Everybody loves Raymond

Having watched The Further Perils of Laurel & Hardy, Harold Lloyd’s World of Comedy and the DVD set Weiss-O-Rama of late, I cannot escape the fact that the silent film bug has bit me again.  It’s a recurring phenomena (though certainly nothing to get all plastic-sheeting-and-duct-tape about) whereupon I find myself buying goodly-sized portions of DVDs showcasing silent cinema, and again, while the consequences are slight (and most enjoyable), it does have a tiny tendency to put a dent in my wallet.  I’ve procured within the past two weeks alone some silent comedies and dramas from the likes of Grapevine Video, Sunrise Silents and Kino—which I hope to find time to watch and review in this space this month.

I’ve been a fan of silent films since I was a little gaffer—particularly the works of the great comedians.  I’m not entirely sure when and how this came about, though I’ve long suspected that my exposure to Buster Keaton, Harry Langdon and Charley Chase in their Columbia two-reelers would go a long way toward explaining it.  I’m also old enough to remember the hoopla surrounding the return of Charlie Chaplin to the United States (not knowing at the time, of course, that the U.S. was responsible for kicking him out in the first place) to participate in the 1972 Academy Awards.  A few years later, I made a point to borrow from the town library Walter Kerr’s seminal reference tome The Silent Clowns—not long after its publication, the author/critic appeared occasionally on a program that I watched on our local PBS affiliate entitled The Silent Comedy Film Festival.

But enough about my truly odd childhood.  This October 15th and 17th, the Museum of Modern Art has scheduled showings of Hands Up! (1926), Raymond Griffith’s Civil War comedic masterpiece.  I’d certainly love to be there (although Pam says the popcorn really sucks) but since I cannot, I spend last night (through the courtesy of Grapevine) watching it in the confines of my own home, where the popcorn is assuredly better.  Hands Up! is acknowledged by many silent comedy fans to be Raymond Griffith’s best feature, even earning a spot on the National Film Registry in 2005.  Author Kerr enthusiastically championed Griffith in Clowns, writing:  “Raymond Griffith seems to me to occupy a handsome fifth place—after Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd and Langdon—in the silent comedy pantheon, a place that is his by right of his refusal to ape his contemporaries and his insistence on following the devious curve of an entirely idiosyncratic eye.”

It would be difficult for someone like myself to argue with Mr. Kerr’s assessment (though I do take issue with his assigning Langdon to fourth place—I think a strong case can be made for Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle) since I’ve only seen the one Griffith vehicle—and in fact, more knowledgeable fans than I demur based on the reality that many of Griffth’s films have been lost to the ravages of time.  In a February 2005 article in Classic Images, Bruce Calvert informs readers that only two of Griffith’s best comedies—Hands and Paths to Paradise (1925)—are available on video; some of his supporting performances also exist in that medium, but the rest of his starring films still extant remain locked away in private archives.  (In the case of Paradise, nearly every available print is missing the film’s final reel.)

But rather than lament what’s unavailable, allow me to praise what is: Hands Up! is a first-rate feature comedy, featuring Griffith as a Confederate spy assigned to keep a Nevada gold mine out of the hands of the Union Army (represented by Captain Montagu Love).  During the course of his mission, he faces a firing squad (one of the film’s most memorable sequences, as he cavalierly tosses plates in the air to distract his would-be executioners) and Indians on the warpath, and manages to fall in love with both daughters (Marian Nixon, Virginia Lee Corbin) of the mine owner (Mack Swain)—a sticky wicket resolved at the end with a gag that I’m certain raised more than a few eyebrows at the time.  Griffith’s unflappable character (adorned in silk hat and tuxedo) makes the comedic entanglements work, displaying a breezy insouciance that is positively engaging.  I also find Hands Up! intriguing in that like Keaton’s The General, both of its protagonists are backing the Confederate cause…even though we all know (with the possible exception of a few people hanging out in my neck of the woods) how that turned out.

In The Silent Clowns, Kerr states that “…’Hands Up!’ contains some work that is daring—for its period, certainly—and some that is masterfully delicate; the work of an inventive, unaggressive, amiably iconoclastic intelligence.”  To me, the test of a really good silent film is whether or not it encourages me to seek other entries by the same artists (actors, directors, writers, etc.) and in the case of Hands Up! it’s passed the exam with flying colors.

