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By WELDON MELICK
Paramount
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 onemouse-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 any
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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
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