thought this was too naughty and the gag was cut. Sex was bad then. Racial stereotypes were just fine. Hey, Willie throws baseballs at black people. Fun-ny!

Babe Ruth is portrayed in this cartoon with a pig nose. We presume the Iwerks animators were Brooklyn Dodgers fans.

Tex and Jinx and Jack

Tex McCrary and Jinx Falkenburg were a married couple with a pleasant little chat show on New York radio after the war. She had been a model and an actress, Tex was a newspaper reporter. Soon, they were put on the NBC radio network and then given a TV show in April 1947. For some months, about all that was on during the daytime hours was Tex and Jinx.

The pair also had a newspaper column in the Herald Tribune where they talked with celebrities and people in the news. Jack Benny made a trip to New York in early 1950 to do a pair of radio shows, and one of his stops was at a restaurant where, for a gag, Jinx picked up the cheque.

Spending was pretty much the topic that the two explored with Jack in a column published February 5, 1950. The column was written as if Tex handled one part and Jinx did the other. The two seem obsessed with exclamation marks.

Hedda Hopper reported in May 1949 that Jack was testing for Father of the Bride with Jane Powell. Liz Taylor and Walter Pidgeon were originally supposed to have the roles, though Pidgeon claimed to Hedda he had never heard of the picture. By June Jack was pretty much out of the picture for reasons she never explained.

To me, the biggest revelation is trivial but interesting. Jack talks about his real butler. I gather his early risings to walk around Beverly Hills are one reason why he ate with his staff.

NEW YORK CLOSE-UP
IN THE year 1932, two world-famous Americans discovered network radio—Franklin D. Roosevelt, candidate for the Presidency, and a young vaudeville headliner named Benny Kubelsky of Broadway and Waukegan, Ill. Both became quick masters of the fireside chat. Among statesmen, Roosevelt scored the highest Hooper rating; among comedians, the highest Hoopers still belong to Kubelsky—better known as Jack Benny.
Today, Jack Benny’s trademarks are as familiar as Uncle Sam’s chin whiskers or dollar sign—his stinginess, his violin, Rochester and Mary—are all part of American folklore.
“Pinching pennies on the radio costs me a lot of money every year—just in tips alone. If I heave a normal tip, people say ‘Lookit him! What a spender!’ So I have to leave as big a tip as I would if I’d made my money in Texas oil wells.
“And what’s worse, it’s the same for everybody who works for me—they all have to be twice as generous as normal people, just to prove Jack Benny isn’t really selfish. That gag costs my whole gang plenty!
“Only once did it ever work out right for me. We went to Earl Carroll’s night club one evening, and of course I checked my hat and coat. At the end of the evening, I went to pick it up and gave the hat check girl a crisp new dollar bill for a tip. She was very upset . . . handed it back to me. She asked me please to leave her at least one illusion!
“Of course, I have no real grudge against the gag—it’s the greatest gimmick for laughs in the business. There’s no other situation in comedy that can get more laughs than stinginess!”

