Variety (January 1953)

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refines day, January 7, 1953 Curtain Time for Nettleton •By BURNET HERSHEY t irnew Nettleton wanted to commit suicide. You didn’t have to be a psychiatrist or an analytical person to figure that out. Upfnre his decline, Nettleton had known all the glory of . ‘‘matinee idol” of the ’20s. He’d been patronized by fhP rich fussed over by the public. I won’t try to break n the why and wherefore of his theatrical fadeout. Srnadlv I would say that his talents hadn’t been perhaps fistic enough, and when he outgrew his romantic roles, he outgrew the demand for Nettleton. I came to know Nettleton at the Lambs—one of Man- hattan’s oldest clubs for men in the theatre. He was around 65 then and conspicuous by his loyalty to a time- worn costume repletejvith spats, frock coat, candy-striped trousers and straw hat. “What are we going to do about Nettleton?” was a run- ning question among certain members of the club who knew of his critical state. The club had been carrying his dues for a long time, out of a sense of loyalty to an old, destitute member who needed the sanctuary and cam- araderie of its quarters. More important, frequent pri- vate loans were being made to him and had to be stopped. came the inevitable day when the Lambs decided on a nlan for Nettleton. A very thoughtful, and what seemed to hp a humane decision, had been made. Nettleton was vnt/d “eligible” for the Percy Williams Home for Actors on Long Island. In all fairness to the Home I must say that it is run with great skill in seeing that its boarders are kept well and happy and made to feel an abiding close- ness to the theatre. The day we helped Nettleton fill out his application for ad nittance to the Home, he took a stand of complete compliance and agreeability. He even got poetic about “the peaceful retreat surrounded by the lovely, soft green knolls” and culled from his storehouse of quotes: “Foote from this earthly stage alas is hurled; Death took him off who took off all the world." Then with a flourish, he signed the papers. There were at least three weeks off in the preparation of getting Nettleton into the Home, and what touched off my serious concern over Nettleton was a newspaper ac- count I came across called “Suicide Week,” which claimed that there were more suicides just before Christmas and up until New Year’s than any other time of the year. It said that people felt loneliest, most panicky during this holiday period. This was an editorial printed as a public service by one of the life insurance companies and there were impressive official statistics. It was two weeks before Christmas now. Nettleton! His name jumped all over the page as I read the public service warning. The man was becoming an obsession with me. What the basis of our friendship was, I can’t explain exactly. Well, I guess I can. He was a lesson of practicality to me for the days when the theatre ceased to be “bread and butter” salvation. I didn’t want to turn out a Nettleton. But I was drawn to him for more than just being fascinated by a dread of what might happen to me. He was great company; very eloquent and essentially goodnatured. I guess I was his best audience. I used to have him repeat over and over again the stories he knew so well and told with his talent for mimicry— about John Barrymore, Mary Garden, Oscar Hammerstein, Sarah Bernhardt. “You’re a much better man than I am, Nettleton,’ULnsed to tell him admiringly. Nettleton appeared to be contemplating his move to the Home with no outward depression, but I felt he was planning to “fool” everybody; to be a suicide before the Home ever got him. If there were only something I could do. The days moved on and it was Christmas Eve. I had been at the club helping with the Christmas tree decorations, and now I sat around, anticipating Nettleton’s arrival, wondering why he w r as late. Every day there had* grown that sense of urgency about our friendship. Whenever we parted, I thought to myself: Will I ever see him again? The more I sat and waited for Nettleton, the more ... I had to find out. If he wasn’t at the Lambs, he had to be home. On my way through the Lambs’ foyer, I passed the obituary bulletin that keeps us posted on the latest mem- ber to take the “final curtain.” The sight of that bulletin didn’t help any and I dashed out, more unnerved than ever. Nettleton lived in a coldwater flat on 46th Street an’d 9th Avenue. His room and bath were typical of the ones rented by the alumni of ex-vaudevillains abounding in this district of Manhattan (between 43d and 