The man who still won’t lie down

A few days ago, I wrote up a little review about the five-DVD release “Ham”: The Lost Magic of Lloyd Hamilton by Looser Than Loose (“Made with pride in New Hampshire, USA”), a company specializing in silent comedy shorts, old-time radio, etc.  When purchasing this set, it was kind of an afterthought because what I really had my eye on was their latest six-DVD collection, Buster Keaton: Educational Two-Reelers.  Now, by “educational” I don’t mean the shorts like the ones found on the Mackinac release Industrial Strength Keaton, but rather the sixteen two-reelers Buster churned for Educational Pictures between 1934 and 1937.

As Leonard Maltin writes in The Great Movie Shorts: “Hollywood has never been a particularly logical place, so it seemed perfectly natural to most people that one of the leading producers of comedy shorts was named Educational Pictures.”  In fact, the studio—founded by Earle W. Hammons in 1919—was originally commissioned to produce shorts for schools, but somehow got sidetracked along the way…so Hammons turned to comedy instead.  In the 1920s, Educational was one of the top mirth makers in the picture business, with product featuring stars like Lloyd Hamilton and Lupino Lane.  By the 1930s, however, the studio lost a bit of its former luster, as Maltin explains:

If one searched for a key word to describe the Educational comedies of the 1930s, the best one might be “cheap.”  Educational films almost always looked cheap, even though they were made in most cases by seasoned veterans.  One problem was the claustrophobia of shooting at the company’s eastern studio in Astoria, Long Island.  In addition, one suspects that the largest chunk of the small budgets went to pay the stars’ salaries, leaving very little for sets, costumes, and technical frills.  Nevertheless, the comedies (which were distributed by 20th Century Fox) always made money, despite the fact that the quality of the material was often downright poor.

“The best of the old comedy favorites…the brightest of the new stars” shouted the ad copy for Educational, and in 1934 new Educational hire Buster Keaton certainly qualified for the former part of that statement.  Keaton’s fortunes had taken a precipitous plunge since his glory days in the silents, and in 1933 was fired by MGM (the studio that seemed heckbent on ruining his career) because of his inability to toe the company line and report for work in the manner dictated by his studio bosses (his pull on the bottle was in full swing by that time, as anyone who’s seen What? No Beer? will testify).  His personal demons made him practically unemployable, but perpetually spiffed or not, Educational proved to be the only studio willing to throw him a lifeline.

“Legend has it that Buster Keaton’s career started sliding downhill in 1930 and never stopped—that his talkie films are unspeakable horrors,” writes Maltin in Movie Shorts.  “To be sure, they are not in the same league as Keaton’s silents, but they show a comic talent very much alive, and, in some cases, they compare favorably to other comedies being made at the same time.”  I’m sure I’ve mentioned in this space that my first exposure to The Great Stone Face was watching his Columbia shorts on television as a little shaver, and though I’m partial to the Columbias I must confess viewing the shorts in this Looser Than Loose collection has made me reconsider my position.  The Educational shorts (many co-directed by Keaton and Charles Lamont) aren’t the slapdash, mechanical efforts supervised by the likes of comedy directors such as Jules White, but are presented at a more leisurely pace that allows Keaton to crib ideas from his past silent shorts.  Having watched all of the Educationals over the past several days, I’m convinced that Buster’s batting average is better than previously noted…though as a devoted fan I’m certainly hip to the fact that I might be a tad prejudiced in this arena.

In the documentary Buster Keaton: A Hard Act to Follow, Keaton’s widow Eleanor divulged that the only Educational two-reeler he had any particular fondness for was Grand Slam Opera (1936), and it’s still my personal favorite—a brisk and funny outing that has Buster competing for a girl’s affections at the same time he’s seeking fame and fortune on a radio show patterned after Major Bowes’ Original Amateur Hour.  By that same token, Leonard Maltin singles out amusing efforts like The Gold Ghost (1934), Allez Oop (1934), and One Run Elmer (1935) for special attention in Movie Shorts.  I particularly enjoyed a pair of shorts that don’t get the equal amount of attention as those I’ve previously mentioned: Tars and Stripes (1935) provides some excellent opportunities for mirth (including a hilarious running gag in which Buster schemes to be the first in line for chow outside the mess hall) playing a would-be sailor who keeps running afoul of petty officer Vernon Dent (longtime nemesis to the Three Stooges) by getting a little too cozy with Dent’s girlfriend (Dorothea Kent).  Mixed Magic (1936) is another neglected gem; in this one Buster becomes assistant to a jealous magician (Eddie Lambert) and proceeds to make a complete shambles out of the man’s act.