Jack speaks of comedy the way technicians would talk about the hydrogen bomb—he is a master of punch lines and timing. Sure-footed as a mountain goat now, much of his career was sheer accident.
His father gave him two presents at the same time—a plumber’s monkey wrench and a violin. If he had followed the wrench to its logical destiny, he might have would up as a big industrialist and a sponsor; if he had stuck to the violin seriously, he might have wound up in Toscanini’s symphony orchestra, still on N. B. C.!
“The trouble was, I always wanted to play instead of practice,” Jack recalls. “And one more thing—I found out that when I extended my little pinky on the bow, people would laugh!”
That’s how comedians are born. But it was not the violin, but stinginess that sparked Jack’s longest and loudest laugh: Bandits were holding him up. One of them snarled: “Your money or your life!” No word from Jack. The bandit jammed his gun deeper into Jack’s ribs and barked once more: “Your money or your life—and hurry up!” Said Jack Benny, “Wait a minute, I’m thinking it over!”
Digging back into his memories, Jack unearthed another important crossroads in his career:
“I might have wound up as a fifth to the four Marx Brothers—I was playing the fiddle in the orchestra in Waukegan and the Marx Brothers came through our town. Their mother asked me if I would like to travel with them as their director—my mother wouldn’t let me leave. Oh, sure I’ve reminded them of it since, but they don’t remember it. I play golf with Groucho all the time, and he says the whole thing must have been his mother’s idea!”
Proximity has been a potent force in Benny’s career—his wife Mary used to work in the May Company store across the street from the Orpheum in Los Angeles, and Mary’s sister was the match-maker. Now she’s a pillar of his show.
Even the reserved Ronald Colmans have not been immune to Benny’s magic chain reaction—repeated guest performances by the Colmans on the Benny show revealed their unsuspected vein of pure humor—and now even though Benny has moved to C. B. S., Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Colman are on N. B. C., with a brand new comedy show of their own, called “Halls of Ivy.” Mr. Colman plays the part of a college president, but he would be the first to admit that like his fellow alumni, Phil Harris and Dennis Day, his most valuable degree should read “BB”—by Benny. TEX.
Postscript
Thousands of Americans and all Englishmen think that Rochester is really Jack Benny’s butler. Just for the record, Jack explains:
“Our real butler’s name is Donald, a white-haired, sweet, very dignified Englishman. I generally have breakfast with Donald, and the other help, very early, in the kitchen. Why? Because it’s warmer in the kitchen.
“And it’s fun—they think I can do no wrong. My wife, Mary, and her sister in Chicago are my worst critics.”
Movie critics have been rough on Jack’s screen ventures; we asked him if he had ever thought of risking his radio reputation by tackling a play on Broadway, where critics can make or break you. “I’d love to try a play—but I’d hate to move everything from California for what might be a one-week run!”
There had been rumors that Jack would be the star of the movie version of “Father of the Bride”—patting his balding head, he spikes that rumor: “I was considered for the part, but they gave it to somebody else . . . said I was too young for the role.”
For still photographs, every star has a “favorite side” for profile shots; I asked Jack which was his for our Close-up picture: “Doesn’t matter any more, Jinx—I’m bald on both sides now.” JINX

That Loafing Mighty Mouse

Terrytoons don’t exactly have a reputation as fine-grained cartoons, but a few people showed long-term dedication to the studio. Directors Connie Rasinski and Manny Davis come to mind. So does background artist Art Bartsch. And then there’s Tommy Morrison, who not only worked on stories, but shouted the words “Here I come to save the day.” (He didn’t sing for Mighty Mouse. That was Roy Halee).

After CBS shut down (rather foolishly, in my opinion) the Terrytoons studio in New Rochelle around 1970, Morrison retired to—where else?—Florida. While Paul Terry, who owned the studio into the mid-‘50s before selling to the network, may have been a cheapskate, Morrison doesn’t seem to have suffered as a result.

A future Associated Press entertainment writer met up with Morrison to talk about his years in animation. This was published (with drawing) in the Fort Myers News-Press of October 20, 1975. Ignore the headline that tries to equate animation with a comic strip. If you’re looking for dirt on Paul Terry, there isn’t any. It’s not quite the point of the story. And Morrison gives no credit to Gene Deitch for Tom Terrific. I’m pretty positive a creative person like Deitch would have had some input into that debut cartoon, especially since the character was his brainchild.

