Canadian Film Weekly (Dec 22, 1943)

Manager Tom Daley Is a Wise Old Showbird Who’s Kept Them Coming Back for Years A Merring citizen is ever greeted with the time-honored, universal and wearisome expression, “You’re a long way from home.” In Old Acadia and New Scotland, which gestures at the foot of the Atlantic in brawny defiance of our enemies and waves a reassuring salute to our allies, the Torontonian is inevitably stopped with, ““‘Toronto, eh? Tl bet you know Tom Daley!” You would certainly think that by the number of returning Torontonians who report this same fact. And, come to think of it, the betting Bluenoser would have something of a cinch, For owlish and bland Tom Daley, in a city heavily populated by theatre managers, is widely known and affectionately regarded much as in the same manner as the pilot of any small town’s only theatre. By dropping in on Daley while regularly covering the trade beat, a reporter might meet the premier of the province, the average citizen and all income tax worriers in between. As manager of Canada’s largest theatre, the vast and handsome Imperial, The Daley is the object of friendly attention and occasional carping — much like any manager but on a larger scale. This being constantly exposed to the whims and whyfors of every type of man’s varied likeness has made him an expert at public relations. It has skilled and schooled him in the soft answer, the firm front, extreme helpfulness and patient listening. This pilot of Famous Players’ Canadian flagship came to Toronto 21 years ago from his adopted city, Halifax, and has since thrown three naturals in a row-—seven years each at the Tivoli, Uptown and Toronto. And after seven years at the Casino of Halifax, at one time the Maritimes’ most de luxe house. The only time he has seen service outside Toronto during the period stated above was when he returned to Halifax for six weeks in 1930 to get the then newlyconstructed Capitol Theatre off to a plush start and on its merry way. During his first few years in the Queen City, as was the fashion in the craft then, he personalized the Tivoli by taking part in community activities. Preferring sports, he organized the Tivoli baseball and hockey teams, which won local and provincial distinction through several championships, Though his athletic interests are years gone, the sports community still considers him I: the Maritimes no Toronto Saga of its own and every manner of invitation arrives at his desk. HOUGH born at St. John, New Brunswick, of Irish ancestry and sincerely calling Toronto his home, 'Tom manages to maintain a three-way loyalty in a manner beyond question. This triple background colors his everyday expression. “Codfish aristocracy!” he is apt to snort’as some snooty cootie waltzes by away from the theatre. Or he may speak glow- ingly of another as being “as Irish as Paddy’s pig.” When it comes to food he is the complete cosmopolite. He loves pastrami sandwiches, borsht, chili, chow mein, limburger and everything that helps the world cook with gastronomy. Daley will lead a relentless midnight search for some little known source of culinary delight about which he has heard the merest rumor—and linger till the last knish is devoured. It’s a wonder he isn’t much bulgier out where the vest begins. His retention of a reasonable figure is probably due to the fact that, as a conscientious manager, he regularly oils his yodel and mountain boots, grabs his alpinstock, releases the Imperial St. Bernards, and climbs from the sub-cellar of the theatre to the projection booth on an inspection tour. He has never been reported lost, either. But come hell, high water, food or friendship, Tom Daley is an unredeemed Bluenoser through it all. Don’t get the otherwise taciturn Tom talking about the food down home by the sea unless you have nowhere to go for a week. You'll hear about herring and potatoes boiled together until the potatoes taste like the herring and the herring like the potatoes and both like a heavenly helping. You will be overwhelmed by a rhapsody of raves about bread baked in outdoor kitchens, lobsters, oysters, clam chowders and New England boiled dinners. Your mouth will water so much that you'll will wish you had worn a sou’-swester. Though Tom is an avid reader of old and new literature, his favorite volume is a numbered collection of photographed seaseapes taken off Halifax by Wallace R. MacAskill of that city. Daley lingers over these long and lovingly, then in dreams beholds the magnificent fury of his native shores. His lucky pocket piece is a New Brunswick penny token, a century old this year, which features a sailing ship. Let him who would steal his purse. But let him who dare a try at separating Tom from that smooth chunk of ornamented copper be prepared to offer his life as an equal stake. i ies St. John Daley was known as “Little Tom” because the senior Daley was “Big Tom.” He was a regular divvil of a boy, his grandfather predicting that he would come to a bad end— which no doubt grandpa would consider he did by joining the theatre. Tom started out to lick the world as a young reporter on the TOM DALEY Popular manager of the largest theatre in Canada, the Imperial, Toronto. He’s a wise old veteran whose home town is St. John, New Brunswick. St. John Sun, the free coffee and cake being a greater inducement than his stipend of three dollars weekly. Motion picture players weren't billed in those days and managers didn’t know what they were playing until the stills arrived. Newspaper readers had to be written from these. Daley added $1.50 to his weekly earnings by relieving one manager of this painful task. It was Walt Golding, long-time manager of the Capitol, who charted Tom’s future course. Walt had left his job as advertising manager of the St. John Sun to become a theatre manager. Tom soon said goodbye to newsgathering and entered the field as a projectionist, though it didn’t take him long to get out of the booth. Before he did he was one of those responsible for causing the province to licence all projectionists, Choker Daley began his theatre life at the Unique, St. John, now the Strand, and later moved to the Casino, Halifax, the Maritimes’ de luxe house at the time. The urge to travel got him and he barnstormed around Massachussets and New York state before returning. Then he came to Toronto. Tom’s instinct for showmanship is as sharp and sure as his pencil. Many a manager envies his ability to balance a program out of what is available in a fashion that caters to wide public taste. He can letter and lay out any kind of advertising required by a theatre in a curt and clear style, the excellence of his lettering being a tipoff to a characteristic capacity for detail and exactness. In other years he prepared many Canadian campaigns for British films imported by the late N. L. Nathanson, often carrying them out himself. Bf Fass DALEY is popular inside the profession and out and rarely does a highlight of his life crop up which doesn’t provide an excuse for good-natured tomfoolery or sentiment. On one of his birthdays Win Brown, Walter Kennedy and Archie Laurie bribed some telegraph messengers out of their caps and whatever other togs could be donned without damage. Then they marched down Yonge street amid curious noon hour throngs, into the Imperial and made Daley’s office resound with the worst rendition of “Happy Birthday” ever heard in these parts. Last year, when the records showed that the Imperial had played more Academy Award winners than any other theatre in Toronto, the three Toronto newspaper film critics, Helen Allen, Roly Young and Jack Karr, presented Tom with an Oscar of his own—a somewhat gay plaster figure worth ten cents and stamped “Made in Japan.” . Like all managers, he’s not scared of late hours. When sleep defies him he applies his only little scheme of overcoming its obstinacy. Tom’s favorite game is golf and once he had a Hole in One. So when he can’t fall asleep he begins a mythical golf game, He confesses he has never been able to get past the second hole. Blocky without being stocky, he vibrates with good health — something he brought to Toronto with him. His features bear the unmistakeable affidavit of athletic interest—a dented nose, His (Continued on Page 33)