Putting Out the Dog the Van Beuren Way

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

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



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



Cubby and cohort have diamond-shaped eyelids when closed.



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

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

The Second Wittiest Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

100 Years Ago in Animated Cartoons

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

A Few Quick Facts About Limited Animation

“Purely graphic in design” is how Zack Schwartz viewed A Few Quick Facts: Fear, a cartoon made by United Film Productions for the U.S. Signal Corps in 1945.

The 3½-minute short has stylised designs, no backgrounds, and movement that resembles cut-outs being moved around in front of the cartoon.

Here’s one of the effects. The horses continue to clop away on twos while the background changes. Then during one of the wipes, the horse and rider change from negative to positive shades.



The heralds are moved around like cutouts (after the doorway is pulled out of the scene), then are animated to combine into a thick line, which is again moved like a cutout and stands on end. The herald emerge from it and are moved into two poses.



Bobe Cannon animated this short, which deliberately paid more attention to art than humour. That would eventually be part of UPA’s downfall.

Dancing Fifi

Tex Avery’s fascination with long shots of a little insect on a stage goes back to his Warners Bros. days in Hamateur Night (1939). He featured fleas in other films but when he gets to The Flea Circus (1954), he combines the idea with the mass procreation gag that ended Little Johnny Jet, Bill Thompson’s Droopy voice and the song “Clementine” that appeared in Magical Maestro. In other words, a lot of Avery ideas are at play here (a muffled sound gag in this cartoon was further explored in his next short, Dixieland Droopy).

One thing that’s unique to The Flea Circus is the design of Fifi, the little French girl flea who steals the heart of Pepito the Clown flea (who finally wins her by saving her life). My assumption has been that Ed Benedict was responsible but there’s no design or layout screen credit in this cartoon. Fifi’s involved in a neat dance scene to the tune of Applause by Ira Gershwin and Burton Lane, lifted right off the soundtrack of the MGM musical Give a Girl a Break (1954).

Here are some of Fifi’s poses, with the chorus line in the background.



You’ll notice Fifi and the chorus aren’t in step and aren’t always singing at the same time. They catch up to each other every once in a while. During this scene, Fifi may move from one frame to the next then hold. The chorus may move in a different frame or the same one. It means their actions aren’t always in sync. I didn’t notice until writing this post and froze each frame.

Here’s what I’m talking about. This is one second of animation, slowed down. Only once are all characters held for two frames, everything else is on ones with Fifi, or the chorus, or both, moving. All the characters start out in the same position.



Did Mike Lah animate this scene? He seems to have done a number of dance numbers at MGM. Walt Clinton, Bob Bentley and Grant Simmons are the other credited animators.

Tralfaz Sunday Theatre – We Learn About the Telephone

All kinds of industrial films were made about telephones but only one combined John Hubley, Mel Blanc, the Capitol Hi-Q library and the girl who played Felix Unger’s daughter on TV. It’s the 1965 two-reeler We Learn About the Telephone, produced by Jerry Fairbanks Productions.

A. T. and T. evidently had some kind of special educational campaign going on at the time. A 24-page booklet aimed at young people was copyrighted in late 1964.

Animation fans should like the cartoon segments which take up a good portion of the first half of the film. I especially like the designs of the circus animals about half-way through which teach us phone etiquette from the days before everyone carried around their own hand-held. Director Hubley’s career, which spanned and included the Disney strike, a McCarthyist ouster at UPA and Oscar wins as an independent producer, should be well-known to readers here. As for the voices, you’ll recognise Blanc doing a host of voices and Paul Frees as the sleepy bear and the fox (I should know who is doing the female voices but I don’t).

The opening theme is SF-1004 Happy Outing by Marc Lanjean. It’s originally from the KPM library but is found on Hi-Q reel L-95. The closing cue is Bright Title by Bill Loose and Emil Cadkin from the Capitol Production Music library. Spencer Moore’s L-1144 Animation Light makes an appearance during the running scene at the 2:30 mark and there are cues by Phil Green and some from the Hi-Q ‘D’ (Dramatic) series.