Cartoonist Strips Away Career
By FRAZIER MOORE
Cape Coral Bureau
When he and his wife moved to Cape Coral 2 1/2 years ago, he left behind a flock of cartoon luminaries including Mighty Mouse, Deputy Dawg, Heckle and Jeckle, and Tom Terrific— personalities he helped father during four decades of putting fantasies on film.
Now Tom Morrison, 67, lives the life of a loafer.
That's how he describes his current leisurely existence, based on hardly more than the bounce of a tennis ball from the courts of the Yacht Club, where Morrison spends part of nearly every day wielding his racket.
"I've never had it so good," he declares in his tight New York accent.
Meanwhile, his whimsical compatriots live on in more than 1,000 Terrytoons cartoons Morrison helped produce during a career spanning 41 years.
And if his career is behind him, his affection for the profession lives on.
"It's a challenging art form," he says of cartooning. "It's a combination of music and visual arts and acting. And even math.
"All animation is controlled by math," he explains. "It's a matter of speed how you space the drawings to create the illusion of motion."
From the outset, Morrison possessed an interest in theater and writing and acting.
"But my family had other ideas—they wanted me to go into business. So I went to Wall Street."
He was just in time for the '29 Crash.
"I went through the panic," he recalls, "and I nearly developed an ulcer at an early age.
"I saw a chief order clerk jump off the building because she made a mistake on an order. A junior partner shot himself in his office. People were that high-strung. And I said to myself, 'This isn't for me.' "
It so happened that Paul Terry, a pioneer cartoon producer, was a neighbor. He offered the erstwhile financier a job in his firm, and soon Morrison found himself steeped in the company's frantic effort to polish off a new cartoon every two weeks.
Although for years Terrytoons' product was channelled toward movie theaters, as short subjects began to vanish from the local bijous, television was emerging as the new market. In 1956 the CBS network purchased the entire Terrytoons operation.
One of the first projects Terrytoons tackled under the new ownership was creating for the network a cartoon serial to boost the audience for a new and rather shaky children's show called "Captain Kangaroo."
Morrison also wrote the pilot script for "Tom Terrific" (not to mention the lyrics for its jingle: "I'm Tom Terrific,/The greatest hero ever./Terrific is the name for me,/'cause I'm so clever. . .")
For over a decade the enormously successful "Captain Kangaroo" series was further brightened by the exploits of this precocious lad with the funnel cap and the lackadaisical canine companion named Mighty Manfred.
By then, Morrison's role at Terrytoons was that of creative director. Besides writing, he bought and edited story material from freelancers, hired voice talent, supervised recording, and assisted the music director.
"But I did very little sketching," Morrison says. "People down here think I was primarily an artist—they say, 'Draw Mighty Mouse.' But the actual drawing I had little to do with."
He did nearly everything else, however, and he can still brandish a pencil or pen, sweeping strokes across a sketch pad to make Mighty Mouse or Tom Terrific magically appear.
And as another indication of his numerous abilities he'll demonstrate the voice he lent to Mighty Mouse when that notable rodent chose to speak: "Hi, kids," Morrison says with wide eyes and his finger spearing the air, "we've got a great show for you today."
But these days, Morrison thinks the shows aren't so great. He terms the current generation of cartoons "hackwork."
"TV ruined the art of animation," he says. "The wonderful life-like movements that necessitated so many drawings just couldn't be accomplished on TV economically."
Furthermore, he objects to the indiscriminate banishment of violence for children's programming.
"It was a vicarious release for kids," he says of cartoon violence. "It provided exciting adventure where kids could live it without doing it. It was the little guy winning over the big guy.
"Surrounded by all those big adults telling them what to do," he says, "kids got their kicks over the little mouse beating the big cat."
As a specialist in both kids and cartoons, Morrison should know. He with his wife Betty have two daughters and a son, and boast nine grandchildren.
And then, of course, there are those 1,000 cartoons.
But lengthy friendships are hard to break, and yacht club members are advised not to be thunderstruck on finding Morrison engaged in a frenzied tennis match with a tiny flying figure in a scarlet cape.

Morrison enjoyed retirement for only a few more years. He was born in New York City on April 22, 1908 and died in Cape Coral on March 1, 1978.

That Duck!

A Nazi comes across a limp-wristed mouse in the Snafu cartoon Fighting Tools (1943).

The mouse drops to the ground, holding his nose. But wait a minute! What’s coming out of that cannon?

Could that be Daffy Duck? Or is director Bob Clampett just re-using Daffy’s design?

I say the latter, but there are fans who insist that if it looks like a character, it must be the same character (eg. a skunk in an Art Davis must be Pepe Le Pew even though it doesn’t act like him in the slightest).

Since this is a Clampett cartoon, there has to be a pop culture reference. One of the ducklings flies back and says “Rallly they are” like Kate Hepburn before zipping out of the cartoon.

The cartoon ends with Snafu captured naked and becoming a horse’s rear end, with music to match.

Musical Mickey

While the Fleischers were filling their cartoons with surreal gags in the early ‘30s, Walt Disney was still having cheerful Mickey Mouse playing various objects like musical instruments.

Mickey Steps Out (1931). It opened with the mouse shaving, and “playing” the sink with his razor, with percussion noises provided by banging the toilet seat up and down. The only gag (at least I think it’s supposed to be one) is when Mickey loses his soap in the toilet.



