The Departure of Phil Harris

It took the better part of a decade for the Jack Benny radio show to settle down with the main cast we remember best. If you think of Benny’s announcer and bandleader, you don’t think of Howard Claney and Frank Black.

Benny debuted on May 2, 1932. By the start of the 1939-40 season, everything was in place with the addition of Dennis Day as the replacement for tenor Kenny Baker. Mary Livingstone came first (as a new character), followed by Don Wilson as a replacement announcer, Phil Harris as a replacement orchestra leader and Eddie Anderson as Rochester.

They were together for a long time (Harris and Day took time off for war duties) but the demise of network radio in the 1950s included the Benny radio show. The growth of television took away listeners from radio’s prime time. That took away advertisers’ money that paid for the shows. Gradually, Benny dismantled his regular cast.

Mary Livingstone stopped appearing live and her lines, unenthusiastically delivered, were edited into the tapes of the show. By the end of the show in 1955, there were episodes where she didn’t appear at all and Veola Vonn was brought in as a female lead. Dennis Day had other projects and he was not appearing every week. And even Bob Crosby had vanished as band leader and his spot was taken by arranger Mahlon Merrick or musicians Charlie Bagby or Sammy Weiss.

Crosby, himself, was a replacement for Harris, who was hired in 1936 when Johnny Green moved to the Packard broadcast. More than Mary, more than Dennis, Harris’ departure was, to me at least, a real blow.

Just as it took some time for the Benny show to develop, it took time for Harris’ character to develop. Originally, he and Benny were antagonists because of Jack’s jealousy over Phil’s popularity with the big female stars of Hollywood (in real life, Harris was married with a son). That resulted in pettiness and yelling, neither of which is very comedic. But the writers came up with some additions that made Harris funny. He became self-confident and self-loving, despite being practically illiterate, with a gang of reprobates as musicians. Audiences ate it up when Harris, ignoring Benny altogether, came on stage and egged on the audience to give him a noisy reception.

The Harris character talked a lot about alcohol, but was never drunk on the air. Talking about it was funny enough. His character became so popular the F.W. Fitch Co. decided to have him replace Cass Daley as the star of The Fitch Bandwagon in the fall of 1946. Joining him was wife Alice Faye and, later, a cast including Elliott Lewis, Walter Tetley and Robert North, as well as two fine child actresses playing his daughters, Jeanine Roose and Anne Whitfield. His show became, like all others, a casualty of the rise of television and left the air on June 18, 1954 (though Harris told his audience that evening they would be back next fall).

Meanwhile, back on the Benny show, something was happening behind the scenes. The Associated Press made the story national on Apr. 1, 1952.

Benny, Harris Reported Near Parting of Ways
HOLLYWOOD, April 1 (AP)—One of radio’s longest and funniest associations—Jack Benny and Phil Harris—may end at the close of this season.
A spokesman for Benny today confirmed a trade report that such a move is under consideration next autumn. The relationship reportedly became strained when Harris refused to make a guest appearance with Benny on the latter’s television show.
Benny chose Bob Crosby instead. Crosby is reported under consideration to replace Harris. But—
“Crosby has not been signed, nor has Harris been dropped,” the spokesman added.
Both Benny and Harris were unreachable.



Harris couldn’t do anything but refuse. He had signed an exclusive television deal with NBC. Benny was on CBS. On April 27, the AP wire quoted Benny as saying Harris was being replaced with Crosby.

The Trenton Sunday Times-Advertiser published this story on May 4, 1952. It is likely a product of the CBS PR department.

Benny Signs New Radio Pact; Bob Crosby Replaces Harris
Jack Benny announced that he will continue on CBS Radio next season at the request of his sponsor. This is the earliest date this decision has been reached in recent years.
"I am very gratified," said Benny, "that my sponsor wanted us to stay on next season. After all, it would have been very difficult to say farewell to an audience that they estimate as 18,575,000 people a week. And I am sure that with Mary, Dennis, Rochester, Don, the Sportsmen Quartet and my regular radio writers with us again, we will broadcast as funny a show as we possibly can for the listeners to this country's 105,000,000 radio sets who tune us in."
The only change in the program will be the substitution of Bob Crosby for Phil Harris. The reason for the switch was because Phil Harris was not available for the Benny television program. Bob Crosby will appear on the Benny television show, as well as the radio program.
"To continue with CBS Radio," Benny went on, "it was necessary to limit my television appearances to a one-every-four-weeks basis. This, I think, is a good balance."
The "Jack Benny Program" is a veritable Sunday evening institution in American radio homes and one of radio's all-time top-rated shows. The comedy series switched to CBS Radio on January 2, 1949. Benny himself made his radio debut in 1932 on CBS' New York radio station, then WABC, and shortly after launched his own program on the network. He has been the recipient of some of the greatest honors in show business, including the coveted Peabody Award.