52d Sts., from 7th to 10th Ave.). A good portion of his slender quarters was overcome with photos and scrapbooks that chronicled his active days in the theatre. Two theatrical trunks stamped with aged travel labels were sandwiched in along- side his bed cot and used as chests of drawers. I knew this room well, and I pictured it now sentimentally as I rushed over to see if all was well with him. I reached Nettleton’s home at last, and I knocked on his door, and, much to my enormous relief," he opened it! I almost embraced him. He was still safe! “Why you old ham!” I blasted into his ear. “Where have you been? Why aren’t you down at the club?” “Thought I’d do a little meditating before Christmas,” he said. “What are you meditating on?” I asked (as if I couldn’t guess!) “Oh lots of things,” he said. I took my cue, “While you’re being so spiritual and all that,” I said, “how’d you like to share some of your Christmas spirit with a friend—it’s Christmas Eve to- night, remember?—just the two of us—I'm in the chips!” II was trying hard to be gay. I thought maybe—maybe if he could stop feeling alone on the holiday night itself, we ■*®t iPu t one over on “Suicide Week.”) Suits me,” Nettleton said. “Fine . . . Need a little time to get spruced up, though. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Sure could use a shave—how’d you like to run °° wn M an d get me some blades? I’ll pay you—in a few s, w ^ n ° * mm ediate reaction on this razor blades request. Tin! on ™ y way the drugstore that funny feeling hit me. w? 1 bla des! What a sly one that Nettleton was. . . . la 1 made "W way to the drugstore, I learned . Nettleton was deeply involved with his suicide pre- Fortyseventh P'A-riety Anniversary liminaries. For one who reaches such a decision, with deliberation, there are many details. He wrote an obitu- ary for himself, together with a letter to the editor of the N. Y. Times, accompanying it with a picture of himself in the matinee idol days; he penned a polite note to the landlord asking him to forgive the “unpleasant reper- cussions”; he also willed his scrapbooks to The Lambs and his .wristwatch to me. And he even laid out the costume reserved for his big exit: white trousers, a double-breasted blue serge, bow tie, tan leather oxfords. When I returned from the drugstore, I tossed Nettleton his package and said: “Merry Xmas. This is on me.” “Thanks,” he said softly. Then, with what sounded like a note of determination, he started to open the door for me. “Come back in an hour—I’ll be ready.” “Aren’t you going to read the love note?” I asked, point- ing to the package. Nettleton tore open the string and read the little Christ- mas card on which I had written: “Dear Old Boy! Consider yourself saved by a hair! Yours, Mike" .A? wry expression flicked across his face. At first I thought it was his answer to my unforgivable pun. Then he examined his razor and by turns I saw him look de- feated, angry—then humble. He knew I was wise to him. This year, in the Percy Williams Home, Nettleton and I celebrated the first anniversary of his suicide attempt. “Tell me, Nettleton,” I said, “was it really my Christmas gift that saved you?” “Not really,” he answered, for it always embarrassed him to express any deep feelings of friendship. “I just decided that, as long as a man could experience the satis- faction of a nice, clean-smelling shave—and with his own electric razor —it was good to be alive!” The Kiddies to the Rescue! •By BENNETT CERF- Bonnett Cerf When Hollywood producers eliminated ‘B’ pictures.be- cause the public no longer would support them—refused even to look at them for free on television—book publish-, ers were quick to realize that the demand for “B” litera- ture—the so-called “hammock read- ing” of an unlamented past, the shod- dy routine whodunits, the formula romances—was ceasing to exist at the same time. Said publishers, being nowhere near as stupid as most of their authors believe, will, if the trend persists, almost certainly begin to eliminate this “B” trash from their lists—some time within the next 15 years or so. At the moment, I re- luctantly admit, few of them, myself included, have .taken many steps in the proper direction. We all continue to publish junk, we all continue to lose our shirts on it, and we all continue to wail about our bad luck as we relax in the more expensive of Cleveland Amory’s “Last Reports.” Meanwhile, succor has arrived from an unexpected quarter. The juvenile market is booming as it never has before. There are 5,000,000 more kids in the United States today than there were 10 years ago—and