Variety (January 1953)

92 RADIO-TELEVISION Wednesday, January 7, 1953 Forty-seventh Anniversary I GOTTA GREAT IDEA —By MILT JOSEFSBERG - ■ -rr, J Hollywood. Some time ago one of the local columnists carried a squib in his space as follows: “A novel thing happened to me today. I met a man Who didn’t have a great idea for a television program." I, unfortunately, have not been that lucky. It has been years , since I have not met, not received a letter from, or riot been called on the telephone by someone who had a great idea for a network package. They come in the form of synopses, full manuscripts, and long-winded explanations via phone calls which invariably come while I’m trying to watch Chuck Davey on Pabst’s pugilistic programs. They are submitted by people in all walks of life. From former friends. Fellows who knew me when. People who many years ago realized I had the stuff. And from the many who still think I’m a lucky bum. Some of these creations show neither talent nor imagi- nation. Some are long on one and short on the other. And some of them—well, supposing I submit them to you. Idea No. 1 came from a doctor friend of mine who hap- pened to take a friendly and financial illness in a siege i ! sickness I had in the spring of 1950. This mysterious malady took the form of frequent fevers which toasted my torso for ho apparent reason. Doctors came in droves, like writers on a shaky show, and lasted just about as long. Nothing helped. My temperature tarried at 103 for weeks, then suddenly shot up to 105, a rating which not even “I Love Lucy” has as yet attained. At this point I was hustled to a hospital (I'd men- tis i the name, but I don’t want anyone to think it’s a plug) and for. several hours five doctors held a mass consultation over rrie. One suggested undulant fever, an- other malaria, and one, with very little imagination, voted for typhoid. A specialist kept rooting for brucellosis, which I sus- pect is the specialist term for undulant fever. The fifth physician, who seemed to function as a constructionist, or story line man, put all the other facts. together, added them to my bill, and came up a lulu called something- or-other-endocarditis. He eventually won and got to keep my specimen" as first prize. But it was this maeabre guessing game that gave my physician. friend his idea for a show. Why not have a panel of doctors sitting around a consultation^ room? A patient is wheeled before them on an operating table • (courtesy Cedars of Lebanon)., The doctors look at the patient, the patient looks at the doctors, and then he asks, ‘‘What’s My Disease?” Each week there would be a guest hypochondriac, and since the doctors would recog- nize him or his symptoms,, the entire board of experts would be blindfolded with Bandaids, a natural tieup, since . Johnson & Johnson, could sponsor the show. I have not given this M. D. an opinion on his program yet, and three times he has had me over to his office to discuss it, and on each occasion he billed me $10 for the visit. Once he wanted to come over to my home and talk, but I outsmarted him; a house call is $15. However, I must admit that each time I see him he adds further gim- micks Which enhance the value of his show. His last suggestion was to have a guest star from Denmark and call the program, “What’s My Sex?” J Real-Gone-to-Press | Idea No. 2 came from a distant relative on my wife’s side who fancies himself a journalist because he saw “The Front Page” four times. He is the original hard-luck kid, because no matter what Broadway show is the current rage, he had the idea for it years ago, but wouldn’t prosti- tute his talent by writing such commercial rubbish. His brainchild is a situation comedy series about a girl. The heroine is a rattle-brained, busty blonde who is a highschool teacher, and is married to a Latin type orchestra leader who, by an odd coincidence, speaks with a Latin type accent. She has befriended a quaint Italian antique dealer, but her widowed father is trying to run her life. Her neighbors are typical Americans who live next door to you and you and you—a childless couple who are quaint because the husband is always eating and the wife used to be a snake charmer in vaudeville. There is also room in this quaint series for another quaint char- acter; a maid who has been a family retainer for years, and keeps passing through the scene at the most propi- tious moments throwing quaint boffs. The maid would be a wonderful part for Bea Benadaret on radio and Thelma Ritter on TV. If neither of them is available, Mel Blanc could do the job. ]_ Reverse Gypsy Rose Lee | Now for the third idea. This was sent to me by a fellow I hadn’t heard from in over a quarter of a century. We had