Mike Kazaleh helpfully listed some of the animators in a post on the late Michael Sporn’s blog, all veterans of the theatrical world.

The animators I can spot are Phil Duncan, Bill Littlejohn (these two did the most footage) Don Towsley (the lion and the raven), Emery Hawkins (the beaver and the bear), Ben Washam (the elephants) Tom Ray (the fox and the pig), and one other person I can’t identify (the Samuel Morse sequence.) Some of the stuff Duncan animated were the opening section, and the scenes of the ringmaster. Littlejohn animated the messenger traveling through time, and the two musicians.

Oh, the little girl is Pamelyn Ferdin, who appeared on The Odd Couple and was one of the voices of Lucy in the Peanuts cartoons (which Littlejohn also worked on).

Still a Small-Town Boy

Jack Benny a quitter?

Ah, you’ve got to love tabloids and their attention-grabbing opening sentences. The statement leaves the impression that he was some kind of loser but the article goes on to reveal anything but.

This story from the Radio Mirror of February 1937 is a long read so I won’t waste time with a huge introduction. The old saw about Benny’s first radio appearance being on Ed Sullivan’s show is trotted out (it’s not true) and there’s an interesting tag of trivia notes about the show. “Al Burns,” if I recall, was Jack’s brother-in-law for a time (he married Babe Marks).

They’re better than nothing, but the pictures with the article aren’t that great because of a low resolution scan of this magazine.

GENIUS IN A FOG
By WELDON MELICK
JACK BENNY has been a quitter all his life. At every turning point in his career he has turned tail-but each such occasion has somehow advanced his fame and fortune.
I've heard actors, writers and comedians marvel that anyone could reach the top by the seemingly careless, unambitious, unbusinesslike methods that are Jack's. His Sunday half-hour recently forged ahead of Major Bowes in a national radio popularity survey, returning to the first place it lost two years ago. Yet Jack is easygoing, almost phlegmatic, and always takes the line of least resistance. When he gets into a violent argument he will suddenly give in to save himself the effort of keeping his mind on it.
His friend, George Burns, found him fuming one time over the incompetence of his vaudeville agent. Jack had determined to fire him. George didn't want to miss the fireworks, and went along, with his companion getting hotter under the collar and thinking up new vilifying epithets all the way.
As they entered the office, the agent called a cheery, "Good morning, Jack!"
"Is there any mail today?" Benny seethed.
"No, there isn't, Jack."
"Well, goodbye," the infuriated actor boiled, and on the way out mumbled, "I guess I told him!"
Another demonstration of his one-mouse-power temper occurred years ago at the Academy of Music in New York City, which boasted the most bloodthirsty audience since the Roman Coliseum. The house welcome to each new act was a prolonged raspberry-when tomatoes were out of season. Entertainers dreaded to play the spot, but egotistically gave everything they had for the applause of the barbarians, as it was equivalent in the theatrical world to a Congressional Medal for Bravery.
Jack sauntered in from the wings in his usual preoccupied manner at the first performance. His "Hello, everybody!" was drowned in the raspberry-flavored accolade which crescendoed to a thunderous roar as he shuffled deliberately across the stage, his eyes on the floor. When he reached the other side of the stage without so much as a change of expression, the raspberry subsided into ominous defiance, prefacing the real baiting and torture of a human sacrifice. Jack tossed them a genial "Goodbye, folks," sauntered on out of the theater and never came back.
Benny has developed quitting to the perfection of a science. He quit high school in his sophomore year-by request. The principal said he wouldn't amount to anything and was only wasting the taxpayers' money.
Jack next quit his home for the stage. His father threatened to lock up the welcome mat if the boy walked out on him, but admitted he was only bluffing when he found out his son was serious.
Young Jack Benny was a violinist when he quit the stage to join the Navy. There were Seamen's Benefits, so he kept right on entertaining. When the world conflict was over, all that was left of a second-rate violinist was a first-rate comedian.
Laughs are not only Jack's career, they are also his existence. His closest friends are rival comedians-those who can make him laugh the most frequently and heartily-and when Jack Benny laughs heartily, he falls down, rolls on the floor, and clicks his heels. He matches laugh for laugh, reveling in a joke with the same abandon whether he's on the giving or receiving end.