all of them seem to be gobbling up inexpensive volumes like the 25c Golden and Wonder Books. The new Landmark Series, too— highlights of American history told in exciting, graphic fashion by the country’s best authors for boys and girls of nine to 15—has caught on in such phenomenal fashion (over 1,000,000 copies sold in the first two years) that imi- tations are popping up all over the lot. Publishers are discovering they can start a long-life, comprehensive series of children’s books with only slightly more planning and effort than it takes to launch a single adult novel that is often forgotten within a fortnight of its first appearance. There will be more series on the market in 1953 than you can shake a stick at. At least three well- known publishers already are doing more business in their juvenile department than all the rest of their activities combined. The “Bs” languish, but the “ABCs” take up the slack! Meanwhile, my nearest neighbor in Mt. Kisco is still trying to find some book that will help him teach his 11- year-old son the rudiments of arithmetic. The kid has been attending a very expensive, and very advanced pro- gressive school, so naturally cannot as yet read, write, spell, or add. . My neighbor tried a new approach the other evening. “Look, Tommy,” he pleaded, “Let’s say you have $6. You give me three. Now how much have you got left?” The fine lad regarded my neighbor coldly and inquired, “Why the devil should I give you $3?” There’s a bookseller up our way I’d like to tell you about, too. Convinced he could never support a wife and a Jaguar on the wages of a purveyor of immortals, he studied medicine on the side, finally won his doctor’s degree, and hung out his shingle next door to the book- shop. His first patient was a beautiful, beautiful girl (Westchester County is full of them). She complained of an ache. Our brand new doctor examined the troubled area with keen appreciation, then asked in all innocence, “Now do you mind if I browse around a bit?” A Couple of Funnies My first favorite story this season concerns a photo- graph of Marilyn Monroe. Yqu may remember the pic- ture, reproduced in one of the magazines. Miss Monroe was shown seated seductively between two mountains of fan mail—thousands of letters. She was attired in a gar- ment which I suppose is called a negligee, a lacy and revealing sort of shift. The kind of picture that would cause strong men to mount to the roof and bite the ends off the television antenna. A Copy of the magazine finds its way into an American home and into the hands 'of a 13-year-old boy. He studies the photograph for a long time, and then speaks. “Gee!” he says, “I’ll bet there’s some keen stamps on some of those letters!” Story No. 2 is said to have been a favorite with Abe Lincoln. He enjoyed telling about a certain citizen back in Illinois, who was riding his horse along the Main Street. Suddenly the horse started kicking furiously and his left hind hoof somehow got stuck in the stirrup. The man in the saddle glanced down, saw the hoof, and promptly spoke: “Wal,” he says, “if you’re gonna git on, Vm gonna git off!” H. Allen Smith. jUEGITIMATE 273 How Playwrights Get To Be Discovered i=By NICKY WINTER & JIM CARHARTT= Cannes. We are pleased to answer the question everyone in show biz asks at least once a week these days: Where are the new playwrights? We are right here, bud. Care of American Express, Cannes. What are we doing here? Right now we are trying to think of the best possible way to remind you that everyone referred to in the follow- ing paragraphs has absolutely no connection with people living, dead, or still working in radio. Why aren’t we on Broadway , waiting to be discovered . . . made famous . . . hailed? Because we have already been discovered more times than the fact that five martinis before dinner is a bad idea. We were around Broadway so long we could be rude to unimportant people, and if that isn’t being famous, what is? And several times we Were even hailed. Into court by bill-collectors. All this because we wrote a musical that did not get produced. Which just goes to show you. If it had been produced, who knows? We might have wound up as well- known today as the authors of “Hairpin Harmony” or “Dream With Music.” The name of this musical? Well, to avoid too much understanding, let’s say it was called “Mulled Flounders.” Let us further say it was the story of a girl fisherman, a neat contradiction in terms, and her romance with the captain of a sidewheel kayak. Four sets in full, four smaller sets, two drops. Six principals and'chorus, 13 songs. One