gone through P, S. 128 together in Brooklyn, and he had given me a somewhat more graphic version of The Birds and The Bees than my parents did. His idea, was simple, beautiful, and daring. It was another panel show, but with a novel twist. . This time it would be the guest who would be blindfolded. She would wear a mask so that none of the experts could recognize her. As you’ve gathered from the use of pronouns, the guests would all be female. Not ordinary females; just those who have attained fame in the field of Burlesque. The panel would ask questions, and for each “Yes” answer the guest would remove an article of apparel. It would take exactly 10 Yes answers to strip her, and she would then pose there until either her identity was guessed or she got pneumonia. I don’t know what the commercial potential of this show is, but I myself am interested to the extent of auditioning guest stars twice weekly. Idea No. 4 also came from a childhood chum. He went by the nickname of “Frenchy” for the rather logical reason that he had an uncle who was born in Paris, Ohio. I reiriember Frenchy. because “he was a crazy guy.” I No Encores • - - . Frenchy’s idea was simple. It hardly constituted a TV series. It was more of a one-shot, and I do mean one-shot. Frenchy wanted to be booked on a program where the M would hand him a revolver with all the chambers wi. e „ xce P tln g one - He wanted to play Russian Rou- lette before 50,000,000 people. And he warned me that be wouldn’t accept a booking on the Texaco program because he didn’t want Berle trying to horn in on his act. I had a tough time discouraging him. I. told him the current international situation was delicate, and a person of suspected French extraction, playing Russian Roulette on an American TV show might cause complications. As a clincher I pointed, out that should he perchance hit the single cartridge, it would be difficult for him to give an encore. I think I have only discouraged “Frenchy” tem- porarily because the last I heard of him he was studying the art of Hari-Kari on the grounds that Japan is now our ally. But, as I said at the start, “He’s a crazy guy.” : Well, there you are. Four sample ideas. When I first wrote this article, I listed six of them to show you the fantastic ideas people out of the profession think suitable for programming. But, I had to cut two of them out. The networks have just bought them and they go on the air next week. Who Knows What’s Funny ? ——■ ——— By ALAN HYND ' . » , ■ It was that great man, William Claude Dukinfield, alias W, C. Fields, who once posed the question: “Who knows what’s funny?” I have, over a period of years, pondered the same query. The events leading up to a murder, of all things, can be hilarious, although some people don’t know it. Take any number of actual premedi- tated homicide cases that I have included in my new book, “Alan Hynd’s Murder.” Murder is, of course, woe- fully lacking in humor to the victim; the perpetrators seldom see in it much to arouse their risibilities; and certainly the cops are far from amused. Yet Joe Blow, reading about the events leading up to a particularly choice morsel for the tabloids, is frequently reduced to tears of laughter. One night, a lew weeks ago, I was a speaker at a book fair conducted at the Fairfield Country Day School for boys hard by my home in Greenfield Hill, Conn. I was asked to speak about the contents of “Alan Hynd’s Murder.” The toastmaster, an Episcopal clergyman, had read the book prior to introducing me, and assured'the assembled congregation that it was one of the funniest things he had ever read. Now I a$k you. Here was a man of God (a fine and erudite gentleman) assuring his auditors that there could be something highly amusing in somebody branding himself with the mark of Cain. The story that I chose to talk about was one in the book called “The Case of the Obscure Romeo.” “The extraordinary city of Los Angeles,” I began, quoting from the book, “has for many years enjoyed an affinity for crimes comriiitted Ipy extraordinary people.” It was in L. A. that the case of the obscure Romeo came to light although it had its beginnings in Milwaukee, Wis. , The obscure Romeo of the story was a stunted boy of 17 by the name of Otto Sanhuber who bore an extraor- dinary resemblance to nobody in particular and who, in the year 1903, knocked about down by the Milwaukee beer vats. Otto was employed by the Singer Sewing Machine Co. as a repair boy-man and one day he was assigned to repair a machine in an apron factory oper- ated by a noisy 40-year-old German named Fred Oester- reich and his 36-year-old frau, Walburga. It seemed that Walburga Oesterreich was a highly romantic gal, and that ner husband, Fred, was