That having been said, there are a goodly amount of clinkers in Buster’s Educational output, including Palooka from Paducah (1935), Jail Bait (1937) and Ditto (1937).  A 1935 two-reeler, The Timid Young Man, is of some historical interest because it marks the only time that the “King of Comedy” (Mack Sennett) worked alongside the Great Stone Face…if only the short hadn’t turned out so “aggressively average,” as my friend Nick would say.  Keaton also kept the spirit of nepotism alive by hiring members of his family (father Joe, mother Myra, sister Louise and brother Harry) to populate the supporting casts: Joe, Myra and Louise appear in Paducah while mom, sis and Harry headline Love Nest on Wheels (1937), an amusing short (Buster’s last—and I realize I’m the minority regarding the laugh quotient on this one) that recycles gags from Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle’s The Bell Boy (1918) and even reunites him with Arbuckle nephew Al St. John.  Myra and Louise also appeared in the manic Way Up Thar (1935), the two-reeler that served as Mack Sennett’s directorial swan song but introduced Joan Davis to the silver screen (the Sons of the Pioneers are also in this one, including a young Leonard Slye…better known as Roy Rogers).  This delightful short is featured among the ample bonus extras included in this six-DVD collection.

Other extras in the Keaton Educational collection include a 1957 appearance on Circus Time (I’m pretty sure it’s 1957, since Paul Winchell introduces Buster and notes that The Buster Keaton Story will be appearing in theatres soon) and a 1960’s TV sketch with Buster, Lucille Ball (who met Keaton while she was at MGM and became his devoted protégé) and Harvey Korman (as a cop).  There’s also a 1926 one-reeler (a Kodascope cut down) with Educational Pictures star Johnny Arthur—the poor man’s Charley Chase—and if sounds like I’m being a bit snarky about this, the short, Home Cured, is a blueprint for a later effort Chase made for Columbia in 1937, Calling All Doctors.  (Cured is included here because it was directed by William Goodrich—who was none other than Keaton’s mentor, Roscoe Arbuckle.)

When writing about Looser Than Loose’s Lloyd Hamilton set I neglected to mention that there are a few “Easter eggs” present on the discs; most of these are promotional shorts released by the Jam Handy Company in the 1930s and 1940s, and can easily be located on the Internets.  The Keaton set has an amusing one I hadn’t seen previously, a 1938 one-reeler for Chevrolet called Back of the Mike, in which a young boy listens intently to a radio Western serial, with the action switching back-and-forth from a dramatization of the proceedings (what’s taking place in the boy’s mind) to the same play being performed in a broadcast studio.  It’s fun to watch—and highly recommended to old-time radio fans—though I seriously doubt that a western serial program would require the big honkin’ studio used in this short (not to mention the hefty cast and crew to do voices and sound effects).  If that’s not enough to inspire you to invest in this collection, there’s always a public domain copy of Hollywood Steps Out (1941), a Warner Brothers outing that features a cartoon version of the Three Stooges doing their eye-poking and slapping to a conga beat…and an animated Clark Gable reminding us: “Don’t go away, folks—this oughta be good.”  (I just wanted to see if there were any Night Flight fans in the audience.)

“Bless his heart…buh-less his little heart!”

After Here We Go Again, I cranked up the DVD player for a viewing of the 1944 Lum & Abner feature Goin’ to Town. I have to say at this point in the game, this vehicle has entertained me the most of any of the L&A films that I’ve seen. (Keep in mind that I’ve still not had the opportunity to catch what fans call their best film, 1946’s Partners in Time—but that shall be rectified very soon, thanks to a recent eBay purchase.)

