Variety (Jan 1949)

Wednesdny, Iwraaiy S, 1949 Forty-third PfyitlE^jrf Amdwruarf VAinMBVIUJI 231 Do Actors Have a Right to Think? Just finished paying off an election bet, and this is my first day "AUt of Macy's window. I admit I didn't pick Truman, but neither did the gtiys who predicted that I would be the No. 1 comedian of 1948 which is a heck of a straight line for the question brought up every so often whether people in show business have a right to think' We pay taxes. (Crosby and Benny alone keep Fort Knox loaded). Come to think of it, Truman was a piano player and Dewey a former baritone. They campaign for the things they be- lieve in; why such a fuss when people in show business campaign for what they beUeve in. ' Actors have a right to fight for what they think is right and the American way Is naturally the ballot. In Las Vegas, one comedian went to the polls, stepped in the booth, pulled the lever and three dials started spinning around until they stopped at two cherries and a lemon. ' It's about time the "civilians" realized that actors have other' things on their minds besides gags, wine, women and song (not that I'm knocking any of these). The public is too smart today. All the publicity and newspaper space in the world can't influence their opinion. That was proven in the Truman election. Perhaps we could campaign with a sense of humor. That might be the best way to make people listen. Today if you want to butt into a conversation with inflation as it is, and you want to put your 2c in, it costs you a nickel. I want to stick to my acting even though President Truman of- fered me a job in his cabinet — polishing the silverware —100 a week—and today with a hundred a week you can live like a King— that's my dog's name, King. Come to think of'it—we could use some sense of humor in Congress and the Cabinet. What's new about comedians in Congress anyway? Except I would have professional comics. For instaneej Bob Hope would get up in the house, tell a lot of Jokes and when he got everybody's attention, he would make a plea to send clothing to Europe. Then Milton Bcrle would tell a lot of gags and when everybody was listening he would say, "Let's send food to Europe." Then I might tell a lot of Stories and everybody would say, "Let's send Joey Adams to Europe." I'd have a great cabinet, too. Eddy Duchin would be my Vice^ President so .that we would be assured of having a good piano player in the White House. Sec'y of the Exterior—JaneRussell. ; : ^ec'y of Treasury—Bob Topping (I'd advise him—not because be married Lana Turner. That could happen. to any number of men—and it did). Sec'y of War—^Errol Flynn, etc., etc., etc. ' Of J. C. Nugent ELLIOTT NUGENT Hollywood, [after the: original struggle, there On occasional intervals between was a disagreement about policies 4. t. i /T.™ . /-lif withm the ranks of the White Rats "shots" (I'm busy directing CUf- j,^ Mountford were on ton Webb and Shirley Temple in i opposite sides. Everybody was 'Mr. 'Belvedere Goes to Col-| quite wrought up about it in the lege") I have been thinking of theatre world, and while the re Varhsty and Its Anniversary Num^ bers. Because that reminds me of the articles my father, J. C. Nu- genty used to write for Variety and I wish I could do one half as good. It might be interesting to tell about some of the things I remember about him and my own first-consciousness of Vabiety as a youngster. One_ summer,' when wfr were living in Ohio and J. C. was spend- ing the vaudeville actor's usual summer layoff—at :home—I no-' ticed that he had very little time to go swimming with me and my friends at a swimmin' hole, in tlie. Sugar Creek, which we called the Old Sycamore. It had an over- hanging tree trunk equipped with a rope swing frohj which the more acvobatic and aquatic small fry used to execute astonishing para- bolic flips and somersaults into tUe muddy waters. Usually Dad liked to go doun there, cool off, swim -and smoke "IS pipe, but that summer he was spending more of his days and nights pounding his Blickens- derier typewriter and walking down to the post office to mail long artifcles to some mysterious publication in New York. . A few days later he'd be parad- ing down to the newsstand to gel this weekly—not only to read his own stuff but .to see what Harry Mountlord had to say. My mother explained to me that J. C. was tiarrying on some kind of a news- paper cdhtroversy in Variety re- gaidmg the policies of the White Bats. (I knew what the White Rats veie but I don't know whether many of your present day readers would remember that this was the hist actors' union organized by the Vaudeville artists just before the turn of the century. Dad had been one of the leaders in the big sUike against the producers and Wie United Booking Office in 1900, Other leaders were George Fuller Oolden, DeWolf Hooper and many other famous names of that day). When I questioned Dad, he ex- plained to me that, now, years percussions m our small Ohio town were faint and far away, I became interested and began to read