somewhat deficient in his connubial obligations. Walburga Oesterreich fixed up a corner of the attic of the Oesterreich home, a mustard-colored monstrosity that looked as if it had been planned by an architect who had undergone several changes of mind, and hid Otto in it. She supplied him with edibles, potables and reading matter and, of a stormy day, when her husband was at the apron factory, lashing the help to greater' effort, she sneaked Otto down to the bedroom, which was di- rectly below his cozy quarters in the attic. At nights Otto began to write for the pulp magazines—stories with a South Seas background—and Walburga Oesterreich car- ried on all correspondence with the editors, using a post- office box for the purpose. Presently Otto began to click with his South Seas stories and became, after a fash- ion, self-supporting. Bat-Man Author J This went on for* years—Otto living up there in the attic, directly over the bedroom of Fred and Walburga Oesterreich, writing by night, sneaking down by day to earry on his intrigue. The wronged husband never did seem to catch on. Being that type of person who fan- cied himself so attractive to women that he couldn’t imagine his wife being interested in anybody else, it never occurred to him that there was anybody up there directly over his bed chamber. He did hear noises, how- ever, but ascribed the sounds to rats and mice. Eventu- ally he began to wonder why he had never before learned that rats and mice occasionally coughed and cleared their throats, just like men. The whole thing was highly implausible. But, as Pirandello observed in “Six Char- acters'in Search of An Author,” life is full of infinite absurdities which, since they are true, do riot need to seem plausible. The Oesterreichs moved to several houses in Milwaukee. One night, little Otto, who had a Diamond-Jim-Brady-type appetite, sneaked down from his roost to raid the icebox while the Oesterreichs were out. The apron manufacturer came home unexpectedly, caught Otto, twisted a couple of his arms out of the sockets, and tossed him into the street. Otto went to LOs Angeles, which in those days had no smog and was bright with sunshine. The sunshine bothered Otto, because he had become so accustomed to the gloom of the attics. He became very unhappy and his writing Suffered and he was reduced to accepting work as a janitor. Then, at Walburga Oesterreich’s suggestion, she and husband Fred moved to Los Angeles and bought a home on St. Andrews Place, There little Otto and the lady got together and Mrs. Oesterreich again fixed up a place in the attic for Otto and Otto was now safely in out of the sunshine, writing by night and catering to Mrs. Oester- reich by day. One night in 1922—19 years later after Otto Sanhuber had first become a bat man—he was cavorting around the Los Angeles residence, of the Oesterreichs when the couple came home unexpectedly from a party. Otto, fearing another assault by big Oesterreich, pulled a gun and presently Fred Oesterreich was dead of lead poison- ing, Walburga Oesterreich was locked in a Closet, and Otto was up in the attic. When the gendarmes arrived, It Ain’t Necessarily So By PAT BALLARD Recent trend of signing top-bracket playwrights for TV has sparked' some lively speculation in the trade with obvious. harkbackS' to’ the time Hollywood splashed out With big-name authors and found it wasn’t always the answer at the boxoffice. Some show biz vets in the pro- ducing end of TV fear the idea is based on the assumption that any name writer automatically writes a hit every time at bat,' and the sponsors therefore will be less jittery at the high costs of even a simple half-hour TV drama; It just ain’t so, these pundits argue, because in present- day films and in legit it is now the director who calls the pay-check and percentage tune, and probably is the key figure in the future of TV no matter who writes the lines, as good as they must be. * “A Robert E. Sherwood script,” one showman said, “must come to life- He can’t be expected to cast, direct, supervise and dine with the star and still have any stom- ach for his typewriter,. A top legit director must do all of these things and usually helps raise money for the show in his spare time!” Alan Jay Lerher admits in the current Theatre Arts mag- azine that he came up with several quick-folding musicals before landing with “Brigadoon,” and then found “Paint Your Wagon” one of the toughest of his shows to whip into shape, although he had mulled it for several years. “At any price,” asked the agency man, “how could Mr. Lerner bang out, say, two big TV musicals a year without joining the Exhaustion Colony at Palm Springs?” It just isn’t a matter of spending