Harris spent the summer touring and not talking about Benny. Crosby was a little more chatty. Columnist Hal Humphrey reported on June 13:

Bob’s inclined to be somewhat sensitive about the fact that he replaces Phil Harris on the radio show.
“It was just a combination of circumstances,” he explains. “Phil’s own radio show on another network conflicted with Benny’s TV time, making it impossible to use him.

Crosby also wanted the exposure. Humphrey added:

Despite the fact that he’s also set to begin his sixth year on CBS Radio’s “Club 15” series, Bob is hep enough to know that TV is going to make him a bigger name, and that it’s a tough medium for band leaders to crack.

Another factor in the change may have been revealed by Variety, which revealed Benny had “been forced to make salary concessions” and then mentioned the Crosby hiring.

All this took place before the end of the Benny radio show for the season on June 1. One columnist noted there was not so much as a goodbye or thank-you by Jack on Phil’s final broadcast.

There was something else that became a source of discomfort. Hollywood columnist Harrison Carroll wrote on June 12 that Harris’ guitarist and long-time friend Frank Remley would be staying with the Benny show. Remley and Benny had become personal friends and travelling buddies. Benny’s letters to Remley survive and the language wasn’t exactly suitable for a radio broadcast.

Mentions of Remley had been made for years on the Benny show so when Harris got his own show, Elliott Lewis was hired to play him. That changed after the real Remley remained with Jack. When Harris’ show returned to the air on October 5, the Remley character got a name change. In fact, what had been Harris’ band remained with Jack, on radio and television.

Financially, Phil and Alice did well. Toronto Star columnist Gordon Sinclair wrote on June 5 that when the pair’s contract expired, NBC couldn’t sell their show. But they played what Sinclair called “an ‘on-again off-again’ routine” and wound up with more money and a five-year contract.

On the air, Harris was larger than life. Crosby was not. The Spokane Chronicle’s Bob Emahiser interviewed him and reported on June 25 “no attempt would be made to made to imitate Harris and that a new role is being created for him.” Crosby was hamstrung somewhat by being known to audiences through Club 15 and it would have been awkward to deviate from his casual nature. There wasn’t much else to do outside “Bing is my brother” and “I’m not Phil” jokes (some of which were repurposed from earlier shows with Harris). The writers then seized on his mispronunciation of a kosher brand and squeezed what they could out of that. When Club 15 ended, Crosby’s appearances with Benny became fewer and fewer.

As it turned out, Harris (and Faye) had little interest in a television series. He was assigned to NBC’s All-Star Revue at the start of the 1952-53 season and his contract called for eight appearances on the network that year. The contract ran out and he reunited with Benny on the small screen on October 5, 1958. But he preferred to go golfing, fishing and spending time with his family in Rancho Mirage. He and Faye were married for 54 years until his death in 1995.

Hollywood Greets Marvin Miller

Not many people have the versatility to narrate the Old Testament, the story of Nutralite, and the tale of Fox in Socks.

And lend his voice to a robot, hand out million-dollar cheques from John Beresford Tipton and emcee the Harmony DeMolay Chapter Sweetheart Pageant in St. Louis (he had been a member of the Chapter).

Those of you who appreciate animated cartoons likely heard his work for UPA, John Sutherland Productions, at DePatie-Freleng on the Pink Panther TV series and as Aquaman at Filmation.

Marvin Miller did all that, and an awful lot more.

Miller got his start on radio under his real name of Marvin E. Mueller, moving from his home town of St. Louis to Chicago and then to Los Angeles.

Elizabeth Werner’s radio column in the Hollywood Citizen-News of May 28 and 29, 1945 indicates he was doing well a year after arriving on the West Coast

