TV Radio Mirror (Jul - Dec 1956)

82 (Continued from page 33) imitates Rusty as extensively as possible. When Rusty is going through a cowboy phase, Tony sleeps with his own sixguns. And so . . . Master Tony, not to be outdone in the comedy department, deposited his father's favorite house slippers in the Thomas family garbage-disposal, turned the "on" bar and ran like a rabbit when blades began to fly and the sink threatened to crash through the walls. When Danny, exhausted from simulated emergencies on the TV set, came home to be confronted by news of his own son's authentic escapades, he fixed the young man with a dark glance and inquired — as fathers have, since time began — "But why?" "Well . . . Rusty did it." "Tony! You know he didn't — not really. You know it's all in the script. You've been on the set with me. You've watched the special effects man. You're no dope about television. Then why?" "I thought it was funny when Rusty did it," insisted Tony, in his smallest voice. "Wait until your mother hears this," moaned Danny. "It isn't enough that she has one comedian in the family. Just when she's reconciled to me — you'll be coming along." Tony brightened considerably. "She doesn't need to worry about that," he asserted staunchly. "I know what I'm going to be: A cowboy, a fireman, a policeman and a priest." "Just be sure you live in a house with plenty of closets," cautioned Danny with a perfectly straight face. "Your uniforms are going to take up a lot of space." The next day, Danny had a talk with his writers. "From now on — at least for a while — could Rusty go through a placid phase? One in which he makes his bed, shines his shoes, and works on his stamp collection? On second thought, kill that stamp suggestion Tony's sisters are now getting private mail and there's no sense in contributing to the junior war between the sexes." For Danny Thomas — dynamic Danny whose idea of an ordinary day consists of chaos, now and then relieved by pandemonium— to ask for a placid phase, in any situation, is roughly equivalent to a channel swimmer's asking for water wings. On Monday, the "Daddy" stock company, plus all visiting talent, gets together to personalize the script prepared by the show's writers. In operation, the session closely parallels football scrimmage. The action planned for the ensuing Thursday is tried for size, speed, and impact, with the result that a player who specializes in long end -runs is not stuck with the water boy's job. Naturally, this skull practice takes all day. On Tuesday, the players finish memorizing their lines, and run through the show in total. At noon that day, Danny usually has luncheon with a newspaper representative or a writer in order to supply copy for a Danny Thomas yarn. He has the reputation of being one of the best interviews in the business because he is cordial, aware of the responsibilities of people in contiguous fields, and naturally gregarious — Danny Thomas loves people and, in preference to being alone, he would chat with a Zulu in sign language and come up with (1) an idea for the next "Daddy" show, and (2) a well -organized drive for improving the lot of Zulus everywhere. On Wednesday, the cast works with the technicians who man the three cameras Daddy Can Do Anything! used to photograph the show. Positions are blocked out and problems of movement and timing are anticipated and resolved. The cast completes the job of memorizing its lines and bits of business. Thursday is D. T. Day, which means "Danny Thomas Day," no matter what this recital might have suggested to your reeling mind. From noon until one o'clock, the cast reviews the film of the previous week's show in order to saturate themselves in the atmosphere of the story. At one o'clock, the male members of the cast have haircuts, and the distaff department has its collective shampoo-wave. In the afternoon, as tension mounts, a rehearsal is held to make certain that the last of the bugs forever lurking in all show-business undertakings have been exterminated. Reactions grow speedier, eyes begin to sparkle, the excitement of kick-off takes possession of the players. At five P.M., the cast has dinner and, immediately afterward, Danny rehearses the musical numbers with the orchestra. Next he shaves and is made-up, and, at 7:30, he is presented to the studio audience of three hundred eager clients. These lucky people sit in on a TV filming, in addition to being treated to a thirty-minute night-club act which would cost them about fifteen dollars each (with a modest dinner thrown in) at any big-time spot in Las Vegas — where Danny usually appears for an engagement each August. Just before eight, Danny introduces the cast. And, at eight, the new chapter of "Make Room for Daddy" is recorded on celluloid. Afterward, Danny and most of the cast, plus producer Lou Edelman and director Sheldon Leonard, go somewhere for dinner — during which a rousing re-hash is combined with