“Bellkeeper, toll the bell!”

I whiled away the hours last night at work with a couple of Edgar Allan Poe tales on The Weird Circle, a 1940s mystery-horror series originally produced and recorded at NBC’s Recording Division and later distributed by syndicator Fredric Ziv. There’s a certain irony about Circle, in that the program itself is as mysterious as the short stories it weekly showcased. The actors on the program received no on-air credit (though some have been identified: Arnold Moss, Lawson Zerbe, Eleanor Audley, etc.), and no writing, directing or producing credits for the series exist today.

Even its broadcast history remains spotty: for example, the first of the two broadcasts I heard—Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher”—is dated April 15, 1946, the date the program made its debut over New York’s WOR. Jerry Haendiges’s Weird Circle log, however, assigns an August 29, 1943 date—but according to a source I consulted the program didn’t start until November of that same year. This same source also mentions that the show had a brief run on ABC from September 15-October 6, 1947. Perhaps we’ll never really know for certain.

The Weird Circle was a low-budget affair, presenting adaptations of classic stories from literature with an emphasis on gothic tales like “Frankenstein” and “Wuthering Heights.” This was essentially a cost-cutting measure: since most of the copyrights of these tales had expired, it eliminated the need for royalty payments. Among the authors showcased on the program were Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Emily Bronte, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Edgar Allan Poe was probably the author whose work was most represented on the series (“Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Tell Tale Heart,” “The Oblong Box,” etc.).

Despite its shoestring budget, I actually found the two productions I sampled fairly entertaining: “Usher” is, of course, the classic Poe tale that tells of the supernatural bond between twins Madeline and Roderick Usher—the last two branches on the Usher family tree. The second show, “The Cask of Amontillado” (11/25/46), was even better—the production fleshes out Poe’s legendary revenge tale a good deal, though the famous “bricking-the-guy-up-inside-the-wall” bit is discarded for a kindler, gentler “locking-him-up-in-a-cell-in-the-cellar” conclusion. Must have been a decree from Standards and Practices.

“In this cave by the restless sea, we are meant to call from out of the past, stories strange and weird. Bellkeeper, toll the bell—so that all may know we are gathered again in…The Weird Circle!” So went the show’s standard opening, uttered by a peculiar, otherworldly voice in the tradition of The Shadow and The Whistler. 78 episodes were produced—all extant today—and these broadcasts saw a new “weird circle” begin in the 1960s when the show was syndicated by Charles Michelson (who also reintroduced The Shadow, The Green Hornet, and The Lone Ranger to a new generation of listeners). Given its budget limitations, I must admit that the shows entertained me last night…so toll on, bellkeeper, toll on.

“Somewhere along the line a murderer makes a mistake—it’s my job to find that mistake.”

Author S.S. Van Dine introduced detective Philo Vance to the fraternity of literary sleuths with the 1926 novel The Benson Murder Case. Vance was described in this and subsequent novels as a wealthy connoisseur of the arts who dabbled in amateur detection, often assisting the district attorney in investigating crimes. The Vance novels (a total of nine in all) were later adapted successfully for the silver screen, with a number of actors offering their interpretation of the famed sleuth including William Powell (who made the most Vance features, including the 1933 film classic The Kennel Murder Case), Basil Rathbone, Warren William, and Edmund Lowe. Of particular interest to old-time radio fans is the 1939 release The Gracie Allen Murder Case, an amusing comedy-mystery (Gracie refers to the detective as “Fido”) based on a novel Van Dine released a year earlier. (The real Gracie co-stars in the movie version with Warren William as Vance, though it’s a shame that the film couldn’t find room for George—after all, he’s in the novel as well.)

It saddens me to report that the subsequent radio series based on Philo Vance just can’t measure up to the movies. There were three separate runs, the first lasting a brief summer stint on NBC from July 5-September 27, 1945, sponsored by Lifebuoy-Lever Brothers and starring Jose Ferrer as Philo. Frances Robinson played Ellen Deering, Vance’s secretary-love interest—but to avoid a possible messy sexual harassment suit it was strictly “Miss Deering” and “Mr. Vance” around the office. (I’ll refrain from revealing the nicknames they used for one another after working hours—this is a family blog, after all.)

Philo Vance resurfaced again July 23, 1946 for a brief ABC West Coast series, the details as to the length of its run and its cast/crew unfortunately remain unknown. Finally, the third time proved to be the charm as Frederic W. Ziv and the Ziv Corporation produced a 1948-50 syndicated series with Jackson Beck as Vance, Joan Alexander as Miss Deering, George Petrie as D.A. Frank Markham, and Humphrey Davis as Vance’s police force adversary, Sgt. Ernest Heath.