One of the few people in radio's to be listed in Who's Who, Marvin Miller, takes such a keen interest in life that life has returned the compliment. Dark-haired, dark-eyed Mr. Miller, not only resembles the inimitable Orson Welles, but possesses a similar versatility which enables him to answer to the name of writer, actor, director, announcer, poet and walking encyclopedia.
Known on the West Coast principally for his job as the Coronet storyteller nightly on KECA, the human dynamo calls himself a "lazy" man, and worries for fear his manifold activities may lead him to squander his efforts.
"When I was in grade school," he said, "my dream was to be a newspaperman, so I worked as copy boy on the St. Louis Times during vacations. But I soon saw the average newsman, hunched over a desk under his green eye-shade, seldom got the chance to write the Great American Novel."
Wanted To Be Professor
“In high school," he continued, “I decided I wanted to be a professor, because I have a burning desire not only to learn, but to teach others what I have learned. Well, I won a scholarship to the University of Washington at St. Louis. . . . but the depression hit my benefactor . . . and my scholarship. I had to do something drastic," he smiled, "so I turned to radio."
Being the type that cringes at a mispronounced word, and having had two years of French and one of German behind him, Marvin threw down the gauntlet to radio in form of a letter criticizing the announcers on station KWK and asking for the chance to show them how it should be done. The challenge was accepted and the satisfaction of telling the intrepid lad, he'd never, never make an announcer, (Don't look now, but he's doing just that on "The Whistler," "Stan Over Hollywood," the Billie Burke Show and the Andrews Sisters show).
Not Easily Discouraged
Marvin Miller, however, is not easy to discourage, and before he left KWK he had sold them a dramatic skit of four characters, written and played by himself. Forty-two characters later Marvin had earned enough to enable him to finish schooling.
"It was my wife, Elizabeth, who really spurred me on to do things in radio," he admitted. "I decided that any girl who would sit up with me until the wee hour of the morning thinking up answers to the crazy quiz games I invented, was just the one for me." He showed us a photo of the very glamorous Elizabeth. "It was she who awakened me to classical music, which has become one of the joys of my life."
"The first symphony I attended with her was just a jumble of boring noise to me, but she seemed to understand it. I guess that was a challenge, for when she said she's rather have a Tschaikovsky symphony for Christmas than any other gift, I brought her one and really began to listen. Now my love and understanding has grown to encompass both the original symphonists and the ultra moderns." Grown in another way, too, we may said, for one entire wall of his living room is lined with record albums comprising a total of over 2000 classical recordings.
"We still play quiz games with each other," he went on. "Our favorite is to pick out eight lesser known words of famous composers and challenge the other to identify them."
"We're a little worried about four-and-a-half year old Tony, though," he smiled. "He jumps from singing "Pistol Packing Mama," to "Peter and the Wolf" without turning a hair. We're hoping he'll become more discriminating later." (to be continued)
"Hollywood is an odd place," Marvin Miller, well-known announcer - narrator - actor - writer, wasn't making an original discovery, but he has a new angle.
"In radio in Chicago," which had been his home before coming to California last fall, "an actor has a chance to make a name for himself, and by his merit, work himself out of the AFRA minimum scale of pay, while an announcer seldom does. Out here the situation is reversed. An announcer can build himself a fine reputation with corresponding hikes in salary, while the average actor, no matter how good he is, works on the various dramatic shows for scale. Having quite a few financial responsibilities," he grinned, "you'll see why I'm better known out here as an announcer and storyteller."
Marvin, who will be remembered for his role of "Mr. First Nighter" and the many dramatic parts he played on "Chicago Theater of the Air," isn't giving up his thespian career, however. The movies, which Marvin didn't give a thought to, because he admits he's no glamor boy, have discovered him and he's already working in his fourth picture.
Typical Hollywood Story
"I suppose the way I got my first part could be a typically Hollywood story," he mused. "My agent heard they were looking for someone to play Yamomoto in "Blood On The Sun," and because of my dark hair, my round face and over-hanging eyelids, he thought I should make a good Jap. I wanted to see the inside of a studio so we went out for a make-up tests. Westmore, who was in charge, seemed delighted with my face, and with a few touches, transformed me into a Jap.
"When the director saw me he said, ‘Mmmm, very good. Do you know your lines?’ I thought he was kidding, because I had exactly one line, so I replied, 'I think I do.' Would you mind saying them now?', he asked. I obliged, using my best Jap dialect, and he looked astonished. 'This man can act! He's too good for such a small part. Isn't there something else?'
"I stood there a little dazed while they went into a huddle," Marvin continued, "and pretty soon Westmore was called in to see if he could age me about 20 years for the part of the 52-year-old Tokyo police chief. He thought he could, if he could crop my hair, and I agreed, provided I'd be guaranteed one of the two parts."
His Luckiest Haircut
"That was the luckiest haircut I ever had," he laughed. "The second part had two swell scenes, and when they saw the rushes they liked my work so well another scene was written for Cagney and me at the end. There was only one catch. I already had been set for a swell part as the cream-puff husband in "Johnny Angel" and was trying like mad to get my hair to grow. We finally compromised by letting me keep my hat on in the last scene."
In between films, his nightly Storytelling on KECA at 6:55, and announcing, Marvin finds time to indulge in his favorite job of ferreting out and compiling facts. Take his scrapbooks, which are far different from the ordinary variety.
One huge volume is a collection of cigarets from all over the world, complete with detailed analysis of their tobacco, origin, and the reaction of the smoker. Another, called "Ghosts of 1000 Banquets" is filled with the labels of all the good things which have pleased his palate and menus from curious places he's dined. Another titled "Us" is the ever growing story of his life with Elizabeth and their young son, Tony. “Life is so full of things which are so lovely and so easily forgotten,” he said. “In these scrapbooks I try to remember some of its riches.”