opening, one closing, three love, three com- edy, one marching, one drinking, one torch, and one where people are marching and drinking (and carrying torches.) Then, at last, we round us a producer, a jim dandy. Jim could claim association with some of Broadway’s biggest names. As long as the biggest names didn’t hear about it he could. He had also been associated with some of the merriest, madcap musical frolics that ever turned an audience’s stomach. These, and a shrewd sense of double- entry, had netted him enough so he and his wife could furnish three rooms of a 10-room Fifth Ave. apartment. How Nice | Jim and his wife couldn’t have been nicer to us. They will tell you. We had all our business conferences in the Cub Room, which is the ideal place for a producer to tell writers how little money they’re going to get. And he had wonderful ideas about our musical. Not only was he going to produce it, he was going to direct it, do the sets and costumes, supervise the orchestrations, speak to Irving Berlin about writing a couple of numbers for the second act and, as his wife told us merrily, “he’d probably play the male lead in it at the drop of a hat. After that, we entered into a period familiar to all new writers. It is the lull between. The time is just after you’ve left one producer who doesn’t want your show and just before you meet the next one who won’t, either. This is an ideal time to open a few veins in your wrists, or take your show to various agents, which often amounts to the same thing. The first agents we saw specialized in plays about the souls of women written by a bachelor who hadn’t been near one since his mother died bringing him into the world. Naturally, this made him an authority on women. So we sent the script to another agent. This man has had a finger in every pie on Broadway, and he could show blisters to prove it. He sent us a wire that read: “Have just read your sensational show. Be at my office 2:30 to- morrow.” ‘ We were at his office at 2:30. By 6:30 he was in his office. Briefly. By 8:30, he had come back, said hello to us and done the greatest talking-on-the-telephone bit since Luise Rainer in “The Great Ziegfeld.” He had talked to Ethel, to Josh, to Irving, and to Dick and Oscar, Ethel Bischer, Josh Phoophles, Irving Grumnick, and Dick and Oscar Passendorfer, the Twin Bookies. We took him to hear the score of the show, and once again he was very impressed. He said, “It’s just the greatest, that’s all. Just the greatest! The only thing is, you need a name composer for this. After all, nobody has ever heard of you two boys.” We told him our famous composer was very famous, and threw in, as a clincher, that we had heard of us. But he said, “You don’t under- stand. There’s only one man alive, one man in the whole world I want for this score. Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Harold Arlen or Richard Rodgers.” He said, “Unless we can get music by someone like that, I wouldn’t want this show to go on.” Oddly enough we couldn’t get someone like that, and oddly enough the show hasn’t gone on. This, of course, is merest coincidence. But then, there is a merest coinci- dence for every broken light on Broadway. Fortunately, about that time, we met a man whose faith in the show was as deep and unlimited as his wife’s bank account. He took an option on it, reams of publicity were sent out, and, in no time at all, instead of going to the Cub Room with the Jim Dandys, we were going there by ourselves. We weren’t getting in, but we were going there. Everywhere we went, people talked about us. We were the ones who talked about us, of course, but nobody can deny that we are people, even as you and I. Then our producer summoned us. “Boys,” he said, be- cause that’s what we were, “I’ve had your show almost three months now. And I’ve raised over $100,000 of the production money!” We made suitable comment. When he’d revived us, he said, “Well, boys, it’s certainly been an inspiring experience. Nobody can ever tell me again that you can't raise money for a show. Not when you’ve got something as great as this show is. And, let me tell you, if I ever decide to produce a show, yours will be the first one I consider.” if # ip So we came here, and what with healthy living, hot sun, iodine-filled air and Bogomoletz injections twice a day, the doctor says in no time he’ll have us looking as bad as new. Then we can come back to Broadway and our pet project: founding a Home for the Aged and Decrepit. The sole occupants of this will be new writers who waited so long for their ship to come in their pier collapsed.