Jackson Beck was a veteran radio actor-announcer-narrator whose lengthy resume included shows like Grand Central Station, Life Can Be Beautiful, Easy Aces, The March of Time, and Hop Harrigan (as Tank Tinker). Philo Vance was not his only starring series; he also essayed the title role of The Cisco Kid on Mutual from 1942-45. But Beck is best remembered among OTR fans as the announcer-narrator of Mark Trail, Man Behind the Gun, Tom Corbett, Space Cadet…and The Adventures of Superman. “I’m still often asked to recreate the famous opening today,” he once commented regarding Superman. “It’s nice to be part of a legend.” His Vance co-star Joan Alexander also worked alongside him on Superman, and the two of them—along with star Bud Collyer—even provided the voices for a 1960s animated version of the show. Possessing one of the most distinctive voices around, Beck stretched beyond radio to animated cartoons (he voiced the spinach-eating sailor man’s nemesis Bluto in 300 Popeye TV cartoons), films (he’s the narrator of Woody Allen’s Take the Money and Run), and television commercials (among the products for which he’s provided voiceovers: Thompson’s Water Seal, Brawny Paper Towels, and Little Caesar’s Pizza).

In listening to some Philo Vance episodes last night at work, I confronted the unpleasant but nevertheless immutable truth that not all the programs broadcast during the Golden Age of Radio were…well, gold, I guess. Philo Vance is one of those shows. It’s not that the acting is bad, it’s just that it has this going-through-the-motions-to-pick-up-the-check feel to it; there is very little characterization, and the participants are often distant and emotionless. (For example, Vance often refers to the D.A. as “my friend,” but always calls him “Markham”—you’d think two buddies would use their respective first names.) The writing (by Kenny Lyons and Robert J. Shaw) is incredibly stiff and pedestrian, and desperately cries out for a smidge of humor. One gets the impression after sampling a couple of shows that the only person who had fun on this series was the organist.

In “The Flying Murder Case” (2/8/49), pilot Gregory Allen is murdered, and both his co-pilot Johnny Taylor and passenger Millard Crane are on the list of suspects since Allen was apparently cavorting with their women. The solution to this mystery is pretty obvious—even a meter maid would have picked out the guilty party in the time allowed. The second show, “The Butler Murder Case” (2/15/49), isn’t much of an improvement—Philo investigates the murder of a prominent dentist who was being blackmailed by an extortion specialist. This is definitely one series you can take a pass on—after spending an hour with Vance, Boston Blackie looks better and better all the time.

”Here’s adventure! Here’s romance! Here’s the famous Robin Hood of the old West…”

Because I practically vegetated in front of a television set while growing up, I have very fond memories of the TV western The Cisco Kid. To this day, however, I can’t for the life of me figured out why I watched the darn thing. I mean, it was a pleasant way to kill a half-hour, but there really wasn’t anything special about it—unless the fact that the series was in color had something to do with it. (Even at an early age, I associated black-and-white with television before my time, which was not in any way a bad thing.) I later found out that the good people at Ziv—who distributed The Cisco Kid in syndication—had the foresight to film the series this way, which paid off handsomely once color television took hold. Looking back, I think the fact that my mother also watched the show when she was a little gaffer might be why I sat through so many of those reruns. Then again, I could have just been waiting for something else to come on. Who can say?

The Cisco Kid was the creation of one William Sydney Porter—better known in literary circles as O. Henry, one of the masters of the short story (“The Gift of the Magi,” “The Ransom of Red Chief”). His Cisco was a hard-drinking, hard-loving Latino outlaw who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor, much in the manner of that English fellow from Sherwood Forest. The character made a particularly large splash on the silver screen in 1929 with In Old Arizona, a film that won its star, Warner Baxter, an Oscar for his portrayal of Cisco. A slew of B-Westerns followed, with Cisco also being played by Cesar Romero, Gilbert Roland, and Duncan Renaldo. Renaldo, with Leo Carrillo as Pancho, later played the famous bandit on the television version from 1950-56.