Virginia Wright, Drama Editor of the Los Angeles Daily News, penned this profile in the June 18, 1945 edition.

When Marvin Miller's 5-year-old son began calling him "Mr. Walker," "Chicago's one man radio industry" decided it was time to take matters in hand.
Mr. Walker, the cab driver who took the boy to nursery school, was the only man in the youngster's life, his father being just a voice on the radio.
After a couple of slips in the unfamiliar presence of his father, Marvin Miller made up his mind that acting in and announcing 45 shows a week was a nice record, but hardly worth the personal sacrifice.
He and his wife read the chamber of commerce ads about "a life of relaxation in the Southern California sunshine," packed their bags and came west to take it easy.
The Millers have been here one year this month, and while Tony may be calling his father Daddy now, it probably won't be for long.
Marvin Miller brought only his own program, "The Coronet Storyteller," with him to Hollywood, but since his arrival he has become the m.c. on the Andrews Sisters program, the ad lib announcer on the Ray Noble show, announcer on the Billie Burke program, announcer and actor on ''The Whistler."
These are his radio commitments. To a man used to hopping from one station to another in Chicago, however, playing the male lead in "The Romance of Helen Trent," acting as master of ceremonies for Hildegarde, announcing "Ma Perkins," newscasting and acting in dozens of other soap operas, these five shows in Hollywood are like standing still to Marvin Miller.
Film debut
To fill in his time he has made four movies. His introduction to the screen will be made this week with the opening of "Blood on the Sun."
Although the radio actor prided himself on his wide variety of accents, Japanese wasn't his proudest work. It seemed to satisfy the Cagneys, however, and he makes his debut as head of the Japanese police.
The part is not large, and Miller seeing himself for the first time on the screen, thinks he overplayed somewhat. Director Frank Lloyd obviously didn't think so.
For his second screen assignment Miller drew a fatter assignment. At RKO he was handed the role of Clair Trevor's weakling husband in "Johnny Angel." His performance of that character part brought its own reward in an assignment to "Deadline at Dawn," Harold Clurman's first direction job in Hollywood. Miller plays a blind pianist, suspected of murder, in the thriller.
Between these two RKO performances Universal sought the radio actor for "Night in Paradise," the Walter Wanger Technicolor production with Merle Oberon and Turhan Bey. Miller plays one of three scribes in that one. Hired, he thought, because of his voice (a voice he has been perfecting for 15 years in radio) Miller was somewhat dashed to find that he was hired purely for his corporeal attributes. Bring somewhat on the plump side he was cast as the scribe who is constantly eating, but who never has a word to say.
No problems
Miller's long association with radio convinces him that radio and the screen have a much closer affiliation than the stage and the screen. With the single exception of learning dialog rather than reading a script he insists the transition from radio to pictures involves no problems at all for the actor. He thinks it must be much harder for a stage actor to control projection arid restrict his movements to white chalk marks than for the radio actor to memorize a few brief lines of dialog.
Miller, of course, is prejudiced toward radio which he maintains creates a kind of illusion which pictures can never hope to achieve. In this respect he cherishes a letter from a listener to "The Romance of Helen Trent," on which he played the love interest for three years.
The old lady wrote warning him of the machinations of the other man in the case, adding that she had already written warning Helen of the mess into which she was about to get herself.
As a final thought the writer asked why Miller didn't listen to the program when he was off the air, and discover what was going on behind his back.
The actor defies anyone to find a movie fan so spellbound by the medium.
Marvin Miller started his radio career while still a student at Washington university in Missouri. He got a job as a one man show, playing all parts, in a program that ran all summer.
After his sophomore year radio acting paid his way through his last two years of college, and with his A. B. degree he graduated also to news broadcasts and to announcing symphony programs. His musical knowledge kept pace with these broadcasts and made a collector of Miller.
His collection of 2000 symphonic records moved from Chicago to Los Angeles with the Millers and became one of their two most important household effects. The other is their stove. Miller fancies himself also as an amateur gourmet.

The amazing thing reading these stories from 1945 is Miller’s career was still ascending. We mentioned his role on-camera as Michael Anthony on The Millionaire (CBS, 1955-60) handing out a million-dollar cheque (the benefactor was played, off-screen, by Paul Frees) to a different person every week. In later life, Miller gave away a cheque for “One Million Dollars Worth of Good Luck”; some blog readers have told me they got such cheques.