Variety. It's a habit which. I find hard to shake off. Actors' .Xmases An Anniversary Issue makes me think of Christmas, and another thing I might write about is: an actor's Christmas. People outside the theatre seldom stop to think that Yuletide is no holiday for thespians. In the legitimate thea- trCj :it almost always ; means a matinee and in vaudeville it some- times meant an extra show , in ad- dition to the usual two-a;day. In spite of that our family was one wliich did not give up tradi- tions easily and even in a hotel room in Fond du Lac or Sheboy- gan. J. C. managed to lug in a Christmas tree and Mother trimmed it with ; just as many stars, bells, angels and candles as it we had been in the old home in Dover, Ohio. Of course, I preferred the occasional Christmas at home but there was something exciting: about being, on the road and I looked forward to receiving a big box lull of presents from uncles, aunts and cousins. I remember very well one Christmas in Sacramento when I got two books by Jules Verne: ■'20.000 Leagues Under the Sea" and "Michel Strogoff." There wasn't any snow in Sacramento— only a lew white blossoms drop- ping from the magnolia trees. Either this lack of the usual meteorogical Christmas trimmings or my increasing years led to some embarrassing questions about how Santa Clau.s got into, and out of a hotel room without the benefit of a chimney, so Dad and Mother decided that it was time to make the necessary explanations and Santa Claus became a fictional character from then on. Perhaps this is why Christmas in Califoraia has never seemed quite as satis- lying to me as the eastern variety, complete with sleigh bells, icicles and gingersnaps. It was always veiy difficult for Now In 6th Year DANNY DEANE AND HIS ORCHESTRA Roosevelt Hotel, New Orleans, ::La. Don't People Cry Into Their Beer Anymore? .By HARRY G. SMITH. any One of us to find the right thing to give my father for Christ- mas presents. A man of very sim- ple tastes and few interests, out- ] side of the theatre, books and his | family, he did not like to be i bothered with the usual knick- knacks of life. He never carried a watch or a fountain pen, a sil- ver pencil or a knife.^ and as he got older and lost his hair he hardly ever needed' a hair brush. I remember a much later Christ- mas vi'hen we were touring with "Kempy." My mother finally? in- flicted a silk dressing gown on him. He wore it some times out of loyality but felt it was sissy and- much preferred an agcient flannel robe—or in a pinch, just an overcoat'around his shoulders.- I gave him a couple of brief- cases; after I was grown up, for his manuscripts but they soon were lost. Strangely enough they didn't have any manuscripts in them when they disappeared. Dad was never one to mislay a manu- script or anything really important to him and he developed a tech- nique of tucking promising plays inside his vest. If unwary man- agers encountered him in the Lambs Club and opened up with a remark such as: "l would like to read one of your plays some time,"—a simple twist of the wrist produced 120 pages of manuscript, and before the manager could say "knife" he was tucked in a-leather chair and listening to the opening ot Act One. ; ' Even though two or three such producers made a lot of money as a result of this surprise attack, people began to notice whether J. C. was wearing a vest before bringing up the subject of . the drama; Come to think of it, I never gave him a vest for Christmas— and now I wish I could. The trouble ; witli this man's world is that people don't cry into their beers anymore. : In this sophisticated era now current, we who have tears to shed, don't;/ It's just not being done in our set; -and so, with no lachrymal let- down to ease the tensions and drown out the canker gnawing at the vitals, we have become a cyni- cal and wry-minded generation. With flippant gag and wisecrack, we accept the ills, social unrest, in- dustrial conflict, frictions, frustra- tions, breakdowns, phobias and all the other chronic headaches. We have: become inured to hot and cold wars, laugh oif the discords and accept the inevitable disturb- ances of life with merely the faint- est moue on our mugs. And with this sneaky: approach to a more placid past^^but a wet- ter one-^let's step through the garish brilliance marking the en- trance to 50 Bowery, through which the strains of Prof. Charley Eschert's Elite i Lady orchestra can be heard. Right merrily they struggle through the mighty finale of a musical melange retaining the best features of "I'd Leave My Happy Home for You" and "She; Was Happy Till She Met You." The Atlantic Garden, gents, which for a half-century was the fore- most concerthall of young New York! Here it was where senti- ment waxed rife and the emotions got more of a play; unhampered with any intellectual ' restraints and deadpan stoicism, as today. • Not that the Atlantic Garden I was headquarters for crying out I loud. Good Grief, no! Music and I revelry by niglit and convivial up- I roar were epidemic there, and