Cisco’s radio debut began October 2, 1942 on the Mutual network as a program originating from New York, and he was played by Jackson Beck, a well-known announcer and voice man (among his achievements: the voice of Bluto in many of the Popeye cartoons, and the pitchman for Little Caesar’s Pizza) who graduated to leading man status. Louis Sorin (Groucho Marx’s foil in Animal Crackers) added support as Pancho, the Kid’s sidekick. The radio show sort of toned down some of the more unsavory aspects of the character, casting him and Pancho in a sort of Lone-Ranger-and-Tonto-but-they're-always-mistaken-for-outlaws mode. The romantic qualities of the character were still in full bloom, however—many an episode would wrap up with Cisco stealing a kiss from the senorita he had just rescued. Pancho (“Chico” to his pal Cisco) served as comic relief, and in a show I listened to last night (“Condemned,” from 5/28/53) I was subjected (that’s about the kindest way I can put it) to his rapier-like wit:

PANCHO: Cisco…?

CISCO: Si, Pancho?

PANCHO: Cisco…do you remember Pancho’s Uncle Jose?

CISCO: Mmm…oh si, amigo…I remember your Uncle Jose very well, si…

PANCHO: …and Pancho’s Uncle Jose…now got the big herd of cows…

CISCO: Big herd of cows?

PANCHO: Si…

CISCO: Is that so?

PANCHO: Oh, si, si…and my Uncle Jose sells lots and lots of cream now, Cisco…

CISCO: He sells lots and lots of cream?

PANCHO: Oh, lots of cream…

CISCO: Well…does he not also sell lots and lots of milk?

PANCHO: Oh, no…Uncle Jose not bother with the milk, Cisco…

CISCO: No???

PANCHO: Just the cream…

CISCO: Well…that is very strange, Pancho…

PANCHO: That’s what the cows think, too, Cisco…

CISCO: Yeah?

PANCHO: Before Pancho’s Uncle Jose milk the cows, he turns them upside down…

CISCO: Wait a minute…he turns the cows upside down?

PANCHO: That’s what I say…he turns them upside down…

CISCO: Oh, that is hard to understand…why does he turn them upside down, Pancho?

PANCHO: So all the cream come to the top!

CISCO (in disgust) Oh, Pancho!

PANCHO (laughing) Oh, Cisco!

Oh brother. I’m beginning to see why these guys were wanted by the law—for impersonating Abbott & Costello. (Just imagine a Latino version of Lou screeching “¡Soy un maaaaaaaal muchacho!”*) Pancho may have mined his humor from discarded Bazooka Joe wrappers but he was loyal to Cisco, and (at least on television) was pretty handy with a bullwhip despite his bulk.

The Cisco Kid left Mutual on February 14, 1945 and moved west—literally—to the Pacific Coast in 1946, where it was heard three days a week regionally on Mutual-Don Lee. Cisco and Pancho were recast with Jack Mather and Harry Lang, respectively, and the show that following year became a transcribed syndicated series by Ziv, lasting until 1956. (I don’t have the precise dates handy, but apparently Mel Blanc briefly played the part of Pancho at one time, recycling his Pedro voice from The Judy Canova Show.) The two programs I previewed last night are from the syndicated run, the first being “The Cattleman’s War,” originally broadcast on Mutual May 26, 1953. In this episode, an autocratic rancher named Ed Domingo (the actor goes unbilled, but I’m pretty sure it’s Ken Christy) hires a gunman named—you’ll love this one—Billy Madison to kill his rival, Syd Baker. Sheriff Dobbs, the long arm of the law in those neck of the woods, deputizes Cisco and Pancho in order to head off an impending cattleman’s war—things get even stickier when the maladjusted Madison kills the sheriff, putting Cisco and Pancho in charge. The second show, “Condemned,” finds our two heroes falsely accused of murdering a prospector pal of theirs but they soon hunt down the real killers, two unsavory types who are operating an illegal goods-smuggling ring.

My opinion of the radio series is pretty much the same as the TV version—nothing to write home about, but it’s a painless listen at best. I was amused by the fact that both episodes (and apparently this was common on the show) contain a nice knock-down, drag-out donnybrook, the kind one is usually exposed to in your typical Republic Pictures serial chapter. Though the show is done to formula, it’s a successful one at that—and part of the audio magic created during the Golden Age of Radio.

*Translation: "I'm a baaaaaad boy!"

”…ever ready to roar to the rescue of a friend or the search of an enemy…”

Last night, I watched a DVD of The Desperate Hours, a 1955 Humphrey Bogart film that I had not seen in quite a long while. (To give you an idea of the time frame, I watched it on TBS—and you know how long it’s been since they’ve shown anything in black-and-white.) Viewing the movie inspired me to dig up a couple of Bogie broadcasts and make him the focus of today’s trip back to those Thrilling Days of Yesteryear.

