Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

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He bent an attentive ear. "Once more, please." They played it once more. He straightened up and turned to Dolores. "Sounds all right to me. How often do you let them play it before you interrupt?" Which laid them in the aisles and was thereafter retained as part of the act. Off and on she continued to work with him till, in 1939, they adopted Linda and, ten months later, Tony. Kelly and Nora have joined the family since. To these four, Dolores is a full-time mother. She and Bob prefer it that way. Bob's start in radio was unspectacular. "In those days," he explains, "I was snubbing radio. Vaudeville suited me fine. All I had to do was change a joke once in a while. You could also put the snub on the other foot. Every now and then they'd ask me to do a guest shot on RKO Theatre of the Air. After the pain wore off, they'd give me another chance to see if I got any better. I didn't." The mike terrified him. On a stage he was the easiest guy in the world, master of all his wits. Through "Roberta" he floated. In front of a mike, he fell apart. Someone was inspired to stick a music-stand between him and the instrument of torture. But he spied it over the music-stand, and his eyes glazed. "Why did you cross the street?" he'd ask, and start humming. "Please don't hum," said the director. "Who's humming?" he demanded. "Hm, hm, hm." Then he'd wipe the sweat from his brow and croak : "Be nonchalant. Light a hum." Nevertheless, Bromo-Seltzer offered him fifteen weeks on a program with such names as Al Goodman and Jane Froman. Nothing happened. "Nothing," says Hope, "but a great silence like in the UtterMcKinley waiting room." He's not a man to accept defeat lightly. In '35 he started steaming for the Atlantic Refining Company. Through '36 and '37, working for Woodbury, he won the battle of the mike. While Woodbury meditated contract angles, Pepsodent grabbed him. "We wish," sighed the old sponsor, "that we were your new sponsor — " "You could have been," said Bob helpfully. Now he's co-salesman with Bing for Chesterfield. Their constant gibing is based on respect and friendship. Crosby never passes the dressing room without honking his horn and yelling, "Hi, Flab" or "Lardhead" or "Happy Hips." Bob's favorite insult for him is Grandpa Moses. This bears no connection with the Grandma Moses which hangs in the Hope living room. If Dolores had her way, their walls would be covered with paintings. As it is, Grandma reigns alone. Bob likes her. For the rest — "I don't want anyone's inhibitions round the house." Like other top comedians, he refuses to go whole-hog for television. When you're working in other media, it's impossible. But he's intelligently curious and willing to experiment. Thus far, he's done five TV shows for Frigidaire. His chief interest, however, still lies with radio and pictures. There was a time when pictures held less allure than does TV now. He'd been tested by Pathe and still swears that his test broke the company. It didn't bother him. He was riding high between vaudeville and musicals, and pretty suspicious of that village called Hollywood. "Roberta" was followed by "Say When." Then came "Ziegfeld Follies" and "Red Hot and Blue." Mitch Leisen was preparing "Big Broadcast of 1938." Having tried and failed to snag Benny, he cased Broadway, got an earful of Hope and made him a bid. ^Uh-huh. I like it here." "Who says you won't like it there?" "Who says I will?" The harder he shook his head, the more cabbage they waved. Things reached a point where he couldn't afford not to nibble. So in "The Big Broadcast," a new face appeared, complete with nose. A new voice sang "Thanks for the Memory" with Shirley Ross. A new personality captured the affections of people. The warmth he first felt at Newcastle continue to flow between him and his audiences. Since they're world-wide, he can't see them all now. But they love him, they've taken him in for good, they're his. If people love Hope — not merely his humor, but the man — it's because Hope loves people and has the thoughtfulness and imagination to put himself into their skins. His greatest tenderness, his deepest responsibility is toward those whom life has hurt. Sentimentality isn't in his nature. He doesn't shoot off his mouth, he acts. Going through hospitals here or abroad, his heart is never visible on his sleeve. "What good does it do," he once asked, "if you cry with them?" His job is to entertain. He clowns for them, kids them, rolls dice with them. To a bedridden patient he'll say, "Move over. I'm tired." If his face grows grave on leaving, the most he'll ever say is "How about that!" But he'll bring home long lists of the names of boys whose folks he's promised to call. There was a boy in Japan whom the doctor asked him to talk to. Since being brought in from Korea, he hadn't talked at all. Without working any miracles, Bob did get him to smile. When he offered to call the kid's family in Seattle, he brightened perceptibly. In the confusion that followed, his name was lost. All the way home, this niggled at Hope like the pea in the princess's bed. Luckily, the shows had been tape-recorded. One day his secretary was running the tape while Bob worked at his desk. Suddenly his head lifted. "Tony, that's it. There's the name." The name was all they had, but Tony enlisted the aid of the Seattle operator, and Bob finally got through to the folks. Which end derived more satisfaction from this mission completed, it's hard to say. His broadcasts are again beginning to come from camps and naval bases. Far from draining him, the trips seem to invigorate him. "With those kids," he says, "you don't even have to try. All you have to do is show up — " At Paramount he won't allow his set to be closed. But he won't make a virtue of it either. "I'm not against set-closing on principle. In many cases, it's a practical necessity. Visitors can raise ned with the cost-sheets. But our gang doesn't do that