fre- quently shivered the panes in. the long skylight overhead. But the sentimental, tear wasn't far behind the mirth. Traditions and asso- ciations cherished throughout the years had made thts a mellow joint indeed, and this was the mood in- fecting the patrons as the evening went on. The so-called Gay '90s really was an epoch shot through with 'pangs, judging how keenly the gentle folk of the period went, in their lighter .moments, for the moist and sombre melodies and the stop-you're-breaking-my-heart type [ of lyrics. Why, even the comic I numbers had bad news beneath their lively lilt.r like "For One Day j of Turkey That's Six Days of I Hash." I The good burgher and his fair, i fat frau, over .rhine-wine-and- I seltzers or schloppens of beier; never enjoyed tliemselves so heart- ily as when they wept into their wurzburgers while quavering tenors and strident sopranos sat- urated the atmosphere with "She's More to be Pitied Than Censured." True, they have an effete type of torch ballad nowadays, but these ultra moderns consider it corny to let down their hair too much emo^- tionally. You've got to hand th« smelling-salts to the sob soubrets of that damp decade (damp is the word) who knew how to reach high tide with their vocals. They could plaster a measure with pathos: so thickly that the tougher citizenry from around Five Points or Chatham Square would even feel a sob in their throats while reefing you of watch and wallet. But this was long after the plush period when the Garden boasted a earriage trade and when, around the long table close to the stage, "sat the heavy cush coterie—the Metzes, the Webers, Baumans and Schermerhorns. .. All scions of - the early settlers in that area. At the time of the great exodus from the small German states to America, William Kramer established the Garden, alongside the classic Bow- ery theatre, later the Thalia, and provided a spot .with a Fatherland atmosphere where the exiles-could gather for gossip and entertain- ment over pipe and stein. Prestige Institution 3 LUCILLE and EDDIE ROBERTS The Magical Montallstt : Lucille and Eddie Roberts, originators of the popular radio show "WIJ.'VT'S OX YOtlfl MI.N'D," h.ave Btarted worltinK on a new musical revue vitU AI<?rvj-n Nf Ison and Kva Franklin writing matevlal. The Roberts most recent New York appearance was at the new CHAT NOIH in ihe St. Moritz Hotel, they also recently played their fourth engagement at the Cotillion Room of the Hotel Pierre, Frances E. Kaye handles their press relations: Harry Green is Personal Repre- sentative and bookings are fliru all major agencies. , From 1858 on the Garden rapid- ly 'became, an institution, gather- ing plenty of prestige. An or- chestrion purchased from the Duke of Baden was installed and its mammoth pipes rumbling out the melodies in thunderous fashion re- cei-ved the awed admiration of the patrons for years. In 1884 came another imported innovation when Albert Eschert, father of Charley, stole a march on.Phil Spitalny and brought over the first all-girl orchestra. It was Charley, though, who, as concertmeister, wielded: the baton over the gals, all dressed in white, for a quarter of a cen- tury. He was a tall Teuton, with a shock of white hair and an opu-■ lent mustache bristling in the Prus- sian mode. He had one of the most remarkable accents that ever tangled up with \ English verbal complexities, and many a Dutcu comic later,on must have received dialectic inspiration from this maestro. Variety saw its-dawn here long before it became popular in other- parts of town, Emma Carus was a foremost favorite, and Joe Welch, eminent "Heeb" comic, got his first encores here with his patter and parodies. Harry Von Tilzer, Cole & Johnson and Al Reeves heighten a long list ot performers who played: here at the start of their careers. The Avon^Comedy Four (with Jack Coleman, then) polishe'd up their close harmony and started "My Gal Sal" (mmm- m-m-m) hurtling down the long corridors of Time from the trem- bling lips of 7,685,234 quartets that followed them. Not to; mention a similar number, in embryonic stages, who stand prepared to per« petuate that frivolous soi-t of a gal for the ages untold. •One favorite house act was Charlotte Russe, billed as ''The Barcelona Songbird." She sang folksongs of the Pyrenees, inter- spersed with concert hall favorites such as "The Mansion of Aching Hearts" and "Though Once We Loved, We're Strangers Now." This was as a primer for the local tears, without which she would not have been the success she was. For a closer the til gypsy sang a Romany idyll, the artless pathos and passionate fervor ot which will remain to any survivor's dying day. The haunting tragic beauty of the melody, its lyrical power and utter weltschmerz. were beyond descrip- tion. A motheaten memory recol- lects only the southwestern part of the chorus, and the lines- embla- zoned upon a world-weary mind were: . "Though she had a wooden leg Still she didn't give a peg~— Now she sleeps by the Erie Canal.' (Splash!) There wasn't « dry eye in th* house.