ONE morning during a Winnipeg date, the Bennys' friend, Al Burns, telephoned from the hotel lobby that he was on his way up to their room. To give Al a laugh, Jack stood on one bed with a pitcher of water on his head and Mary stood on the other bed balancing a telephone book on her brow. At the knock on the door, Jack called "Come in!" and in walked the waiter with their breakfast. Jack doesn't go in for practical jokes. His idea of fun takes the milder form of telegrams and long distance phone calls.
When "Big Boy" opened in San Francisco, Florence Moore, who was playing in the same city, received a telegram from Jack Benny and George Burns to this effect:
"Jolson opens tonight. As we don't know Jolson, we are sending you a telegram. Congratulations."
The night George Burns and Gracie Allen got married in Cleveland, Jack called up from Vancouver at 4:00 A. M. "Hello-this is Jack Benny!" he announced. George said, "Bring up two orders of bacon and eggs!" and hung up. While George was playing the Palace in New York, Jack sent him this wire from San Diego, "I think your act is sensational. You've got the cleverest routine, the funniest gags Broadway has ever heard. I think you're a genius - better than Chaplin!" He signed it "George Burns."
Jack once wrote George a six-page letter. George was too busy to answer, so he switched the names in salutation and signature, and sent the letter back. Jack redoubled, and for a year and a half, that was the only letter that passed between them, but it passed frequently.
After George's first program on the air, Jack wrote him a fan letter: "I listened to your program last night and I think it was swell. I would appreciate it very much if you would send me a picture of Tom Mix's horse." George dug up a picture of a jackass and inscribed it "To my very dear friend, Jack Benny." Jack acknowledged it with "Thank you for your picture."
When Jack meets friends after the theater or in a restaurant, he can't refrain from a cordial, "Come on up to the house-we'll have a lotta laughs." Sometimes he comes home with thirty people. But Jack will never make a good night owl. He habitually rises before nine o'clock every morning, in aggravatingly jubilant spirits. So about the time the impromptu guests dispose of their wraps, their host is asleep on the couch.
He's never the life of the party. But whoever is the life of the party never had a better one-man audience than Jack Benny. He whoops at whatever strikes him funny.
Several comedians have risen from the minor ranks through his enthusiasm. He has sat in on radio auditions and used his compelling personality to persuade sponsors to contract comedy programs which would compete with his own, just because he wanted to help someone he used to know in vaudeville.
He is probably the only actor on record without a spark of professional jealousy. When Jesse Block first teamed up with Eve Sully, Jack loaned the pair his best piece of gag material, a sure-fire bit that was getting his biggest laughs on the road. He figured it might do them a lot of good while bookers were catching their act in New York, and wouldn't do him any harm, since they would drop it as soon as they started on the road themselves.
The bit was terrific. Block and Sully became sensations over night and were being held over in New York when Jack returned to play the Palace.
After his first performance, people said he was doing a Block and Sully. He took the bit out of his own act and told his friends to keep it when they went on the road.
Jack often gives a fair imitation of a lunatic on the loose. When he is not composing goofy telegrams, he is usually lost in a fog of concentration and petty worries. A sudden question will jar loose some words concerning the subject on his mind, making the most surprising answer. Sometimes he doesn't hear you at all, and other times he startles you with an answer fifteen minutes after you have forgotten what you asked.
Four years ago, Jack committed a stupefying act which convinced all his friends of his insanity. Without a single other prospect in view, he quit cold a job that was bringing him $1400 a week. He asked for a release from his contract with the Earl Carrol Vanities road Company, thus throwing away $20,000-and then and there quit the stage. Of all times that Jack has been a quitter, that remains his masterpiece. But as usual, his professional ascent was only accelerated by the halt!
He had completed a cycle, and come again to the choice between his career on the stage and a home. But this time, he chose a home-for his wife's sake. Mary Livingstone had tried hard to forget the solid, comfortable security she had given up for a portable existence in hotels and trains. She had tried to get used to uprooting her life every few days-packing, unpacking, waiting alone in hotel rooms for Jack, or worse, visiting him backstage, and seeing chorus cuties swarming around him. The first year she had been miserably unhappy and had left her spouse ten times, but always her love for him outweighed her aversion to the merry-go-round of the theater, and drew her back.
By 1932, Mary was resigned to her fate, and had even overcome her dislike for the stage enough to appear in Jack's act with him. But she was still a home girl at heart-and Jack knew there was only one way to make her supremely happy. He saw radio as a solution to his domestic problems.
THEY went back to New York and for three months Jack gave audition after audition to no avail. Then, one night, columnist Ed Sullivan invited him to make "a guest star appearance on his own program. For the record, these are the first words that the bland comedian uttered over the air:
"Ladies and gentlemen-this is Jack Benny talking. There will be a slight pause while you say 'Who cares ?' I am here tonight as a scenario writer. There is quite a lot of money in writing scenarios for the pictures. Well, there would be if I could sell one. That seems to be my only trouble right now, but I am going back to pictures in about ten weeks. I'm going to be in a new picture with Greta Garbo. They sent me the story last week. When the picture first opens, I'm found dead in the bathroom. It's sort of a mystery picture. I'm found in the bathtub on Wednesday night." He shortly had his first sponsor, Canada Dry, and amid the flood of old-style gags that deluged radio almost four years ago, the Benny brand of timely character humor sparkled like a Will Rogers quip in the Congressional Record.
It was by breaking from the tradition that called for a star comedian to grab all the laughs from his straight man that Jack Benny developed a smooth-running, eight-cylinder laugh machine while other comics were still wheezing along on one cylinder. Using the same fuel-that is, jokes no funnier and in many cases less clever than those of his competitors-he streaked to record popularity before the others could remodel their ancient vehicles.
He even dragged Mary with him, putting her into the scripts against her will. But she has grown to love the work and the audience loves her blithe assurance.