important money for authors, another vet suggested. A one-shot TV perform- ance, he said, is thin balm to the legit author who likes to drop in the theatre during the 10th week and take a quiet bow, now that his typewriter fingers have healed. One suggestion heard on Madison Avenue is that the adapter of almost any story material, including P. D. stuff, is the most important writing mind at present. If he has mastered the new technique of TV and is not afraid of trying new tricks, it is argued, a hep adapter could make “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” seem fresh and exciting as TV fare. Gotta Have a Name . A hatchery for. new writer and director talent was the . old cry of several other ad agency men, but they, .admitted, that they now wouldn’t dare to brave the ; vSponsor’s prob- able crack, “Who’s that new guy with a portable type- writer?—not the author /” With a Moss Hart, fhe Presi- ’ dent of Baby-Toe-Developers would at least enjoy his yogurt at “21,” these cynics admitted privately, even if Hart cost more than they’d ever get back in sales.. . “Why the panic some of the masterminds are dis- playing?” a vet showman asked. “TV has grown so fast it’s got to shake itself down as all other show business media did. There is no substitute for showmanship and it took radio years to learn that a sponsor who liked to tap dance might not be the judge of what tap dancer would be radio entertainment, unless he could grab Astaire or Gene Kelly.. The boys were caught napping in TV and are running to high-priced names instead of having the nerve to find new ways to handle the most intimate type of entertainment yet devised.” A Top 10 account exec said simply, “We all know that directors make the hit movies year in' and year out, and are the key people in legit; so why not in TV?” He an- swered his own question by admitting that there are few whiz TV directors available today because few have been developed in proportion to the scripters who always have something on hand that went great in the Little Theatre in Columbia Cross Roads, Pa, The answer to improving TV dramatic quality is to brave the sponsors and come up with fresh, new talent all around. If this happens, 1953 should be a bonanza for the “here’s how you do it” boys who have clicked on low-budget shows and may find suddenly that their boss has ordered them a couple of oufits from Brooks Bros., who jnake many of the high TV echelon outfits. Their casual drape, it was suggested by one Park Avenue rogue from an ad-palace, nicely conceals Agency Twitch, a new and terrible disease that has swept the industry. Mrs. Oesterreich told a story about robbers having killed her husband and locked her in the closet. Eight years elapsed. Then, in 1930, a lawyer to whom Mrs. Oesterreich had confided the whole story, got into a quarrel with the lady and she threatened to shoot him. The lawyer, fearing for his own life, went to the authorities and spilled the entire tale, as Mrs. Oester- reich had related it to him at the time her husband had been shot. She had gone into all the juicy details from the time she had first met Otto back in Milwaukee in 1903 until the night when she and her husband had come home and Otto shot the apron manufacturer 19 years later. So both Otto and the lady were arrested in connection with the death. Otto confessed everything and went on trial for the killirig-of Oesterreich. The jury found him guilty of manslaughter. That posed a pretty legal problem. The crime of manslaughter was outlawed after three years and here Otto was found guilty of manslaughter com- mitted eight years previously, There was nothing to do but let‘him go free. Now Walburga Oesterreich was tried. The jury dis- agreed. Then the case against her was kicked around until it got lost and the indictment dismissed. When last last heard of, Walburga Oesterreich was living in, .of places, over a garage in the Wilshire district of L.A. So nobody was punished in the slightest for the murder of the apron manufacturer. “It does seem that justice might have been better served” I say in “Alan Hynds Murder.” “had somebody been at least saddled with a good stiff fine.” ~ Now I ask you, what is funny about the Oesterreich case? Certainly the whole business was not funny to Fred Oesterreich; nor was there the slightest humor in it for Walburga Oesterreich or for little Otto Sanhuber. .And you can be sure that the cops in L. A. were not driven to hysterical laughter. Yet every time I tell the story of the Oesterreich case people laugh. Try it your- self and see if I’m not right. Why are the evehts leading up to the taking of human life funny? Or, as Wilha 1 " Claude Dukinfield always inquired, “Who knows whai» funny?”