Radio-TV mirror (July-Dec 1954)

Man of the Moment (Continued from page 31) will admit frankly to his audience, "I'm not in the mood," and ask the cast to carry on for him. Seeing him relaxed in the study of his duplex apartment in upper Manhattan, it would be hard to imagine anyone's being unhappy in such bright, cheerful surroundings. The room was alive with sunshine and books. Tropical fish darted orange and gold in a shining tank. Outside the open window, there was a breathtaking view of the East River. It seemed a perfect chance to find out: Why was Robert Q. Lewis so happy? Not that it needed any justification — but, ever since the Declaration of Independence, Americans have been guaranteed "the pursuit of happiness." And ever since, Americans have been finding out that happiness is never captured by the mere pursuing. Books and articles are constantly being written to detail how-you-too-can-behappj' — as though there were some magic formula for it, some secret technique. Cut Bob doesn't look as though his happiness comes out of any books. Daydreaming over his morning coffee — in a cup as big as the pot — he looks as though happiness might really be a very simple thing. He doesn't try to explain it. It's something to be sipped and savored — like the coffee — not analyzed like a medical prescription. But as he talked about his life — present, past and future — it was like a game, trying to track down exactly what it was that had made Bob such "a happy guy." Certainly, it wasn't being a bachelor. That can be fun sometimes, he admits, but living alone is a condition — not a cause. It's never been known to bring happiness of itself. And Bob is all for marriage. As a matter of fact, he was engaged twice. "Once to a very nice girl," he recalls. "I was detained at a business conference and showed up late for a bridge game. She decided she didn't want to have her life disrupted." His other fiancee was in show business. Gallantly, Bob doesn't explain what broke that one up, but he takes the blame. At the moment, however, there are at least ten thousand other women who would not have let Bob escape. He is one of the most sought-after bachelors of all time, averaging some hundred-and-fifty proposals a week. Every June, with the scent of orange blossoms in the air, the figure jumps to four hundred a week. And not all the proposals come by mail! "I can be married tomorrow," Bob says, keeping an open mind on the subject. "In the meantime, I have a relatively pleasant existence." It is not the hectic bachelor's life one might imagine. A tight working schedule keeps him to fairly regular hours, and he's usually in bed by twelve — up by eightthirty. Every night he dines with friends, mostly in his own spacious apartment. Whenever he wants a date, a charming partner is only a phone call away. Last June, he took what to him is a rare treat — an "extensive vacation" of three weeks. He flew to Rome, "gypsied around" Cannes, Capri and Monte Carlo, then returned by boat. But Bob is too eager for life merely to settle for a pleasant existence. Bubbling over with energy, he needs excitement, activity— and that he finds in his work. Only he doesn't call it work. Although he is before the TV cameras and on the air for something more than three hundred hours every year, he calls it his "hobby." "I love show business," he says, as fervently as a baritone singing "I Love Life." To Bob, they're the same thing. As far back as he can remember, he has been hopelessly stage-struck. And so was his father before him. A New York lawyer whose theatrical ambitions had ended with college dramatics, Lewis Senior used to take his son to the theater every Saturday afternoon. To young Bob, the stage seemed a story-book world where heroines were like princesses, villains were evil and wore black moustaches, heroes were pure in heart and wore square jaws. For grownups, too, the stage can be a world that's bigger than life — with noble sentiments and impassioned speech and virtue always triumphant. Bigger than life, Bob was to learn, but also an escape from life. At the time, all he knew was that he had to be part of this wonderful world. He started singing in children's radio shows. At the University of Michigan, he went in for college dramatics. But then what? For all his love of show business, he couldn't really sing, couldn't really dance — and enthusiasm was no substitute for talent. As for acting, audiences weren't yet ready for leading men who wore glasses — or for comics who didn't look funny. But Bob did have one talent: a gift for what he calls "chatter." On radio, he soon discovered, it didn't matter whether he looked like a comic or not. He sounded funny! He had wit, a satiric point of view, and a genuine sense of fun. As a disc jockey, he was a natural. Having a fine appreciation for the talent of others, he was excited about the records he played, sharing his enthusiasms and his love of show business with a growing body of fans. When TV came, however, there was some question as to how a bright-looking young man — with nothing but a line of chatter and a pair of spectacles to