For many years, Bogart had been approached by both producers and the networks to appear in a weekly radio series—but Bogie usually refused, not wanting to commit himself to a live microphone every week for fear that it would conflict with shooting schedules and family vacations. The revolution of audio tape in the late 1940s and early 1950s changed all that, however—writers Morton Fine and David Friedkin presented the actor with a proposal for a syndicated series, allowing him to pre-record the dialogue with the music and sound effects dubbed in later. Under this arrangement, he could do three to four shows a week, stockpiling a season’s worth of programs in a relatively short period of time. Bogart was amenable to this deal (“People don’t have to look at my ugly puss,” he commented wryly), and with the participation of his actress wife Lauren Bacall—Bold Venture was born.

Bogie and “Baby” had met on the set of their feature film together—To Have and Have Not—in 1944, and they shared an off-screen as well as on-screen chemistry, prompting the two to marry in 1945. Bold Venture was, in a sense, loosely based on that memorable film: Bogart was Slate Shannon, a Havana hotel owner who also skipped his own yacht, the Bold Venture, while Bacall essayed the role of Sailor Duval, Shannon’s sultry, sexy sidekick—described on the show as his “ward,” she had been “willed” to Shannon by her father for her own “protection.” (Show of hands…who among you here honestly believe that Bacall would have trouble taking care of herself? That’s what I thought.) Set against “the sultry setting of tropical Havana and the mysterious islands of the Caribbean,” it was a very entertaining series, particularly for “Bogie-and-Baby” fans, providing “adventure, intrigue, mystery and romance.”

Bold Venture was unique in that Calypso music was used for the musical bridges between scene changes, because, according to Bogart, “we don’t use any of that narrative stuff.” The Calypso singing was provided by a character named King Moses, portrayed by Jester Hairston, a gifted composer and choral director who conducted the choral music for Frank Capra’s 1937 film classic Lost Horizon. In addition to being a frequent performer on Amos ‘n’ Andy (he usually played the part of Leroy, the Kingfish’s brother-in-law), he also provided the singing voice for Sidney Poitier in the actor’s Oscar-winning role in Lillies of the Field (1963). Modern-day audiences might recognize Hairston in reruns playing the role of Rollie Forbes on the hit TV sitcom Amen (1986-91).

Bold Venture was produced by Humphrey Bogart’s Santana Productions (Santana was the name of the actor’s yacht), but was distributed by the Ziv Company (a successful radio program syndicator whose other hits included The Cisco Kid and Boston Blackie), who sold the series to 423 stations by the time of the show’s debut broadcast, March 26, 1951. A year later, it was broadcast in 600 markets. Bold Venture was a cut above the usual syndicated fare, since Ziv ponied up $12,000 per episode (the Bogarts pocketed $4,000 of that) to ensure that the writing and production would be top-notch. Ultimately, Bogie and Bacall netted close to half a million dollars for their efforts, thanks to a lucrative fee-plus-percentage deal with the Ziv people.

Of the 78 episodes broadcast between 1951-53, some 28 episodes still survive to be listened to today, which is precisely what I did last evening. Not all 28, of course, but a pair of good entries; in the first, “Matt Jeffries Dies,” Slate and Sailor find themselves in hot water when a fisherman who dies on their boat is discovered to have been poisoned. “Welcome Back to Civilization, Dead Man” also features the pair in trouble; a man named George Carson is promptly murdered after returning from a treasure hunt—and his killers threaten Slate and Sailor when they come looking for his gold. Both shows have that notorious syndicated “canned” quality, but the dialogue is pretty snappy and the plots better than average. Bold Venture may have been one of radio’s most expensive dramatic series, but it paid off in rich dividends—and Ziv even revisited the show again in 1959 for a television version, starring Dane Clark (the poor man’s Bogart) and Joan Marshall.

“…enemy to those who make him an enemy…friend to those who have no friends.”

I had originally kicked around the idea of examining a Thanksgiving-related OTR program episode for today’s blog entry, but for a myriad of reasons—the main one being I didn’t think about it until the last minute—I declined to do so. Rest assured, I will be a little more on the ball come December; I have already selected a number of Christmas-themed shows to look at.