Robby the Robot in Forbidden Planet (1956) may be his best-remembered movie role (voice only). The Nutralite film mentioned above was one of many industrials Miller narrated. He voiced “Fox in Socks” and other Dr. Seuss stories for RCA-Camden records and, of course, was the narrator in Seuss’ Oscar-winning cartoon for UPA, Gerald McBoing Boing. Among his industrial cartoons for John Sutherland was my favourite, Destination Earth, and Your Safety First, (both 1956), a pre-Jetsons look at the future where Miller’s husband/father voice pre-sages George O’Hanlon as George Jetson.

He also can be heard as the title characters in the Bell Labs live action/animation films Our Mr. Sun (1956) and Hemo the Magnificent (1957).

We mentioned his work for DePatie-Freleng and Filmation, but there’s another cartoon connection you can hear below.

Dry Brush Wolf

Tex Avery’s first cartoon with Droopy was Dumb-Hounded (1943) and one where he pushed the boundaries of takes with the wolf (expanding even further in Northwest Hounded Police, released three years later).

Here are some random frames after the wolf (played by Frank Graham) discovers that, somehow, Droopy is already where he’s gone to hide from him.



The MGM ink and paint department should receive recognition for all the dry-brush lines as the wolf twists, turns and zooms.

No artists are credited.

Let There Be Light

In the 1930s, the Leon Schlesinger studio had a story department and everyone would pitch gags for each cartoon. In some cases, it’s a wild guess who may have come up with a gag, though Tex Avery is an exception as certain comedic bits were tried out and refined over the years in his cartoons.

One gag in Buddy in Africa (1935) strikes me as it came from the mind of Bugs Hardaway, who directed the cartoon. Buddy stars as a travelling salesman, hawking stuff from his truck to the natives of Snake-Eyes

One of the villagers buys a battery kit. To me, only Hardaway would come up with a routine where someone plugs light bulbs into his ears, sits on a battery to create electricity, and then reads a newspaper.



Tom Armstrong was the story director for the studio at the time. He was never credited on a cartoon (he moved on to Disney); no writer got screen credit in 1935. Hardaway ended up back in the story department when Tex Avery was hired to direct.

Jack Carr and Don Williams are the credited animators. Good portions of the score were from musical director Norman Spencer, who also includes “Marchin’ Towards Ya Georgia” by Carmen Lombardo and Cliff Friend. Motion Picture Reviews wasn’t impressed. “Loud, unpleasant music accompanies Buddy through Africa, surrounded by wild animals. Poor,” was its declaration. And that doesn’t even take into consideration the weak story. “Poor” is almost a compliment.

He Didn't Shrink At Playing a Shrink

In every high-concept sitcom of the 1960s, the concept (a talking horse, a car that’s a dead mother, a wifey witch, a genie in a bottle) is hidden from a character who is baffled about unexplained things going on.

On Bewitched, that role was assumed by the always-funny Alice Pearce. On I Dream of Jeannie, it was Hayden Rorke as the NASA psychiatrist who always seemed to be looking around in confusion and saying “There’s something about this house.”

Dr. Alfred Bellows was Rorke’s best-known role, but he was no newcomer when Jeannie debuted in 1965. By July 1940, he had been in 15 Broadway productions, including 68 weeks in “The Philadelphia Story” with Kate Hepburn. After serving in World War Two, he came west and appeared along the coast in a production of Dream Girl with Lucille Ball. Then came castings for guest roles on various TV series.

Here he is talking about his role in what is likely an NBC news release. This material appeared in various papers for more than a year; the first time I ran across it was in an edition dated December 29, 1966.

