Variety (Jan 1945)

86 PICTURES Thirty-ninth p^MRIEff Annivertary Wednesday, January 3, 1945 An Important Job lobe Done, The Hospital Circuit' By EDDIE CANTOR Krtdlt Cantor Hollywood. Like Bob Hope, I never left home eiiher. Never 'saw a hunk of territory that wasn't U. S. A.. t 0i\lcss you -wanna mention Maine and Vermont. But I have seen New Guinea, through a soldier's.eyes . . walked die Lcdo Hoad with a Marine . : : and swam to (lie Normandy beaches with a sailor even .'though it was phys- ically impossible for me to go over. The doctor made with a $25 word in Latin .which, translated, meant "keep near , home base and sec me once a week." But you know actors—a guy who could riot make the Palace took Loew's State. That's why I nevcv left home and am not loo sorry/ because therc!s a big Job ID be done right at home now ... along with the guys and gals who make' the plants and -the-ships and the tanks. .>.'.- Our audiences are just about the same .'... . soldiers, sailors, marines, llyers, infantrymen ..'. ... America's sweethearts . . all of them, There's only this difference: here, hi these army and navy hospitals! the fighting man's thrill and excitement of meeting the enemy face to face is gone. Left now is only . the cold and implacable truth ... that 'war is* hell. These are men who know what they fought for . . , .we must never make any mistake about that . \ . and those kids you saw go into battle over there are still heroes back here . . . and the Only thing'in the world they're scared of is that they'll be forgotten." Long after.the war is won over there these wounded kids will be fighting it over here . : . and so I like to assure them,-we in show business have good memories ... that as long as there's a trouper around there'll never be a lonely, ward in a service, hospital-in this country.. It makes me feel very proud of-my profession to hear those lads who gave such a performance on the firing lines talk about the performances they saw Bob Hope and Jack Benny, Al Jolson and Joe E. Brown give. And what's even more heart-warming than that is to hear them talk so glow- ingly about the people in bur profession the public doesn't hear about . . . those wonderful USO units which are doing one-night stands on the toughest circuit in the world . . . just slogging along . ... day after day . without any glory al all, except the.great satisfaction ihey must get knowing they're doing a great job. | - You Learn a Lot "■- 1 You learn a- lot playing those hospitals. My .first lesson beganwhon I walked into a ward expecting to have to do a job of cheering up some pretty badly wounded soldiers. In T stead Ihose guys flashed inc the biggest smiles I've ever . seen outside of an Ipana layout. They were so eager to Ehow their appreciation for our appearances that their cheer- .■ fulness and spirit in the face of some of the most awful tragedy set us an example nothing will ever erase from our memeroics. Just to give you an idea of what I mean, let me salute every sick arid wounded boy in any Army and Navy hospital with this story about one'of them. On Feb. 14, 1944, they gave Pfc, Villeneuve the D. S. C. for extraordinary heroism in action. The action had taken place at El Guettar in North Africa din ing .March 1943. You re- member. T.hat^was when we first began to hear that the war would be over in 90 days. Well . . . 19-year-old Ray Villeneuve lost both his eyes getting the D. S. C, and you might ask him when the war will be over. I met Ray at Valley Forge Hospital, some 60 niles outside of Philadelphia, last May. The brave, impetuous, gallant youth of El Guettar was a blind noncombalant now. _ still too young to shave regularly, he faced the rest of his life with nothing to look forward to but darkness and a lu- II tine of grim uncertainty. Yes. those were the thoughts that Wp ran through my mind when I .shook his hand. ^ But there were still som'e things 1 had to learn. "Hey, Eddie," said Villeneuve. "Would you like to see my hospital, huh? Would you let me show it to you, pal? I looked at the nurse. She nodded. "Sure, Ray," I humored him. "I like to see your hospital." "Well, follow me, pal," he called. "Stick with me .and I'll show you around. This is the greatest place I've evev been to in my life. But don't get shocked at what you see. Some of the fellows here been ■ hurt. pretty bad. p. K. Are you coming?" Yes, I was coming. I was coming out of a deep well of pity to rise to this boy's level of courage. I followed Pfc. Ray Villeneuve through wards and corridors, past surgical rooms and lounges, down steps and across lawns, listening to a continuous chatter of information about every nook and • cranny of Valley