The next little sequence has Mickey on a wooden sidewalk (the slats are alternately white and grey) like he’s on a xylophone (which is what you hear in the background). I guffawed and roared when I saw him trip over a rock and momentarily lose his straw hat. Okay, I didn’t. But someone must have because the scene uses the same “humour” twice, along with Pluto jumping on Mickey and shoving him into a mud puddle.



Cut to Minnie playing the obligatory piano and Mickey whistling along with her bird. Then we see some singing birdies.



The cartoon is at the halfway mark. I think I’ll watch Bimbo instead.

A Squirrel is the Only Thing Screwy About This Book

The finest piece of news about the Golden Age of Animation this year is out.

Keith Scott’s long-promised book on cartoon voice actors is at the printer, and you can buy it starting September 20th.

When I was a kid in the ‘60s, you had to rely on credits on (mainly TV) cartoons and listening to similar voices to figure out who was in your favourite animated efforts. But even then, no one knew there was an Arthur Q. Bryan, unless they listened to certain old radio shows and heard him do his Elmer Fudd voice there. Then in the 1980s came books by animation historians, fanzines, chatter amongst experts on Usenet and finally a full-blown internet. They discovered there was a Danny Webb and a Sara Berner.

Into this mix came Keith Scott, an impressionist with a massive collection of old radio shows and a huge interest in cartoons. Besides having the chance to interview fellow cartoon voice actors when making trips to Los Angeles (such as Daws Butler, to the right), his ear was able to match radio actors to cartoon voices of the era because they used the same voices in radio and cartoons. Pretty soon, we started hearing about Kent Rogers and Jack Lescoulie and Frank Graham and a pile of people no one knew about. (Hands up if you had known before Keith Scott told you that Lloyd Perryman was in a cartoon). And he confirmed information with legitimate studio records resting in archives, as well as newspaper clippings from when the cartoons were actually made.

Keith has been talking about writing a book on the subject for, well, I don’t know how long. But a bit of a layoff during COVID gave him time to work on it. There are still some mysteries he hasn’t solved (one, I think, is the title character in the 1935 Merrie Melodies short The Country Mouse) but anything accurate, even if incomplete, is better than nothing.

One of the identities Keith discovered (if he isn’t responsible, he’ll let me know) is that of Screwy Squirrel. It’s an actor who used the same voice on a comedy show called Tommy Riggs and Betty Lou. His name was Wally Maher. In honour of Keith’s book (and Screwy, I guess), here’s a little information about him. This story from the Cincinnati Enquirer of January 31, 1943 doesn’t mention cartoons because Screwy didn’t come along for another year.

BUDDING STAR
Is From Cincinnati.
Wally Maher Credits His Success To Ambition
To Be Actor Despite Lean Times—First Job Follows Prayer In New York.
The "Queen City of the West" lays claim to a devotion to the cultural arts and quite frequently some of her native sons go forth to prove that contention. Almost everyone knows the success scored by Tyrone Power, but not many realize that radio has a budding star, who stems from this neighborhood and who first was heard from nationally, over station WLW.
No one who hears Wally Maher in the part of Wilbur, the goon-child pal of Betty Lou on the "Tommy Riggs and Betty Lou" show, would suspect that he is a tall, nice-looking chap, intelligent and devoted to his family. But Wally does have all of those characteristics.
Claiming Cincinnati as his native city, he credits his current success in radio to his constant ambition to be an actor.
Born on August 4, 1908, Wally hadn't completed his high school training when he abandoned further education in favor of a career. First as an amateur, then later as a stock company "regular," he started climbing from the bottom in show business.
He made his radio debut in 1930 as Paul Baumer in "All Quiet on the Western Front." However, roles were scarce for youthful actors at that time, and some lean years followed. At one time he was particularly depressed financially, with no job on hand or in sight. He passed a precious half-hour in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City, asking for divine guidance through and out of that troublesome time.
That same day a friend told him of a radio audition at one of the large studios. Before dark Wally was cast in the first of many successful roles.
Since his first utterances over the airlanes here, radio audiences have heard him on Jack Benny's program, on the Radio Theater, with Burns and Allen, Rudy Vallee, "One Man's Family," "I Love a Mystery," and Shirley Temple in her "Junior Miss series." He appeared five different times, thereby setting a record for guest artists, on the "Hollywood Showcase" program with Mary Astor.
He first appeared on the "Tommy Riggs and Betty Lou" as a temporary stooge, but his portrayal of Wilbur was so successful that he was signed as a permanent member of the cast.
Wally is married to the former Carmella Bruno of Hamilton, Ohio. They have two children, Wally Maher, Jr., 4 1/2, and Patricia Ann, 1 1/2. Maher enjoys boating and boxing, but for real sport he prefers to play with a good "nine" on a baseball field.