Although he worries and frets his radio material into shape, making a minor crisis of each broadcast, as soon as the show goes on the air, Jack does his best to befuddle the cast into garbling their lines. He thinks an unintentional slip of the tongue is always good for a laugh, whereas the original line may or may not be. Thus he kidded Don Bestor's spats into national prominence, and some of his ad lib remarks about Kenny Baker not only confuse the singer but have him blushing for hours afterwards.
The strangest thing about this good-natured fellow is that he doesn't react to the white heat of success in any way. He's still a small-town boy who can't hold his liquor (one cocktail sends him higher than a kite, so he practically never drinks) and to whom a midnight movie is an orgy. He has no business sense, and takes his wife's advice on everything but the selection of his clothes. Unlike most actors, he dresses conservatively (and he dresses himself-he wouldn't submit to a valet to pay off an election bet).
His diversions are those of a $35-a-week bank clerk, though his pay check is in five figures. His chief delight is leisurely cross-country motoring. He gave his wife a sixteen-cylinder sedan, but refused to give up his own Pontiac roadster for a more luxurious car. He thinks he's a very good driver, but the temptation to tell a good story frequently takes his eyes from the road.
He's a panic on the dance floor when he pulls a Fred Astaire, but it's a bit nerve-wracking to his unsuspecting partner.
HE sometimes plays casino, but the best thing he does with a card table is to set dinner on it and invite Burns and Allen over. When he starts a meal, he always asks "What's the dessert?" and you have to keep it out of sight or he'll eat it between the appetizer and the soup. He has to taste what everyone else is eating, if it's different from his order. As soon as the dessert is on (once a day it's one of those "six delicious flavors") he asks, "What are we going to do tonight?" He stops eating when he feels uncomfortable and after dinner looks at himself in the mirror, makes a double chin and remarks, "Gee, I'll have to start on a diet tomorrow!" He always means it, and even bought a medicine ball and gym equipment once, using it all of twenty minutes before he gave it away.
Jack has two habits he can't break. He smokes several thousand cigars a year and bites his nails. Mary frequently slaps his hands out of his mouth, as it's a dreadful example to set for Joan. Jack likes to show you snapshots of his adopted baby - he always has some in his pocket - and if you suggest that she looks a little like him, he is the proudest papa-by-proxy in the world.
At least ten needy actors receive regular checks from Benny. if you see him fasten onto some obscure actor at a party and unobtrusively steer him toward the kitchen, it's a safe bet that radio's ace comedian is asking Joe Hoofer how things are going, and is backing up his interest with something to tide him over the tough breaks.
While he was making a personal appearance in Boston recently, the boy who was kicked out of high school because he wouldn't study had an invitation to lecture on humorous writing to the literature classes of Harvard. Jack declined the honor. He explained to a friend, "I can't talk to all those smart guys. I'm only an actor. I wouldn't know what to say."
But if he doesn't stand in awe of his own importance, neither does he of anyone else's. During the same engagement, arrangements were made for him to meet the Governor at the State House. The Governor was late and Benny left-not from impatience after a long wait, but simply because he was due at a rehearsal. The others told him the rehearsal would have to be delayed-that he couldn't walk out on a governor.
Jack simply said, "He can be late. He's got a four year contract, but mine's only for thirteen weeks."