Forge Hospital. He stumbled here and there, hesitated occasionally, but 1 never reached to help him! He recognized voices, called cheery greetings' to nurses, doctors and patients .by name. He finally led me unerringly back to the Recreation Hall, where we were to put on our evening performance. He left me then to lake "his seat, with the audience. | And the Blind Shall Lead 'Em | I couldn't take my eyes off that blind kid. His arms were thrown around his. two buddies beside ; him, But when we sang, it was his applause that led the rest. It was he who laughed first and loudest at every joke. V : When our vocalist, Nora Martin; begins to sing"Deacon Jones," as part of our act I walk irtto the audience, shouting "Hallelujah," shaking the hands of the boys nearest me, That'was all Ray Villeneuve needed. He was on his feet with the*second shout. Taking the hall on the opposite side from me, he went up and down that audience matching me "Hallelujah" for "Hallelujah," pounding "his" patients oh their backs, climbing over crutches and around wheelchairs. '"■ Later, when it was over, Ray came, back to the dressing room, loud with praise for the show we had staged, and there I stood, tongue-tied, trying to think of something to V -say about his magnificent, performance that would not make him self-conscious. But before I had a chancn to frame a word, he apologized for joining me in Nora's song. "I did it for the other guys,'', .he said. "You see, pal, they know I'm blind, and if Ihey feel that I'm having a good time, why, they kinda relax and get happy, loo. You don't mind, do ya, pal?" • , No, no, I didn't mind, but I. had to get away from there- fast! •'It was givat." I mumbled, "great. Ray. But you'll excuse trie, won't you? I've . . .' well . . . I've got to change my clothes." ."Oh," he shoi back ai me from the door. "You don't have lb worry, I irouidn'i look. So long pal. I'll be seeing you." The'next night we visited the Stage Door Canteen in Philadelphia. -Harry. Von Zcll h.-l told his funny announcer story, Bert Gordon, the Mad Russian.. had convulsed the service men with his' rich dialect, and. Nora' Martin and I were just, doing our finale, when there was a sudden com- motion at the rear of the roorii. "Hey . . . hey, pal," came a familiar voice; "What's with the Hallelujahs, huh, pal?" It was Ray Vill'eheuye. of course, and' I introduced him to the crowd. Then 1 I asked him What he was doing .here 60 miles -from .the .hospital. "Why, pal," he came back at me with mock hurt, "I came down to help you put in the Hallelujahs." So Nora Martin sang "Deacon Jones" arid Private First Class Ray Villeneuve, wearer of.the D. S. C—the soldier boy who'd won his decoration and lost his eyes at El Guettar, the lad who would live the rest of his life in darkness, went into that cheering throng of America's fighting men, grasp- ing.their hands, pounding their backs, shouting hallelujahs at all he could reach, his voice high and clear and proud for the world to hear .. . "Hallelujah, brother . . . hallelujah, pal . . . hallelujah!" Vaudeville A Great Training For the Gl Circuit By BOB HOPE . . ■ Hollywood. Imagine my writing for "Variety!" . I wish I. had been writing for this paper the first time I played the Palace about 15 years ago. I remember the review well. It said. "Pathe News and Bob Hope Complete the Bill;" Little did wo footlight pedestrians realize in those days how that experience would stand us in good stead on the foxhole circuit. Only a few of us have been privileged to tour the battlefront and witness the greatest guys in the world try.to knock out a menace to civilization and; believe me, it is a privilege. I haven't talked to one actor who would trade his ex- periences in the camps off shore for a million dollars; arid you know how tight ; and conservative, we old actors are— Bob Hope Crosby especially. Bing went to France, this year—USO sent him over as part of the lend-louse deal,' Martha Raye did a g^and job in Africa with Carole Landis, Mitzi May fair and Kay Francis. Good old Martha—she yawned once and one of our aircraft was missing. Even Ei'rol Flynn went up to Alaska arid did a fine job. He didn't do much—he just sat around arid reminisced. But I thank vaudeville for the experience and the knowl- edge of show business that I gained so I could make these trips. I played many tank towns in my .early days—never did .I figure that I'd actually be playing the r lanks. later. It's thrilling to hearstories of the different performers who have gone into the mental wards in hospitals all oyer the world and made boys laugh, or smile and reason, for the first time since they had been stricken. Our .business has done a pretty ' good job in this war and is capable of doing a greater job. and anybody that's equipped to entertain our guys and doesn't is missing the greatest thrill of his or her life. I . Sure Changes You | Gentlemen and Scholars = By JAMES J. GELLER • . Hollywood. Here was I, minding my own business at the lop' of my voice, when Fate reached out and commissioned me as a Story Editor IfOr Wai'ner Bros.