I suppose I could connect the program I listened to last night in some small way to Thanksgiving, in as much as I thought it was a real “turkey.” Well, perhaps that’s a little harsh. Charlie Summers, moderator of The Old-Time Radio Digest, describes Boston Blackie like so: “Ok, I'll admit it, it's a guilty pleasure. Listen to too many in a row, and your brain might turn to mush; but a show or two at a time is just the thing.” I haven’t been able to ascertain whether I’m just a snob or if Charlie’s a lowbrow. (By the way, he has a log of the series—in .pdf form—of the series on his website.)

Boston Blackie, a fictional detective created by author Jack Boyle, is a modern day Robin Hood figure who was at one time a skilled thief but decided to travel the path of the straight-and-narrow, now solving crimes rather than committing them. Assisting him in his sleuthing activities are nurse Mary Wesley—Blackie’s love interest—and sidekick Shorty; hampering his efforts is the incredibly dimwitted Inspector Faraday of the New York Police Department, who isn’t completely convinced that Blackie has gone legit.

The Boston Blackie stories were prominently featured in magazines like Cosmopolitan and Redbook during the early 1900s, and the detective even managed to make a splash on the big screen during the silent era with Boston Blackie’s Little Pal (1918) and Boston Blackie (1923). The character furthered cemented his cinematic fame in a series of B-pictures cranked out by Columbia during the 1940s and starring Chester Morris. Eleven films were produced, starting in 1941 with Meet Boston Blackie and ending with Boston Blackie’s Chinese Venture in 1949. The Encore Mystery Channel showcased a few of these movies sometime back and they’re still enjoyable today—breezy, entertaining little films that move along at a rapid clip and feature a delightful mix of mystery and humor.

It was, in fact, Chester Morris who starred in the first Boston Blackie series to appear on radio, as a summer replacement for Amos ‘n’ Andy over NBC beginning June 23, 1944. A year later, Ziv Productions continued what they had originally initiated by inking a deal with the Rubsam and Horman brewing company in New York for a “live” production on WOR. The series, which had runs on both Mutual and the Blue networks, starred actor Richard Kollmar (Morris was unable to do the show since the series originated from New York) as the famous sleuth; Kollmar would end up appearing in 220 recorded and syndicated episodes of the show over a roughly five-year period.

A critic of Blackie once described it as “high in corn content, but hardly one of radio’s schedule stoppers,” and I think that’s a pretty fair assessment. (Besides, when you crank out episodes like sausages, that sort of thing is bound to happen.) Last night I listened to two broadcasts, the first one dated April 16, 1946 and titled “The Baseball Player Murder.” During a ballgame, player Mike Allen is sliding into second base—but when he doesn’t get up, it is quickly discovered that he has been shot and murdered. Inspector Faraday is talking with two team members—Lefty Jones, the team captain, and manager Mac Donlin—and learns that Allen had phoned his nemesis Boston Blackie shortly before the game got underway. Blackie, the number-one suspect, is brought to Faraday for questioning:

ROLLINS: All right, you get in there, Blackie…come on inside…here he is, Inspector…Boston Blackie…I found him snooping around out on the grounds…

FARADAY: Oh yeah? Okay, you guys, sit around on those benches over there and relax…well, Blackie…so Mike Allen made a phone call to you before the game, huh? What did he want?

BLACKIE: I don’t know…I wasn’t home before the game…

FARADAY: Where were you?

BLACKIE: Out…

FARADAY: You’re gonna be in a whole lot more out when I get through with you…where were you when Allen was shot?

BLACKIE: Still in the same place, Faraday…out…

FARADAY: Out where?

BLACKIE: No place in particular…just out…

FARADAY: Rollins, grab his arms…

ROLLINS: Yes, sir!

FARADAY: Now maybe we’ll get somewhere…

BLACKIE: Er, just a minute, Rollins…you haven’t got this arm very tight here…

ROLLINS: Oh?

BLACKIE: Try a better grip…

ROLLINS: How’s that?

BLACKIE: Oh, good and tight…okay, that’ll do it…what now, Inspector?

FARADAY: Now I search you, that’s what…let’s see your coat pockets…mmm hmm…change…paper clip…what’s that for, Blackie?

BLACKIE: To clip papers, Faraday…see, you learn something every day…

FARADAY: And this…what’s this, a hat check? No…it’s a rain check…for a ballgame! For this ballgame, too! Whaddya know about that? So you were in the stands watching the ballgame, huh?

BLACKIE: Guilty as charged…what’s the penalty for that?