The same paper on January 24, 1946 had this cute tale.

A Career of Crime
Wally Maher, Ex-WLW Actor, on "Suspense;"
Young Man From Madisonville Makes Good
Wally Maher, who either is murdered or murders someone himself every Thursday night on “Suspense,” began making crime pay, at AFRA rates, on WLW in 1934. Wally says he was hired by Ed Byron, currently producing “Mr. D. A.,” to play the leading corpse on “Famous Jury Trials.” “Later I worked up to the position of leading murderer,” he says.
Wally has been doing network dramatics on the West Coast for 10 years, but his former radio colleagues around town remember him chiefly because of Frank Komarac, a delicatessen owner near the Arlington street studios. In this food shop the acting staff was wont to gather for a snack between shows— mostly on the cuff.
After Wally left town for the coast, Frank went to a movie. The feature went off without a hitch, but suddenly, as a “Crime Does Not Pay” short was flashed on the screen, the audience was startled by a cry of pain from one in their midst. It was Mr. Komarac, pointing wildly at the screen. “That's Wally Maher,” he hollered, “And he still owes me for his last sandwich.”

The radio column in the December 9, 1945 edition of the Pittsburgh Press pointed out that Maher “murders only the nicest people. In three years he has killed 31 persons, stole five million bucks and—we almost forgot to mention this—he was slain by the police 18 times...He strangled Agnes Moorehead to death, shot and stabbed Lucille Ball, shot Myrna Loy, poisoned Joan Lorring, drown George Couloris and beat Ronald Colman to death.”

What did Maher say about his animation career? If he said anything publicly, it’s hiding in some hitherto undiscovered newspaper. Earle Ferris’ syndicated column of January 28, 1943 only revealed:

The voice of ‘Wilbur,’ created by Wally Maher for the Tommy Riggs and Betty Lou show, is heard as that of a squirrel in the new Metro movie cartoon, “Nuts in May.”

Daily Variety was still using the Nuts in May title in October. It was the working title for what became Screwball Squirrel. Screwy’s first cartoon took some time to hit theatres. A model sheet for it is dated December 12, 1942 and the short was finally released April 1, 1944. Maher made five cartoons as Screwy. Some fans insist director Tex Avery killed off the character in his final cartoon, based on the fact Avery publicly said he disliked his creation and in the finale of the squirrel’s last short, co-star Lennie pulled out what appeared to be a dead Screwy. If Screwy’s dead, how can he hold up a sign and open his eye? I say Screwy is playing yet another trick and faking his demise.

Any long career in animation for Maher was cut short by an early death. The Los Angeles Daily News informed readers on December 27, 1951:

Wally Maher, radio actor, taken by death
Radio actor Wally Maher, 43, one of the top local artists for many years, died today in St. Vincent's hospital after a long illness.
Maher, who for many years was radio's detective, Michael Shane, was admitted to the hospital only last night. Recently he had undergone major chest and heart surgery.
He started in radio 22 years ago and worked in Cincinnati, New York and in recent years, here. Lately he was acting in CBS' “Lineup,” a mystery show.
He leaves his widow, Molly, three children, Patricia, Wally Jr. and Judy; his parents, Daniel and Mary Maher, and a brother. The family home is at 1017 Fairmount road, Burbank. Funeral arrangements are pending.

Keith has discovered other MGM cartoons where Maher can be heard. No doubt there are real revelations—perhaps some for the first time—in his book (actually, it is in two volumes). Anyone interested in the identities of actors you hear on those great old animated theatrical shorts should get it. Now, if he can only tell me who played the title role in John Sutherland’s propaganda cartoon Meet King Joe.

Floating in Mid-Air

There’s not one, but two gags about things floating on their own in mid-air in the Tex Avery opus Thugs With Dirty Mugs (1939).

