Talking Screen (Sep-Oct 1930)

Amos 'n' Andy 'n' Talkies So I set out to trail this Amos 'n' Andy bird to its lair. And just about that time a pal from Hollywood 'phoned. Chap named Mel Brown, who directs unsilent pictures for RKO. "Let's step out," I suggested. "Check and double check," says Mel. Then I hung up on him. But later, having a hankering to hear about Rich Dix, and all the boys (boys, I said) — I crashed into Mel's boodywah. He wasn't alone. There were a cOupla mugs stalling around. One looked like he might be the house dick. Stocky and broad-shouldered. The other, taller and slender, might have been an undercover man for the too-late Jake Lingle, Chicago reporter. "Mit the boys," pipes up Mel, following the ceremonial irrigations, "this tall handsome lad is Freeman F. Gosden, Esk., of the old Richmond, 'Virginia, Gosdens; and this is Charles J. Correll, who used to live in Peoria, 111. — you remember, the town behind the distillery." "Pleezta mitcha," I respond, social-like, and lapsed into my well-known dignified silence. The conversation continued. "Now, I'll tell you my idea about the story," said Mel. "I think that Amos, here, should tell Andy that Madam Queen — " Amos — ? Andy — ? What the — ? I highsigned Mel to meet me in the other room. HAT'S the idee of this here, now, Amos 'n' Andy stuff"? "I'se regusted," Mel gives back, "haven't you heard the propolition? Check and Double Check — that's the title of the picture. I'm directing it with Amos 'n' Andy as stars. Gosden is 'Amos. Correll is Andy. There they are — the kids themselves. Awfully nice fellows. They've a great story too. """Why, only six years ago they were broke in Chi — looking for coffee and cakes. They had an act called Sam '«" Henry. A newspaper offered them a yard a week — $100 — to go on the air. They jumped at the chance. But the publisher later let "em get away. After some time they got a coast-to-coast try-out. Called themselves Amos 'n Andy because someone else had prior right to the Sam '«' Henry name. In six weeks they increased the tooth-paste business seventy-eight percent for their employers. They had to broadcast twice nightly — once for the East — once for the West, because of the difference in time. Time was when they tried their best to crash the mooin' pictures — and couldn't get by the office-boys. Now Radio's signed 'em for fillums at $100,000 a year; they've got vaudeville engagements for $150,000 more — they're earning well over $6,000 a week apiece. And just think of it, all because of a chance meeting in a tank show down in Durham, N. Q.\ where the bull comes from ?" I THOUGHT of it. I got some of Brown's enthusiasm. From fifty bucks a week to six grand — and more. Rags to riches. Punk to President. Bus-boy to bootlegger. AH the Alger fiction was dimmed by the fact of Amos 'n' Andy. I thought of the big dent they'd made in {Continued from page 43^ America itself. I thought of what O. O. Mclntyre had written to his million readers: "Every night the nation tunes in to listen to the humdrum trivialities of their make-believe world. They never crack a joke, sing a song, pull a wise-crack or work up to a dramatic climax." I thought of one out of many editorials . . . "because they do not resort to the Broadway formula they have a hold on the rest of us. The situations from which they seek to extricate themselves are authentic. Behind the humor of their difficulties is the shadow of tragedy — so clearly akin to humor. Their make-believe world is a world of reality. Andy gets the sympathy of millions in a like predicament — " 1 thought of traffic actually blocked by Amos 'n' Andy loud-speakers before radio stores. I thought of the little Fresh Air Taxicab gadgets, selling everywhere for a dollar — part of which went to them. I thought of the rumors regarding a gigantic battle of movie behemoths, armed with billions of dollars, which had its beginning when Radio Pictures secured their services over the bids of a powerful rival. "Lets get an eyefull of these guys," I said to Mel Brown. QUIET, retiring, almost bashful fellows, self-conscious and averse to meeting people, they are totally unspoiled by the sensation of their success. It hasn't