FARADAY: I’ll penalty you…I’ll find a reason for you to kill Allen…I’ll prove you had the opportunity!

BLACKIE: Faraday…dear friend Faraday…in reply to your most recent and most ridiculous suspicions, may I say that…A, I did not kill Mike Allen…B, I came to the park to see a ballgame…and C, I am going to help you find Allen’s killer…

FARADAY: Oh yeah? Well, D, E, and F, you’re gonna keep outta my way and you’re not leaving town, you get that?!!

Blackie and Mary go to the ballpark later that night to investigate the scene of the crime, and Blackie determines from the method Allen used to slide into second that the direction of the gunshot must have come from behind the scoreboard. Climbing the steps and entering the scoreboard, the two of them discover the body of the scorekeeper, who apparently surprised the murderer—and so the killer knocked him out, accidentally killing him. Mary warns Blackie that if Faraday catches him with the dead body he’ll definitely be in Casa del Bow-Wow when—as if on cue—Faraday strolls in. He’s been tailing Blackie all this time, which comes as a relief to the detective, since Faraday surely knows he didn’t kill the scorekeeper.

Warned to stay off the case, Blackie and his sidekick Shorty decided to pay Lefty Jones a visit at his hotel—Lefty isn’t in, but Mrs. Jones is, and she gives the two of them a rather chilly reception. Leaving, Blackie asks her not to reveal to Faraday that he’s been by, but no sooner are he and Shorty out the door when she calls down to the desk clerk, Joe French, and begs him to call the police. French pulls a gun on the duo as they are starting to exit the hotel, but Blackie is able to get the gat away from him; knocking him out cold, Blackie and Shorty beat a hasty retreat.

Blackie begins to suspect that there may be something going on between Mrs. Jones and French (well, the half-hour is nearly up, he’s got to do something) and he also suspects that French might have tried to kill Lefty but wasn’t aware that the team’s manager changed the batting order at the last minute, and so he killed Allen instead. On a hunch—the kind that one would only see on Charles Laughton, I might add—he calls French and, pretending to be the hotel porter, tells the clerk that he saw him sneaking up the stairs to the scoreboard the day of the game and that the two of them need to discuss it. He borrows Shorty’s hotel room for the meeting, and when there’s a knock at the door he opens it, expecting French—but he’s in for a disappointment:

FARADAY: …it’s me, Faraday and I’m…Blackie! What are you doing here?

BLACKIE: I could ask you that question with better reason…believe me…

FARADAY: I get it, Blackie…now you’re adding blackmail to your other activities…you called French and gave him some story about seeing him behind the scoreboard yesterday, huh?

BLACKIE: And he called you, and…told you that, huh…

FARADAY: Of course…only he said the hotel porter called him…now what’s that all about?

BLACKIE: That was me playing hotel porter, Faraday…I think I’ve got something…

FARADAY: Yeah, and I’ve got you…which is nothing…

BLACKIE: Listen…I think French shot Mike Allen…

FARADAY: Yeah?

BLACKIE: …thinking he was killing Lefty Jones…and that he still thinks the porter did see him at the ballpark…look…he could never stop me from telling what I know if I were the porter and did see him, could he?

FARADAY: So?

BLACKIE: So, he told the story to you, knowing that if he did, no matter what I said from there on he’d be in the clear…Faraday, I hate to ask for favors, but…well, this time I’m gonna…

FARADAY: Oh, this time you gotta ask for favors…I got a gun in my pocket I’ll use in a minute if you get tough…

BLACKIE: Here’s your gun…I took that out of your pocket right after you came in here…

FARADAY: What???

BLACKIE: Here, take it, it’s heavy…now listen to me, Faraday…

Because Faraday is as confused as the rest of us as to how Blackie was able to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together with the slimmest of information, he allows Blackie to con him into setting up another meeting with French who, this time, spills the beans in front of Faraday and ends up being sent to the slammer.

I listened to a second Blackie broadcast (4/23/46), “The Stolen Car Ring,” afterwards and it was a little better written and better constructed—Mary’s car is stolen and the thieves (who run a repair garage as a front) replace the engine in order to cover up the theft, which also leads to a murder that Faraday accuses Blackie of committing. After the second episode, I decided enough was enough—and that maybe Charlie was right about Boston Blackie after all. Your mileage may vary, of course.