First, the police chief (played by John Deering) walks back and forth, promising himself he’ll get “Killer” the bank robber (voiced by Danny Webb). At one point, his cigar remains behind while he continues to pace.



Later, Killer points his guns at a bank teller. The guns helpfully remain in the air as he stuffs his pockets with cash.



Jack Miller helped with gags in this wonderful Warners gangster picture send-up, while Sid Sutherland got the animation credit.

Today's Lesson: Bashing the Cat

You know the old “I’ll chase him and you clobber him with this” gag. Usually, it means the guy doing the chasing gets clobbered instead.

Joe Barbera (or his unacknowledged gagman) switches it in Professor Tom (1948). The gag here is the kitten Tom is instructing just stands there as the chase goes round and round.



Tom stops and gives the kitten a disgusted look. Jerry stops, too. Tom gives instructions to the kitten.



The twist to the gag: the kitten thinks for a moment, and then gives the vase to Jerry.



The whole blackboard/classroom idea that starts the cartoon was used again by Barbera and writer Charlie Shows in 1958 in the Pixie and Dixie cartoon Jinks, Junior. The lineage of the kitten in this short is unclear.

The cartoon features Bill Hanna shouting “Noooooo!” and a nice little piece at the end animated by Ken Muse where Jerry and the kitten stroll off together toward one of Bob Gentle’s watercolour backgrounds as Scott Bradley conducts the MGM orchestra in “We’re Off to See the Wizard.”

Ray Patterson, Ed Barge and Irv Spence are also on the animation credits.

Photographer, Actor and Fake German Grocer

Everyone annoyed Jack Benny on the Jack Benny radio show in the 1940s.

Everyone except one person.

Jack had to put up with insults and gag-toppers from his main cast—Mary Livingstone, Phil Harris, Rochester, even Don Wilson on occasion. Dennis Day annoyed him with ridiculousness.

Even the secondary cast got on his case: floorwalker Frank Nelson, tout Sheldon Leonard, phone operators Bea Benaderet and Sara Berner (did they ever put through one of Jack’s calls?), the recalcitrant Maxwell of Mel Blanc.

Through all this, a knock at the door or a stroll somewhere would bring a pleasant conversation with Mr. Kitzel, played by Artie Auerbach.

Kitzel first appeared in 1946 as a hot dog vendor at the Rose Bowl. He eventually morphed into kind of an acquaintance of Jack’s who felt he could stop in unannounced at the Benny mansion to say hello (in reality, fans in those days came right up to the Benny door to get an autographed photo). Mr. Kitzel was the Benny version of Mrs. Nussbaum, in a way. He would give names and words a mangled Hebrew pronunciation or Jewish connotation, fit in one of his catchphrases, and bid farewell. (His most famous catchphrase wasn’t heard on the Benny show. “Hmmmm...could be!” has been immortalised in old Warners and MGM cartoons but was from a pre-Benny time).

The Kitzel appearances were actually an inspired bit of business by Benny and his writers. It gave the show a bit of a break from all the insult humour. And Jack was allowed to shuck all the famous foibles of his character for a segment and be a friendly, ordinary guy having a conversation. In the 1950s, the writers employed the same device with Sam Hearn’s Calabasas farmer character.

Unlike Hearn, who was a veteran vaudevillian, Auerbach didn’t start out in show business, let alone a comedian. The Detroit Free Press profiled him in its edition of June 12, 1948.