—Ed.]. I had hardly been es- tablished when, in no lime, about two dozen acquaintances look the precaution to notify me with all the subtlety of a political campaigner that they were available for writing as- signments. They are really genteel .individuals, pleasant enough to spend any idle evening with in harmless conver- sation, alternating with a few occasional.drinks, while-lend- ing an car to their silly schemes of ambition. Despite their extreme affability, I arrived at the, inescapable conclusion that writing professionally was not within their ken. - - Take one of them, for example. I'll call him Jean Moliere. Both he and his wife would frequently drop in at our house. Moliere would hand mo llis latest original, nid hi.s wife would chat with mine. The next morning he'd phone, me eagerly • for my. reaction, and .each time I'd reply most, sympathetically that I faitcd to share his enthusiasm with- out openly deprecating his creation. Within a few days he would return with his wife, pick up his manuscript of seven poorly typewritten pages, and leave another asonizing con- • tribulion, with the same results; His -"originals", were so banal that -it would be criminal even to force ihcm upon Broadway Rose. . How to prevent him from inflicting his efforts upon me and yet not break up our. friendship, vexed; mo no end. Finally, I conspired with my wife to invite the Molieres to dinner, even-if it consumed all our ration points, and when we retired to the living room with the contents of our last ' bottle of brandy, Mrs. G. was to conveniently manoeuvre Mrs. M. to a corner, and nonchalantly siiggest that the life insurance field offered gigantic possibilities to Her husband. : Accordingly, everything/ proceeded as' per plan.' The Molieres arrived punctually and. when they took (heir places at the dinner table they beamed with no little delight. When, some two hours later, we were settled in the living room and; Moliere started to hand me anothei manuscript with his customary elan, I watched my co-conspirator draw Mrs. Moliere to a .corner and enter into conversation with her: ■ ' '.'",. One trip and Jack Benny was a different man—he started to spend. And pf course Crosby's trip to France and Engr land really broadened him—in places where he didn't need it. But it. made him very mellow. I even caught him listen- ing to a Sinatra record the other day. True; he had'his" coal hung over the loudspeaker—but he was trying hard to listen. We met a lot of fellows on our tour this past summer who are in our racket and who are doing a fine job in the service! Maurice Evans is a major in Special Services in Honolulu. . He really took care of us. He'll shine your shoes, carry your luggage, anything—just so you'll do a show for the boys. There's a boy to be proud of. Lanny Ross was with us in the Southwest Pacific and not only took care of us, our fa- cilities for entertaining, etc., but also did a couple of songs whenever needed—which was most of the time. Saw Lew Ayres in Hollandia working in a hospital there. I introduced him from the,stage and he was cheered by the audience. That proved to me that his associates loved 1 him and con- vinced me he's doing a job that show business can be proud ■■..of.. . . While playing the Marshall Islands we flew over the island of Millie that was occupied by about 10,000 Japs. We flew over at about 8,000 feet and: dropped empty milk bottles on them—they've probably starved to death by now. That's ■ as hard as we fought—but it was still too close to the enemy to. satisfy me. We played to about 7,000 .guys in a place called Wakde, in the northwest of New Guinea. Our: boys had a perimeter of about 2.000 yards and just to make sure they weren't going to lose it, they aH had guns in their arms while we did the show. It gives you a funny feeling when you .look o\it at an audience of that size and they're all car- rying rifles. You have to be pretty sure of your material. Right near the end of the program a guy near the front got up and taking his gun said, "I'm going out to get a Jap." I said, "They'll wait. " He said, "The hell they will—I'm going to make sure." ■ I'm afraid the' war ip' the Pacific will be longer'and mote bitter than people, here realize. It's a much more rugged fight and * much