“I walk alone…”

When I first set up shop here at Thrilling Days of Yesteryear, one of the promises I made to myself was to make sure I included a wide range of old-time radio programs available in these discussions. I’m sure it hasn’t gone unnoticed that my OTR preferences lean a little toward comedy; in my defense, though, I need to point out that many of the previous reviews posted were done simply because I had been listening to a Radio Spirits collection called Radio Comedy Classics.

Last night, I sampled a couple of shows from a recent Round Robin purchase—and I have to tell you, this one’s a real doozy: I Was a Communist For the FBI. Based on a best-selling book by Matt Cvetic, the series starred Dana Andrews as an undercover operative (Cvetic) who infiltrated the Communist Party, reporting to the Feds on the Party’s activities.

Communist was produced during the early 1950s to capitalize on the then-current Red Scare—by a man whose last name has become virtually synonymous with both radio and television syndication. Frederic W. Ziv—the son of the inventor of the buttonhole machine—started his career in a $10-a-week-job in a Cincinnati ad agency and later advanced to owning a successful company that would produce programs sold directly to individual stations. Among the Ziv properties that became hits on radio were Boston Blackie, Philo Vance, The Cisco Kid, and Favorite Story. Later, Ziv would duplicate his radio success on the tube with successful TV transplants of Cisco and Blackie, in addition to such series as Highway Patrol, Sea Hunt, Tombstone Territory, and Bat Masterson.

At the time of Communist’s debut, the motion picture industry was experiencing a slight decline from both the onslaught of television and the government-enforced breakup of the industry’s production and distribution monopolies. Many film stars soon discovered that radio could provide both a lucrative salary and public exposure; among these stars were Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall (Bold Venture), Joel McCrea (Tales of the Texas Rangers), Alan Ladd (Box 13), Glenn Ford (The Adventures of Christopher London) and Brian Donlevy (Dangerous Assignment). The Ziv company productions would prove to be tailor-made for these stars, particularly the Bogarts (who appeared in Ziv's Venture) and Dana Andrews; the programs were recorded in advance to accommodate movie-making schedules, and the stars could earn a hefty sum by lending their “name value” to the shows. Seventy-eight episodes of I Was a Communist For the FBI were produced between 1952-54, and the series was sold to more than 600 stations—much more saturation than any network could provide.

I Was a Communist For the FBI is definitely a candidate for a Cold War time capsule; an espionage-thriller that nicely captures the anti-Communist hysteria which at that time was at its peak. Stereotypes run rampant on this show: as Elia Kazan and Budd Schulberg used corrupt union/gangster-types to represent Communists in their allegory On the Waterfront (1954); so follows Communist, which shades the show’s party members as common hoods. The Commies come across as cold, emotionless individuals completely devoid of a sense of humor; although it is unintentionally funny when they address one another as “Comrade.”

The first broadcast I listened to was “Little Red Schoolhouse” (yes, I can hear you groaning out there, they’re all that bad) originally broadcast May 7, 1952. It’s the third episode of the series (although the script was also used as the audition program for the show), and details the attempts of the Communist Party and their plans to subvert a small American college. At a meeting, Cvetic is introduced to fellow Party member Stephanie:

STEPHANIE: Comrade…Matt…Comrade Matthew…no, I like “Comrade Matt” better…it’s hard…tough…like you…

CVETIC: It’s a tough world, Comrade Stephanie…no room for softness…we’re nothing…the Party and its beliefs are everything…do you disagree with that?

STEPHANIE: Of course not, Comrade Matt…it’s only that being near you makes me feel like a woman…is that so terrible?

CVETIC: That’s dangerous talk…I’d be more careful…

STEPHANIE: I’m always careful…we’ll talk more later…

Enough of the Commie singles bar—the episode contains a good deal of taut conflict because a newly-arrived Soviet agent (and we know he’s Russian due to his Akim Tamiroff-type accent), Vassily Konastoi, apparently has spotted Cvetic meeting with his FBI contact, Ed Grayson. Or has he? The agent continues to play a game of cat-and-mouse with our hero throughout the episode:

KONASTOI: Something to drink?

CVETIC: No thanks…

(SFX: drinking sounds)

KONASTOI: Ah…my throat was dry…I have had the feeling all evening that we have met before, Comrade Cvetic…

CVETIC: Not that I can recall…

KONASTOI: Well, no matter…I’ll remember sometime…I always do…

So, not only is Cvetic sweating it out, praying that Konastoi’s memory doesn’t get better—but he’s also having to fend off the advances of Comrade Stephanie, who apparently has not enjoyed the company of male comrades (or, as Cvetic reports it to Konastoi, “bourgeois emotionalism”) in quite some time. Cvetic and his fellow Party-member-in-heat are assigned to infiltrate a local college with Commie propaganda:

KONASTOI: There is one professor at Bryson who will be your best asset, Comrade Cvetic…a Professor Walden…

CVETIC: Is he a fellow traveler?

