Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1950)

{Continued from page 74) becke, and by 1938 was a rage with the youngsters, playing for twenty thousand "shag" enthusiasts in one concert on Boston Common, of all places. In 1939, he made "Dancing Co-Ed" with Lana Turner, one year out of high school but already responsible for the term "sweater girl." (She became his third wife on February 13, 1940 and was awarded a divorce seven months later) . The movie inspired his fans to a new high pitch of the shrieking that was becoming de rigeur in certain junior circles. Their shenanigans were a bore to nearly everyone but the kids themselves, and other band leaders secretly cheered when Shaw was quoted as saying that the young, button-grabbing fans were "morons." The outcry from the fans against their erstwhile idol was horrendous, however, even after he explained that he meant "the few rowdies who were spoiling the whole thing for the kids who just wanted to listen and dance." They forgave him later, but for a while the rage of the teenagers made life so unpleasant for him that other band leaders decided that the best way to end the fad was to ignore it. Surely it would blow over soon. Little did they know that the bobby-soxers were just around the corner. 1940: Charlie Chaplin came out in his first talkie, "The Great Dictator," which had been some years in the making. It had been eagerly awaited, but suddenly the idea of Hitler as a subject for comedy, no matter how caustic, was no longer funny at all because of the frightening news that was flooding the air. Denmark fell in four hours. Norway was over-run in thirty-two days, Holland in five, Belgium in eighteen when the Maginot Line was rounded in one swoop. Then there were the dreadful days of Dunkirk. On June 10, with Nazi legions cutting deep into France, Italy declared war. Over the radio we learned a whole new set of words — Blitzkreig, Quisling, Commando, slit-trench — and heard a voice that was to become very familiar. "All I have to offer is blood, toil, tears and sweat," said Winston Churchill when he succeeded Neville Chamberlain as Prime Minister. France fell. Hitler danced in the forest of Compiegne to celebrate the signing of surrender. All that was left was the death of Britain. Over the radio we heard Churchill's words bracing his people for the attack. "The battle of Britain is about to begin . . . and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour'." In October, as the block-busters fell on London, a heart-breaking program started on NBC. It was British children, evacuated to this country, talking to their parents in England. No one who heard will ever forget the chirruping of the brave British voices greeting each other across the submarine-filled ocean. Ben Grauer was master of ceremonies and added another distinguished performance to an important radio career. Grauer was a child star on the stage before he became an announcer in 1930. He is famous for his coverage of news on four continents, including the United Nations since it was formed in 1945, and for his an1 nouncements of the Toscanini concerts. " In this country, the Republican nominating convention rocked to the chant, "We Want Willkie!" His acceptance 76 speech made the nation realize that, no matter who was elected, we faced dangerous times, "I shall not lead you down the easy road. I shall lead you down the road of sacrifice and service to your country." The first peacetime draft was passed in September, and in November the election returns cut practically everything else off the air until it was announced that President Roosevelt had won the unprecedented third term. Then it was over, and the country discovered that there was something new on the radio — the quiz show. Doctor I. Q. had started in 1939 and became rapidly popular. Now there was a new and fascinating program coming out of Chicago, The Quiz Kids. A panel of five youngsters under sixteen appeared each week. They were chosen through questionnaires and interviews, and each child received a hundred dollar bond for an appearance. The master of ceremonies, Joe Kelly, was a happy choice. He had won first prize in an Indianapolis amateur contest when he, himself, was five. At eight, he was traveling with Neil O'Brien's Minstrels as a featured boy soprano. After six years on the road, he waked up one morning "a tuneless baritone," and, singing career over, turned to acting. In 1933, he became master of ceremonies of The National Barn Dance and was still there when he was appointed Quizmaster of the new show. It became an immediate hit to the astonishment of nearly everyone but its originator, Louis G. Cowan. Contrary to the gloomy warnings that the young savants would be a bore if they weren't rehearsed, and labored and contrived if they were, the spontaneous remarks of the