Switch: ‘Mr. Kitzel’ Dropped Pictures for Pickles
BY JACK SCHERMERHORN
Free Press Staff Writer
NEWSPAPER PHOTOGRAPHERS can do anything. If you won't take our word for it, consider the life of Artie Auerbach, who is "Mr. Kitzel" on the Jack Benny show.
You know “pickle in de middle with the mustard on top . . .”
Artie, a former New York Daily News photographer, is in Detroit with the Benny troupe for a seven-day engagement.
AN EXPERT in dialect, Artie says that everyone has hidden talent. All you have to do is bring it out.
And he should know.
His career as a successful comedian began back in 1934 when he was with the New York paper. At that time he was covering blistering three-alarm fires, murders and worked the usual crime stories that go with being a photographer.
He spent idle hours in New York's eating spots picking up all the dialect he could and imitating it.
ARTIE GOT so good that one day he used his talent on a hot assignment. A New York dowager had locked herself in a room of a swank hotel and Artie was assigned to the story along with a dozen other photographers from competing papers.
In notes thrown out a window, the dowager said that she was being held captive. But when police responded they couldn't get in.
So Artie got an idea; the woman had to eat!
HE DRESSED in a white apron, got a bag of groceries and sounded off like a German grocer.
All of a sudden the dowager became hungry, and to show her appreciation for the food, let Artie take her picture with a camera he had hidden in the grocery bag.
His first radio show was with a cafe owner named George Frame Brown. Brown played the guitar while the hash was being slung.
Artie wrote a show around him and they went on the air for two and a half years together. But things turned a little rough for Artie and he decided to call it quits and go back to his job as photographer.
It was security, and his aged mother and two kid sisters had to eat.
THEN THE show bug bit again and he wrote a series of sketches for a Broadway show, "Calling All Stars." Included in the cast were Lou Holtz, Phil Baker, Judy Canova and Martha Raye.
That did it. He could pack away his flash bulbs after that one.
He did shows with Phil Baker, Eddie Cantor, Jack Haley, Al Pearce and Abbott and Costello.
Jack Benny heard Artie on the radio and hired him. He's been with Benny ever since.
THOUGH HE'S making more than five times as much money as he made as a photographer, Artie gets the urge for an assignment when he is in New York.
And they pay him for his work, too. Recently he earned $23 on one job.
"I miss the newspaper game,' Artie said, "but on the other hand the show business has been darn good to me. I've never had to hock my camera yet."
The 45-year-old comedian lives in a modest Hollywood apartment with his wife.
As for Jack Benny, well, all city editors should be like Mr. Benny, Artie remarked.

Mr. Kitzel followed the Benny show from radio to television. A heart attack claimed his life at the age of 54 in 1957.

Death didn’t end Mr. Kitzel. He appeared in some episodes put in the can for later in the season. Ben Gross of the Daily News wrote on April 21, 1958: "It was odd, amusing and yet tragic to see a filmed segment showing the late Artie Auerbach (Mr. Kitzel) during Jack Benny’s show (CBS-TV, 7:30) last night. It reminded us of what a talented performer Artie really was."

Cartoon Commies

The McCarthy era destroyed people’s lives and drove some to suicide. All because of 1950s paranoia that, somehow, Communism would enslave America. It was an era where anyone could accuse anyone of anything, and if you said “Where’s your proof?” then you must be a Commie, too.

The ridiculous hunt for Communists touched the animation business.

Most readers here, I suspect, know of “Disney’s Revenge,” when less-than-affable Uncle Walt testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1947 and claimed certain union leaders and others involved in the strike at his studio six years earlier were under the influence of “Reds.” His testimony can easily be found on the web. Hell hath no fury than corporate leaders scorned by unions.

The FBI spent the 1940s hunting for Communists in the cartoon business, accepting the say-so of informants playing judge and jury. Bill Higgins—who worked in the 1950s for the most right-wing animation corporation, John Sutherland Productions—was supposedly “pro-Russian,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Art Babbitt was accused of influencing Disney “employees to become interested in Communist matters,” which is a pretty slanted way of saying he tried to sign up people for a union and got fired for it. Long-time Disney animator Bob Carlson “received Communist literature at the YMCA” on a trip to El Paso.

Nine pages of FBI documentation about the situation can be found on archive.org. I don’t know what the hand-written notations mean. Ronald Reagan’s name is on each page, presumably because he was the head of SAG.

I’d invite you to laugh as you read how one accuser knew someone’s wife was a Communist but didn’t know her name, except this was not a funny time in American history. Ask actor Philip Loeb. Oh, yeah, you can’t. He killed himself after being blacklisted thanks to gossip mongers who smeared people in Red Channels.

The names you likely will recognise are those who lead the Screen Cartoonists Guild as of mid-1947. However, the implication is they were elected because they were not under Communist influence (Volus Jones’ name is misspelled). Cecil Beard was an ex-Disneyite and writer for George Pal Productions (he co-wrote the anti-Nazi short Tulips Will Grow) who was involved in television cartoons in the ‘50s and ‘60s. He was also active in trade unionism. He died in 1987. The Writers Guild of America was still trying to find him in 1991.

Each page can be enlarged. If you’re interest in the entire documentation, you can find it on this site.