DOTS AND DASHES ON JACK BENNY'S PROGRAM. . . . This merrymaker's program is now radio's number one according to the telephone polls, which make surveys of listening popularity, for advertising agencies and sponsors.... It finally shoved Major Bowes' amateurs into second place. . . . Jack's sponsors attribute this to their high-priced comic's flippant personality. . . . But the veteran comedian likes to think his success is due to his innovation of situation comedy on the air, rather than to gags. . . Jack likes to kid the notion's latest crazes, its newest movies, its latest heroes. However, this type of comedy has its limitations. . . . Lampooning national affairs, international figures, politics, religions, is taboo.... To make up for this, Jack built up his company of funsters into definite personalities, so he could kid them instead. . . . When Harry Conn, $2,500-a-week gag writer, left Jack to write for Joe Penner, the former fiddler hired another high-priced writer, Al Boasberg, and three assistants. . . The writers bring in the rough draft to their boss early in the week. . . . Benny greets them in a silk dressing gown, silkier pajamas, and the inevitable cigar tucked in the side of his mouth. . . Benny injects his own ideas. . . The following Sunday the cast gives it a first reading. Suggestions are made by Mary, Kenny Baker and Phil Harris, to suit their personalities. . . . One of the hardest workers and biggest worriers on the program is Tom Harrington, crack production man, who has traveled over 75,000 miles, in connection with this show, between the West Coast studios and the New York advertising agency offices of his company, Young and Rubicam. . . He gets gray hairs every Sunday when Jack upsets the planned routine.... It's Harrington's job to keep the program timed properly.... Young and Rubicam like comedians on their radio shows. They present Jack Benny, Phil Baker, Fred Allen, Charles Butterworth, Stoopnagle and Budd and Ed Wynn, weekly, to a waiting world. . . Jack's man Friday is baldish Harry Baldwin, who cares for Jack's minor business affairs, arranges his appointments, handles Mary's charge accounts. . . . Phil Harris is Jack's sixth bandleader. . . Most of the company dress informally for the broadcasts; Jack wears sweater and slacks, Mary a sports dress, but dimpled, thirty-year-old Harris dresses like a Wall Street baron. . . . The former West Coast drummer made a prize-winning short, "So This Is Harris;" his band has been one of NBC's aces for many years.... Has only one hobby; polo ponies. . He owns a string of them. . It was Rudy Vallee who first recommended him as a coming maestro. . A year ago Kenny Baker was unknown. Today he starts his first starring talkie, "The Great Crooner," Mervyn LeRoy's first independently produced picture. . . Is the proud father of a two-months old boy. . . Don Wilson's raucous laugh, usually heard above the rest of the studio audience, is not forced.... He still thinks Jack Benny is the funniest man in the world.