children were both fast and funny. To date, some one hundred and fifty have been "retired" at sixteen, but the supply of well-informed kids holds up. Take It Or Leave It also started this year. Phil Baker joined it as master of ceremonies in 1941 and ran the $64 question into a national wisecrack. Truth or Consequences combined quiz and give-away also. Because its master of ceremonies, Ralph Edwards, was to invent so many audience participation stunts, he deserves a spotlight. He was born on a Friday the 13th, in Marino, Colorado, grew up in Oakland, and was graduated with honors from the University of California. He intended to be an English professor. While waiting for an appointment, he went to work on a San Francisco radio station and liked broadcasting so much that he hitch-hiked to New York full of confidence that a network job would be easy to find. Several months of tencent meals and sleeping on park benches changed his opinion. By this time he finally got a chance to try out for an announcing job, his one suit had developed a sizable hole in the elbow — hardly an impressive sight' for a prospective employer. There was only one thing to do. He nonchalantly covered it with one hand during the audition, and took pains to sidle out when he won the job over sixty others. He was an immediate success, rapidly working up to forty-five announcements a week, but he was not satisfied. He wanted to produce a show of his own. But what? Everything had already been done. The idea of Truth or Consequences came when he was playing that game at a house party and noticed how much fun adults were having with the child's game. "It showed me them that people like to let go. Give a chance, and they love to do stunts, the more absurd the better." He was right. Audiences loved it, though some few were inclined to agree when he inquired,* "Aren't we devils?" after condemning some hapless contestant to be the target of a custard pie or endure an egg shampoo from a blindfolded operator. The devil grew very substantial wings, however, according to several charities. In 1947 when Edwards introduced the "Hush" series that kept the whole nation guessing, the stunt produced well over a million dollars for the March of Dimes, and the Walking Man made $1,612,000 for the Heart Association. Superman took the air after having had a dreadful struggle to get started. His creators had offered him to dozens of newspapers, but no one would buy him as a strip. He had to creep up on his public through pages of a comic book. Helen Hayes started her first series of plays on the air and later starred for the Electric Theatre until the tragic death of her daughter in 1949. A fine sustaining show, Invitation to Learning, started at CBS where it was somewhat disrespectfully nicknamed "Columbia's Hour of Silence" because no one believed that discussions of Plato's Republic and Racine's Phedre and kindred subjects attracted any listener whatever. It built a high rating with highbrows, however, and a survey showed that it had a million loyal listeners, a sign that radio could appeal to a vast unexplored audience if the offering were right. The excellent music of The Telephone Hour started this year and became an immediate favorite. The interest in fine music was forcibly demonstrated again when the Metropolitan Opera was threatened with eviction and appealed to the air audience for contributions. It received half a million dollars from 150,000 small contributors, showing that the country was grateful for the magnificent programs it had heard free for nine years. On the lighter side, Bonnie Baker was cooing "Oh, Johnny, Oh Johnny" with Orrin Tucker's band. Vaughn Monroe made his radio debut and by the following year was a sensation with the fans. Dinah Shore, who had been singing for exactly nothing on a Nashville station in 1938, was the reigning juke box queen, had exchanged her first names, Frances Rose, for the name of her biggest hit tune, and had become a featured singer on Eddie Cantor's show. Trumpeter Harry James had left Benny Goodman to start his own band featuring an unknown vocalist— Frank Sinatra. 1941: News was by far the biggest thing on the air. Hitler attacked Russia. Hess parachuted to Scotland. Roosevelt and Churchill met for the first time out of the country, and the eight point Atlantic Charter was written on the open ocean off Newfoundland. The Selective Service Act was extended. The Lend -Lease Act was passed. We. had more new words: bazooka, buzz-bomb, Spitfire, flack-happy. On December 7, Americans were spending a peaceful day eating Sunday snacks (milk, twelve cents, butter thirty cents). Those who had the radio on could not believe their ears when they heard: "We interrupt this program to bring you a news flash — the Japanese have just attacked Pearl Harbor." On December 8, President Roosevelt