TV Psychiatrist Has to Reject Patients
HOLLYWOOD—TV fans take their actors seriously.
Just ask Hayden Rorke, who portrays Air Force Col. Alfred Bellows, a psychiatrist in “I Dream of Jeannie,” on the NBC Television Network Mondays.
"I received one letter from a lady in Portland, Ore., who wrote, 'If I should ever need a psychiatrist I shall you the money, since I can't leave here, and you'll have to come to me," Rorke said. "Another person wrote me three or four times, convinced that if she could meet me I could solve her problems."
RORKE handles such situations honestly.
"I tell them or write them that I am just playing a part," he said, "But that I'm not a psychiatrist."
He is pleased, however, that he is convincing in the role, particularly when the compliments comes from doctors and psychiatrists.
"I've had letters from several psychiatrists who've told me that I'm a credit to the profession," said Rorke. “One even wrote (tongue-in-cheek) he wouldn't mind being psychoanalized by me."
Rorke has found that psychiatrists “are very human and have a sense of humor,” qualities that he find essential as Dr. Bellows, who is constantly bewildered over situations that cannot be explained logically, due to the magical powers of an invisible Jeannie (Barbara Eden).
“They’re doing it to me again!” has become Bellows’ exasperated trade remark.
Fans have picked up the refrain.
“Kids stop me and say, ‘Well, they’re doing it to you again,’” said Rorke. I even get it in church.”
Though he makes a convincing Air Force psychiatrist, Rorke’s personal interests have never run along those lines.
“I’m the only human being in the world who has no ambition to go to the moon,” he said.
Nor has he shown anything but a layman’s interest in medicine or psychiatry.
“I have a great respect for psychiatry, although I never wanted to be a psychiatrist or a doctor,” he said.
Rorke, who was born in Brooklyn, chose to continue the family theatrical tradition. He was educated at Brooklyn Prep, Villanova College and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, before spending three years in Walter Hampden's Classic Repertory Company. He has distinguished himself on the stage, screen and television over the last 27 years.
HE HAS HAD parts in such motion pictures as "Spencer's Mountain," "The Unsinkable Molly Brown," "The Night Walker," "A House Is Not a Home," "I'd Rather Be Rich," "Thrill of It All," and "Youngblood Hawke." Rorke analyzed the appeal of "I Dream of Jeannie."
"At first I thought the audience would be limited to youngsters, from teen-agers on down," he said. "But I found out that the show is just as popular with adults. Most adults want to escape. What Barbara does as a genie convinces adults that escape is within reach. It's part of the endless pursuit for release and change from the mundane."
The show, Rorke agreed, deals essentially with wish-fulfillment.
“It’s interesting about wishes,” he said. “We actually experience a lot of things we wish for, but we never admit this and we keep on wishing.”
Rorke, the actor, spoke of happiness.
“I think the basis of all happiness is honesty,” he said.
The remark was worthy of a psychiatrist.

Not everyone in the profession was pleased, as Rorke admitted in a column by Donald Freeman of the Copley News Service. It appeared in print on July 21, 1967.

Psychiatrists Pen Notes to Bellows
HOLLYWOOD—Hayden Rorke. Bite off the name. It is a name of substance — a blunt, direct, no-nonsense, executive kind of name. And the man who bears it is an ascot-wearing fellow, an actor down to his toes and the possessor of one of the more familiar faces in television and pictures. Hayden Rorke is a character actor presently employed as Col. Bellows, the Air Force psychiatrist to the astronauts in the series, "I Dream of Jeannie."
"Just last week I got a letter from a psychiatrist in North Carolina," Rorke said in that full-bodied, stage-trained voice that marks him as the complete actor. "He wrote to me, and I quote, 'Dear sir, you are a complete disgrace to the psychiatric profession. You are gullible. You are always being taken in by the one with the genie.' And that was just the beginning. I wrote back to tell him that I have no control over the scripts.
"On the other hand," said Rorke, "a psychiatrist in Pennsylvania wrote to tell me how much he appreciated the subtleties of my portrayal as an analyst. He added that possibly, since I do so well in the show, I could be prevailed upon to handle his overflow. Overflow! Some psychiatrist he must be.
Playing the “Heavy”
“Oh, I’ve become known, all right,” Rorke went on. “I’m ushering in church and I happen to pass the plate. Kids spot me and yell out, ‘It’s Dr. Bellows!’ Things do get a bit out of hand. But I must say that most viewers are convinced that I’m totally put upon. In actuality, I’m play a sort of heavy. “One needs a heavy, even in comedy, with two attractive chaps to serve as contrast—Larry Hagman and Bill Daily. Still, I never do anything bad and I do try not to ridicule the profession. I'm not, in short, one of your funny, funny psychiatrists." Rorke paused. "Now as for my part," he said, "if I ever find out who the genie is, I'm out of a job." And as for the series itself: "I’m told that NASA checks over every script and as a result we're very correct in our terminology. In fact, the astronauts themselves complained that we in the show were a bit too 'military,' that we seemed to be in uniform all the time. They liked the image but preferred to see us in civvies occasionally. Consequently, Screen Gems bought me three new suits to wear on the show, which I think is nice. "I should add that I've always thought our audience was probably on the juvenile side. I'm amazed—no, make that startled—to learn that the astronauts themselves watch our show. That seems so unlikely and yet, if they mentioned our uniforms, it must be true."
People Too Fickle
An actor for over 25 years, Rorke is eminently the realist as he contemplates his medium. "The days of the long run series are, I believe, over. The days of a 'Bonanza' or a 'Perry Mason' or a 'Donna Reed Show,' with their 8 or 9 or 10 years on the air—all gone. People have become too fickle, too discriminating.
“Five years is now the saturation—and if a series can get by its third year, the crucial year, then a five-year run is a good bet. We're gunning for those five years and those fat residuals."
I mentioned fan mail. "The kids do write the customary fan mail," Rorke said. "But the women keep sending me candy. Can't possibly understand why unless they think I need strength, which I do."

We hope those residuals were good because Rorke got those five years he wanted. In a way, a genie granted his wish for a change.