come too quickly for them. They went on the air in 1926, although the Amos 'n' Andy title wasn't used until March, 1928. Their first stage appearance was with the red-headed maestro, Paul Ash, and his bandsmen, in 'a sketch they had written: Red Hot. Their very first broadcast didn't bring them a nickle. And they didn't do so well financially as Sam '«' Henry — although that name went over the air in 526 consecutive nightly skits of ten minutes duration, and established some sort of record. They got together at first because they both sang, and liked it. Their voices blended nicely. Gosden, alias Amos, still retains the trace of a Southern drawl. Correll learned it from him. Both of them are married. Happily so. Gosden is the kid of the team. He's just over thirty. Andy is ten years older. Naturally enough they call one another Amos 'n' Andy. These "Mystic Knights of the Sea" are insured for $2,000,000. RKO holds a policy on each of them for $500,000. A lot of money is being spent on the picture. No risks may be taken. Or maybe — well, maybe — Check and Double Check had better be good ! Or else — ! THEY are frank in being hazy on Hollywood. And they're wise enough to be worried. This first picture must be right. They love their public. "Why not? But they know, too, that its affections are not as constant as the Northern star. Nor true to any star. Less wise, less conscientious fellows might — indeed, would — figure that boxoffice millions will be paid by their adherents for a glimpse of them on the screen, and that any old vehicle — even one as frail as their Fresh Air Taxicab would suffice as material. But these chaps want to continue. They're not in the high-pressure, one-call class. They want to keep on doing showbusiness with the people. They promise die public to deliver the goods. They promise it here and now. Through the medium of of Talking Screen. "If you're going to write about Amos and me," booms Andy, "telJ the folks for us that we re not going to disappoint them. "We've all worked together on a story that is sure to please. We know it will because it follows along the lines of the stuff that has proven popular." "Yes," chimes in Amos, "and tell 'em, please, that director Mel, here, and Mr. Le Baron and us, are going to see that everything connected with Check and Double Check is just aces. We don't know much about pictures. But we want to learn. The thought of Hollywood both frightens and fascinates us. We know we've got to deliver to the people if we want to stay there. And we're going to stay, eh, Andy?" " Sho", sho'," drawls the big feller, "dat's de propolition." I laughed. Mel laughed. Amos n' Andy laughed. "TU tell em for you, boys," I said. "Check and double check," mimicked Mel, "what d'ya say, me lads, if we all go to Harlem?" WE DID. And as things fell out, the taxi-driver was dark as the eight-ball. Where to? Connie's Inn? The Cotton Club? "As Presiden' o" de Fresh Air Taxicab Company o" 'Merica, Incorpolated." said Andy, "Ah thinks, Amos, dat we should . . ." I noticed the cab-man incline an ear toward us. "Wat cha all mean, Andy," interrupted Amos, "Ah thinks dis — Ah thinks dat — " Mel Brown cut in. ""Driver, we're in a hurry. Can you get us up to "The Cotton Club " right quick?" The driver guided his chariot to the curb. "Jus' one minute, Mistah," he said with eyes agleam, "Ah couldn' help hearing you all . . . is you really Amos 'n' Andy?" "Awah, awah, awah," chortled Amos," boy us ain't nofhin' else but, 'n' us wants to git along to dis yere Conon Club to see Madam Queen 'n' Ruby 'n' Susie 'iT' all de rest o' de high yailer gals." The only reason the driver's mouth oj>ened larger than his eyes was that the oral orifice was larger. Spellbound for a minute, he slapped his thigh: "Hot dam, boy, when Ah got Amos 'n' Andy in mah Fresh Air Taxicab, dey ain't nothin' gwine stop me gettin' dem where dey's goin'!" Wham ! Zip ! Cotton Club ! Just like that. THE big licorice-stick must have spread the word. The doorman passed us on the stairs. He whispered to the major-domo. Ringside table. None empty. So they set up a special one. A hurried trip back-stage. And — check and double check — did those {Continued on page 90] 8fi