more treacherous fight—our boy* In the Pacific are up against jungle killers. ■ Lite on these islands is very boring and'monotonous and the. boys surely deaerve movies and radios—which they get, To have , these kids soream and cheer when you do a little routine that would have been fair at Proctor's Fifth Avenue—well—I guess we got Into the right racket after all, ' No—Not That! ! __L As Moliere commenced extolling the commercial possi- bilities of his latest opus 'his 10th within a month), I sud- denly saw his spouse rise like Lady Macbeth before she ■ encountered the apparition, and heatedly exclaim to my wife in a voice that must have been heard in all- Beverly Hills, "I 'should-say. not! Moliere is a born writer." Let it be slated for the recording angel, that the bond between tl'e Gellers and the Molieres has been severed Tor eternity. Or, take the case of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe also, ob'viously, not his true name. ' He's a refugee since 1933.. And, like most continentals, his manners arc impeccable. I . cannot say the same for his prose. For. some mysterious reason, he labors under a delusion that he would be valu- able ori a writing staff—an opinion which. I am sorry to say, is shared by my wife. The latter has recommended him so often as a gentleman (as if this is (he sole qualification for a screep. writer) that only by a Ihreat to tune in on some of the local radio monstrosities did I succeoed in stopping any further talk of Goethe ... until one day at dinner, when hardly had I tackled the borc-ht; my frau harpooned me. with one of her rare thrusts.."Goethe has a contract!'' I asked with deep humility. "What were yoii, saying?" "I merely mentioned that Goethe has a contract." I detected a. gleam of triumph in her eyes, but 1 let it go for a few seconds of silence. ■ Then I summoned up lny courage as I inquired falleringly, "A contract with whom?" "With his agent," came her jubilant responc. I finished . my borchl in peace and contentment. The Biographical Kid Another example is Lytton Strachey, although this Is not his real name.: This baby apparently wastes all his time scanning the volumes of the Dictionary of American Biog- raphy, the Encyclopedia Britannica, The Lives </J l!:r Saints, and the historical and legendary chronicles containing the exploits of the famous. To. date, without the slightest en- couragement, he has submitted 'usually condensed into 10 pages) all the highlights of Homer,. St, Paul, St. Franois, Dr. Samuel Johnson, Baron Munchausen, Cortex, Carrie Nation, Huey Long, and all of our past presidents with the exception of Hoover. No studio as yet has solved the prob- lem of ending Strachey's forays against the dead. Then we have another alleged writer, whom . we shall identify as. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, although this isn't -even his pen name. Most writers prefer to embalm their original stories on paper and rest their case willy the studios. . But not R.B.S. I have it on good authority that this fine bucko does not use a typewriter, .nor manuscript paper, Sheridan mingles only with the elite. He has a breezy, glib, and likeable personality! Whether you : meet him in your office, in night spots, bars, on golf courses, or in the picture theatre lobbies, you must succumb to his charm. He's a master of precision. At the right moment and place he can overwhelm you with an idea for a film, whether he offer* you a central situation concerning an FBI man who mas- querades as a taxidriver to track down a gang of saboteurs, or how one dauntless American outwits nine million Japs, or how an unknown chorine saves the show. The most amusing part of this engaging racketeer is that he usually succeeds in coi'raling some t>roducers. Thus far, I've re- sisted all his frontal attacks. '..'.' Last but not least, I must, conclude with one whom Provi- dence forces me to call Rudyard. Kipling, which of course is a fictitious name. He shares with Richard Brinsley Sheri- dan one thing in common—he's a super-salesrnan. There, . the resemblance stops. Kipling's technique is a simple one and I'm surprised he has so little competition. Kipling pays nominal advances for. originals-to some of the' thirdrate : struggling writers, providing his name goes along as col- laborator. His submissions are mimeographed neatly and bound In excellent covers.' with the title and the authors names stamped in gold. In the event of a motion picture sale, the take Is split 50-50, but not until good old Rudyard first deducts his advance. These are a few of the barnacles clinging to Hollywood, but on the whole there" are more nobles In our midst than knaves and fools.