Familiar Duck, Familiar Gags

If you want to watch a Warner Bros. cartoon that isn’t a Warner Bros. cartoon, then seek out Columbia/Screen Gems’ 1947 epic Wacky Quacky.



No, that’s not Daffy Duck. It can’t be. This duck is green, with a red ring around its neck. Any resemblance is, um, coincidental. Just like the hunter isn’t Elmer Fudd.

The cartoon is filled with switches on familiar gags. There’s a log gag (without a cliff, like in All This and Rabbit Stew) which segues into brick building gag (kind of like Bugs Bunny Rides Again).

To speed the pace, director Alex Lovy uses multiple Daffys non-Daffys when building the wall.



Fudd The hunter hits the wall so hard, he knocks the mortar away from the bricks.



Cal Howard (formerly of Warner Bros.) provides a story twist. The duck grabs the gun and becomes the hunter.

The character, by the way, wasn’t named Wacky Quacky, if you want to go by a shorts list in Boxoffice magazine in 1947. I don’t know where it got the names. The Sylvester knock-off in several Columbia cartoons is apparently named “Klever Kat.” And the less said about “Mitey Mouse,” the better.

If the score sounds like something from a late-‘40s Woody Woodpecker cartoon, that shouldn’t be surprising as it was composed by Darrell Calker.

A Lantz Inside Gag

A couple of familiar names to staff at the Walter Lantz studio found their way into the 1956 cartoon Pigeon Holed.



Two of them are Lantz directors.



The third name belongs to writer Homer Brightman. Lantz had a Homer Pigeon before this cartoon, but he disappeared in 1943. It is possible Brightman’s name inspired a revival, though this version of H. Pigeon sounds and behaves differently than the one on screens in World War Two. He did not star in a cartoon after this one, though he made an appearance in a lame Hallowe’en TV special that Lantz produced in 1964, so it is possible the two Homers were just a coincidence.

Tralfaz Sunday Theatre: A Manner of Speaking

If you wanted an actor to blow up into a rage, you hired Fred Clark.

That’s what Jerry Fairbanks Productions did in the A.T. & T. industrial film A Manner of Speaking (1959).

You’ll recognise Clark and his anger instantly as the advertising agency boss who loses a client because of sloppy phone manners. Naturally, a Bell representative gives advice (for the viewing audience to take into account) and we’re left to presume all’s right at the end.

You may not need credits to pick out other cast members. Richard Erdman is a copywriter who wastes time on the company phone settling a dispute with his friends. Dan Tobin is the underling who won’t place his own calls. Barbara Eiler is in here, too. She played Dennis Day’s girl-friend on one of his “two shows” on radio.

You may recognise the music as being from the Capitol Hi-Q library. The Yogi Bear cartoon cue TC-436 SHINING DAY by Bill Loose at 24:57. Other cues include:

2:03 – C-51 MECHANICAL INDUSTRIAL UNDERSCORE by Bill Loose.
2:41 – C-35 LIGHT MECHANICAL by Bill Loose.
10:12 – SF-83 MYSTERIOSO (aka ATOMIC SKY) by Louis De Francesco.
13:10 – TC-203 WISTFUL COMEDY by Bill Loose and John Seely.

And the director’s name may be familiar. We’ll let you look up John Rich on your own.

What? Worry About Television?

The beginning of the end of network radio was nigh. And everyone knew it.

Americans had been pretty much promised there would be television after World War Two and it slowly, but surely, happened.

A stream of stations signed on in 1947 and 1948. More transmitter construction permits were approved by the FCC. Coaxial cable was being laid in the East to bring more live programmes to more cities. The broadcast day was being expanded. All of this happened before the huge popularity of the Texaco Star Theatre with Milton Berle on television.

More, importantly, sponsor money was slowly being siphoned toward television. It was leaving network radio.

During 1948, newspaper columnists made a to-do about the top radio comedians and how television would affect them. It wasn’t quite like going back to vaudeville. There were hot lights, cameras getting in the way of the audience and, worse still, dialogue that changed with every programme; a vaudeville act went from city to city with maybe minor tinkering along the way.

Perhaps the most successful comedian to move into television from radio was Jack Benny. His TV show remained on the air from 1950 to 1965, and he followed that with periodic specials until his death in 1974. This was even as the style of comedy evolved.

The Bridgeport Port of August 2, 1948 took up the situation in a column supposed written by Jack himself. Whoever penned it made fun of the trepidation that newspaper columnists seemed to feel was eating away at comedians.