the steak. He is not a happy man, at such times. He dreams up a better way in which he might have delivered that last line. He worries about some of the camera moves. He is convinced that the tempo of the opening was vaguely wrong. . . . Eventually, preoccupied and grumpy, Danny goes home to Rosemarie. rv osemarie is a wise woman, and she has been Mrs. Danny Thomas long enough to know that she couldn't dig Danny out of his post-program depression with a bulldozer, so she doesn't try. She listens sympathetically and she brews a pot of coffee. Sometimes she points out the comforting fact that the show filmed on Thursday night will not be seen on TV until Tuesday night a week or so later, and that another show can be filmed if a showup on "the monster" justifies Danny's conviction of doom. Friday morning, Danny awakens with nothing but lark blood in his veins. He has recovered from the stupendous outpouring of energy given the Thursday show, and he has begun to feel that he may not have profaned the inventive genius of Thomas A. Edison, after all. He hurries to the Motion Picture Center, and — along with key personnel of the "Daddy" show — watches the film on what is aptly named "the monster." Enormously cheered, Danny usually leaves this session with a light heart and a hearty appetite. He is in fine condition to accept the new script tendered each Friday by his writers — and to start the cavalcade over again. Immediately after Friday, it is customary for the calendar to slip into each week a pair of days to be used by the average human being for the purpose of recharging his over-taxed batteries. Danny Thomas can't be regarded as the average human being. His only predictable weekend activity is attendance at Mass on Sunday morning, wherever he may be . . . and, for a precise description of "wherever he may be," consult an atlas. To Danny Thomas the word "benefit" is like the crack of a starting gun in the ears of a sprinter: He leaps into action. Danny's neighbors (all good friends, as everyone knowing Danny would expect) have become conditioned to his unpredictable travels and his active driveway when he is at home. But even they became concerned over the uproar caused during Christmas Week, 1955, when the Thomas family were visited by CBS -TV's peering reporter for Person To Person. To backtrack a bit, by way of explanation: Late in the fall of 1955, seven-yearold Tony had been desperately ill. Tony's trouble had started as a simple cold but had multiplied itself into a virus infection which settled in his bronchial passages. At three-thirty one frantic morning, Tony's parents realized that something drastic would have to be done or Tony might strangle. A doctor was summoned on an emergency basis, and he in turn dispatched oxygen equipment. A tracheotomy had to be performed, but Tony responded with all the power of an excellent constitution and was soon up and around, and doing his best to avoid problems with garbage-disposals. .Niaturally, the neighbors heard about the emergency and said, "Anytime anything happens — call us. We'll come in robes and slippers and do what we can to help." So there came the day when CBS moved in with cameras, lights, overhead mikes, underfoot mikes, body mikes (both Danny and Tony were wired for sound so that they could move around the house without regard to the stationary equipment), an army of carpenters, canvas placers (to save the carpeting), electricians, cameramen, sound experts, advertising representatives, press representatives, and nine policemen to maintain traffic control (both pedestrian and vehicular). The telephone began to ring. The first caller was a kindly neighbor who inquired somewhat breathlessly, "Is everything all right over there?" During the ensuing two or three hours, a member of Danny's staff had to be posted at the telephone to reassure helpful friends. A further enlivening moment took place when Danny, having forgotten that he and his son were plugged into the speaker system, took Tony upstairs for a lastminute briefing session. Tony had shed one of his upper front teeth, and had been taking delight in folding his tongue in the aperture while parting his lips in a Halloween-pumpkin grin. It was a stunt to be envied by a small boy's peers, but Danny didn't care to have the talent demonstrated on TV. Also, Tony was not to run his hands through his hair; he was not to stare into the cameras; he was not to speak out of turn; he was not to sink his hands into his pockets, nor to cast himself into a chair as if he were hurling a javelin. "Well, gosh, what good is it for a guy to be on television, anyhow?" he asked. This sage crack, duly broadcast over the speaker system, brightened the day for technicians sore beset by the problems of transmitting a picture plus appropriate sound to a waiting nation. When Danny isn't working on his own show or appearing for the benefit of some worthy organization, he keeps busy ana 1