distinguish him — would fare in this new sight medium. But Bob, who had won nationwide fame as Arthur Godfrey's substitute in radio, was to do the same in TV. In the theater, he had found, everything was bigger than life. In TV, everything was just as intimate as life. Entertainment was no longer a grand, dress-up, once-ina-while event. This new medium made it an everyday, carpet-slipper affair. The public soon tired of watching the same specialty acts. In the long run, personality counted more than talent, and what a performer was mattered more than what he could do. Bob still couldn't sing or dance, but in TV, enthusiasm was a substitute. His Charleston and "old soft shoe" had more energy than finesse, and his occasional songs had more good will than melody, but they were fun. His off-beat, easygoing manner not only proved refreshing but durable, as well. The more televiewers saw of him, the more they wranted him. In this new medium, he was no longer just a funny fellow — he became a welcome friend. It was in daytime TV, however, particularly on a five-a-week basis, that Bob really found himself. Here, a performer can relax and be completely himself. In fact, he has to be. The woman-of-thehouse doesn't want actors in her living room, she wants company — and, when it comes to seeing them every afternoon, there's to be no standing on ceremony. That's why The Robert Q. Lewis Show has always been so informal, capitalizing on its mistakes, sharing the fun with the televiewers. Every member of the cast is seen as a person as well as a performer. As for that "family feeling" on the show — that's genuine. Bob has never been happier working with any group of people, and he gives them credit for the show's success. "I've surrounded myself with good tal ent," he says. "Actually, I'm just a converted disc jockey." The Robert Q. Lewis Show on TV is in much the same spirit as his early radio shows, with Bob discussing every subject under the sun. The one difference — instead of playing records, he now presents the various members of his "family." But there is another reason for Bob's delight with his afternoon show — a personal reason. It was while working with the cast that he discovered a new goal in life — a goal which is now uppermost in his mind, and one which helps to explain his new-found happiness. He used to appear regularly in three or four radio and TV programs every season, merely because he enjoyed it. He is still keeping up this pace, still enjoying it — only now he has a plan. "I'm thirty-three," he explains. "I'm in relatively good health and I hope to keep going another twelve years. But when I'm forty-five, I'm retiring." Although the notion of anyone with all Bob's energy retiring at forty-five seems incredible, he means it. "I've seen too many performers keep going too long, outliving their legends— destroying them." 'What Bob means by retiring, however, would be another man's conception of a full-time job. "I plan to become an agent or manager," he says. "There's so much talent around — so many fine performers — and they don't know what to do with themselves. I hope to catch them before they arrive, then work with them. And when they finally do arrive, that's when they really need help. They don't know what to do with their money. They don't know how to live. "I'd handle only one or two personalities a year. That way, I could really concentrate on them. And then I'd like to start producing stage shows. They'd be musical reviews, using only fresh new talentgiving young performers a chance to show what they can do." Bob's afternoon show on CBS-TV not only gave him the idea, but provides excellent examples of exactly what he means. "Don't misunderstand me," he is quick to explain, "I take absolutely no credit for Jaye P. Morgan. She was that way to begin with — wonderful! But it's been fun working with the entire cast, watching the emergence of Jan Arden as a new singing star, and Earl and Lois as personalities as well as singers. Or look at Lee Vines! He's as good as Tony Marvin. . . ." He forgot to mention that Ray Bloch not only conducts the orchestra, but is now a full-fledged comedian. Eventually, Bob hopes to own his own theater in New York, where he can stage his own shows — featuring talent he has helped to discover and mold. This final goal goes back far beyond his current show. It goes back to a little boy, sitting beside his father at a Saturday matinee, discovering a magic world that was bigger than life. If that world is now as real as life to him, it's because his new-found goal makes his past and present add up to a worthwhile future. And why is he so happy? The answer for him, as it is for all men. is love. Happiness simply consists of forgetting one's self, and love is the only thing that makes it possible. A mother is happy thinking of her child, not of herself. But it doesn't have to be a person. It can be a job, an ideal, a cause. In Robert Q. Lewis' case, it's always been show business. If he is particularly happy now, it's because he has not only made his name in it, but figured out a way to help others make their names, too.