Video No Worry To Benny! Oh, No?
(Editor’s Note: While Rocky Clark is on vacation, his column is being written by guests from the radio and entertainment world. Today’s guest columnist is Jack Benny, comedian).
It seems that every radio comedian I bump into these days is worried sick about television. What will it be like? How will it affect them? What will be the reaction of the public when it can see as well as hear these comedians?
For the actor, it means learning a new medium, mastering a different technique. No more reading from scripts—every line must he memorized. The sudden transition will not be easy.
We few, who won't be affected by television, can't help but notice the fear in the faces of those less fortunate actors. It's like a Frankenstein monster that haunts them until they can't see or think straight.
Recently I had lunch with Eddie Cantor, a case in point. He spoke about Ida, his five daughters, the new picture he's producing, a play he has coming up on Broadway. He told me a few stories (which I had already heard from Jessel) and raved about some song he was doing next week on the air. But not once did he mention what was uppermost in his mind—television.
Cantor is always acting, but he couldn't fool me. I knew that underneath his apparent gaiety—the handclapping, the eye-rolling, the jumping up and down—he was trying to find escape, escape from the morbid fear that was sapping his strength and confidence.
Of course, with me, it's different. But I couldn't help wondering how I would feel if I were in poor Eddie's spot.
As we left the restaurant, I tried to cheer him up. I shook hands with him and said, "Don't worry, Eddie."
He said, "Worry about what?" Pathetically, he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about. And as the chauffeur opened the door and little Eddie stepped into his big Cadillac. I knew that during that long drive to his 40-room home in Beverly Hills the one thing in his mind was that terrible dread of television.
Burns And Allen, Too
Then, there are Burns and Allen. I played golf with George Burns and he pulled the same act as Cantor. He made out that he didn't have a worry in the world. He purposely played a better game of golf than I did, just so I wouldn't see how upset he was.
On the way back to the club-house he kept laughing and telling me the same jokes Cantor told me (which I had already heard from Jessel) and all the while I knew his nerves were at the breaking point, that the specter of television gnawed at every fibre of his being. I kept thinking how fortunate I was—that I wasn't in the same position. Poor George, and Eddie, and Bob Hope, too!
I met Hope the other day, and he was carrying on worse than Burns and Cantor. Naturally, Bob is younger. He's just getting his break, and television will hit him harder than the others. There he was, standing in the lobby surrounded by a crowd of GI's signing autographs and cracking the same jokes that George Burns told me, that Cantor told me (which already heard from Jessel).
And when Bob called out, "Hello, Jack, I'll be with you in a second," I knew immediately from the timbre of his voice that television was making a nervous wreck out of him, too.
But I've got to hand it to Hope. In spite of the heartbreak, the fear inside of him, not once did he let down and allow his actions to betray his real feelings. He was brash and breezy, eyes sparkling, fall of pep, but when I inadvertently mentioned what television would do to some radio comedians, that got him.
His reaction was instantaneous. His face sobered. His manner softened. He put his arm around my shoulder, and for a brief moment I thought I saw a tear in his eye. At that instant, I hated myself for having let these words slip out. How it must have hurt the boy!
He said, "Buck up, Jack. It'll work out somehow." Poor Bob! He didn't want me to worry about him.
Poor Mr. Allen!
Then I got to thinking about the others. Fred Allen, for instance. What must be going on in his mind? In spite of what everybody thinks about Allen, we must admit he is intelligent. He realizes what television will mean to him. He shaves every morning. He knows what he looks like.
I tuned in on his program accidentally recently, and it was pitiful. He told the same jokes that Bob Hope told those GIs that George Burns told me after Cantor told me (which I had already heard from Jessel). I never felt so embarrassed for anybody in my life. The only thing that saved Allen's program was the audience. They were so sorry for him, they laughed continuously all through the show. You can't fool the American public. The people know television is just around the corner, and it was just their way of saying, "So long, Fred. You did a great job."
Last night I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw poor little Eddie Cantor, Burns and Allen, Bob Hope, Fred Allen and all those other radio comedians less fortunate than I. It was a never-ending parade, Fibber McGee and Molly, Edgar Bergen, Red Skelton, Jack Carson, the Great Gildersleeve—all potential victims of television.
And as I lay there wide awake in bed, I knew what they were going through—sleepless nights, tossing and turning, wondering what the future held in store for them. The uncertainty—the agony of waiting! The feeling of complete helplessness as, moving ever closer, television crept to engulf them and relegate them to the past.

Some radio comedians weren’t all that interested in television. The most surprising of the lot was Edgar Bergen, who was president of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences until mid-1947, and had appeared in a short film on W6XAO in Los Angeles in 1940. I still think Burns and Allen were better on television and radio. And networks tried to find something that fit Fred Allen but never really did.

Jack Benny, however, had created such a strong, laughable persona for himself that, even without Mary Livingstone, Phil Harris and Dennis Day (for the most part) that he was able to move from the microphone to in front of the camera with ease.