KONASTOI: A very reluctant one…you will have to play down everything except how Communism will save the oppressed from the tyranny of Fascism…Walden is fond of helping underdogs…

CVETIC: Well, uh…can you get us a big name, Comrade Konastoi? Someone to lecture the students?

KONASTOI: I will send a wire tonight to Philip Stanley…

STEPHANIE: The singer?

KONASTOI: Yes…he has a big reputation…the kids will listen to him even if he is a pinko chump…

The propaganda campaign at the college comes off without a hitch, and, as an added bonus, a riot breaks out at a demonstration by the student body (“Our work here is done,” asserts Cvetic.). Arriving back at Party headquarters (the “little red schoolhouse” of the title), Comrade Stephanie appears to have had a crisis of faith:

STEPHANIE: I’m sick of it, Matt…I’m sick of the rottenness and the lying and cheating…let’s quit the party, you and I…we could go away together…

CVETIC: What? You must be out of your stupid mind! Talking to me this way…

STEPHANIE: What…what are you going to do?

CVETIC: What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to report you…the party has ways of dealing with treason…

STEPHANIE: Oh no…please don’t turn me in, Matt…I’m sorry…

(SFX: door opens)

CVETIC: It’s too late…get inside…

(SFX: door closes, footsteps, door opens and closes)

KONASTOI: I heard the report on the radio…you did a good job, comrades…what’s the trouble? You look angry…

CVETIC: I am angry…this traitor just tried to make me quit the party…

KONASTOI: Oh? Did she? (he begins to chuckle, then bursts out in laughter) I told you, Comrade Stephanie…Comrade Cvetic is as solid as the Kremlin…

STEPHANIE: He sure is…

CVETIC: Wait…wait a minute…you mean I was just being tested?

STEPHANIE: Testing high-ranking party members is my job, Comrade Cvetic…I’m an agent of the M.V.D….now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to town and file my report…

Just when Cvetic thinks he’s successfully dodged that bullet, Konastoi reaches into a drawer and pulls out a gun, because he’s remembered where he saw Cvetic—chatting it up with the nice Fed. He plans to take Cvetic out and stage his suicide—fortunately, the FBI has had Cvetic under surveillance and ambush Konastoi outside his car. In his getaway, Konastoi takes a curve a little too fast—and his car plunges down an embankment below, killing him instantly.

I Was a Communist For the FBI has a high-camp content, as I have certainly demonstrated here—but I think that’s what makes the series so doggone entertaining. The whole Communists-as-gangsters motif helps out a great deal; while listening to the program I couldn’t help but be reminded of the film Donnie Brasco (1997), in which yet another Fed infiltrates the mob, only to find himself identifying a little too much with his fellow Mafia “comrades.” There is also a good deal of dramatic suspense in Communist; the follow-up episode I listened to, “Red Red Herring,” demonstrates the tightrope Cvetic walks: he has to maintain the fiction of being a Communist in order to continue his work and at the same time, gets a lot of grief from family and friends, to whom he cannot reveal his undercover work. “Herring” also details how he frames a fellow Party member as being a “mole” in order to throw off suspicion from himself; kind of a “does-the-end-justify-the-means” lesson in ethics.

Before I Was a Communist For the FBI made its radio debut, the story of Matt Cvetic had previously been told on the silver screen in a 1951 Warner Brothers film starring Frank Lovejoy (no slouch to radio himself; he was the star of the excellent NBC series Nightbeat, which ran from 1950 to 1952). I guess they got Dana Andrews to do the radio version because he was admittedly a bigger name than Lovejoy; plus having anti-Commie films like The Iron Curtain (1949) on your resume doesn’t hurt, either. Ziv also brought another undercover operative’s book to TV in 1953 with the series I Led Three Lives, starring Richard Carlson as Boston advertising executive Herbert Philbrick, who also infiltrates the Communist Party (I’d be curious to know if he ever crossed paths with Cvetic; I’ll bet that would have been a hoot.) With the exception of a half-a-dozen missing episodes, I Was a Communist For the FBI is still around today to amuse and entertain us as a genuine Cold War artifact.