A pair of oil company executives (Andrew Toombes, George Chandler) are passing through Pine Ridge and relieve themselves of boredom by playing some practical jokes on the town’s inhabitants—including convincing Lum & Abner (Chester Lauck, Norris Goff) that there’s oil underneath the Jot ‘Em Down Store. The boys decide to start their own oil exploration company, and persuade the townsfolk to invest by mortgaging their properties—but the boom turns out to be a bust, so Messrs. Edwards and Peabody are forced to journey to Chicago to try and sell the company to the original jokers. Their associate (Jack Rice) buys them out for a princely sum, allowing them to redeem themselves in the eyes of their Pine Ridge neighbors once again.

I know this plot sounds similar to that of Two Weeks to Live (1943), and it is—but Goin’ to Town (1944) is a much superior film. It benefits from swift, no-nonsense direction from veteran comedy director Leslie Goodwins; Goodwins’ resume includes many of the Mexican Spitfire features (with Lupe Velez) and the comedy shorts of Edgar Kennedy and Leon Errol to boot. He was a pretty experienced B-movie comedy director, and Goin’ to Town is all the better for it. It eliminates the obviously phony and painfully unfunny stunt work of Two Weeks to Live, and concentrates more on Pine Ridge and its delightfully eccentric characters. There are more characters from the radio program in this movie than in any other: Cedric Weehunt, Squire Skimp, Grandpappy Spears and Sister Simpson are all showcased here—with character Grady Sutton making his second appearance as Cedric (he was previously seen in The Bashful Bachelor) and Danny Duncan in his second of three appearances as Grandpap.

Dick Elliott, by the way, makes a sensational Squire Skimp (the role was previously played by Oscar O’Shea in Bachelor and Two Weeks); Elliott was a veteran character actor who just might possibly have appeared in every single film produced in the 30s and 40s (yes, I am exaggerating here) but he’s best remembered as the cantankerous old fart who tries to give James Stewart advice on how to romance Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). (Elliott would reprise his Skimp role in Partners in Time as well.) L&A fans are, of course, well aware that these denizens of Pine Ridge were played by Lauck (Cedric, Grandpap) and Goff (Squire) on the radio show, so it’s great that they were able to find actors to flesh out these characters—I suppose Chet and “Tuffy” could have played them via a split screen, but the low-budget nature of these movies no doubt put the kibosh on that plan.

Other performers in this film include a young Barbara Hale (best remembered as Della Street on TV’s Perry Mason), Florence Lake (“wife” to Edgar Kennedy in many of his RKO comedy shorts, which is probably why Goodwins cast her in this movie), and Herbert Rawlinson. Nils T. Granlund (N.T.G. to his friends) and his bevy of beautiful babes are also on hand to entertain in a memorable nightclub sequence (when the maitre’d asks Lum & Abner if they have a reservation or a table, Abner asks his partner, “Was we supposed to bring our own table?”) With a funny script written by Charles R. Marion (who would go on to pen many of the Leo Gorcey/Huntz Hall Bowery Boys efforts) and Charles E. Roberts (responsible for many of RKO’s comedy two-reelers), Goin’ to Town is definitely my favorite of the Lum & Abner feature films—until my copy of Partners in Time arrives in the post, that is.

Wednesday Night at the Movies

I had last night off, and I’ve been itchin’ to watch some of these DVDs that I purchased recently—so I treated myself to a midnight double feature of old-time radio-related films. First off the bat, 1942’s Here We Go Again—the follow-up to the successful feature Look Who’s Laughing (1941) which memorably teamed Edgar Bergen & Charlie McCarthy and Fibber McGee & Molly on screen.

Look Who’s Laughing starts out with Edgar & Charlie (performing a reprisal of their famous vaudeville act, “The Operation,” in front of a radio audience) so it seems only fitting that Here We Go Again begin with the McGees. Fibber & Molly have planned a big shindig to celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary, but their pals in Wistful Vista have given them the big brush-off, electing to vacation at a swanky lakeside resort instead. So the McGees decide to head that way themselves (although they can’t afford the tariff to stay there) and upon their arrival, encounter Otis Cadwalader (Gale Gordon, in his film debut)—Molly’s old beau and Fibber’s bete noire. Otis cons Fibber into getting Edgar (who’s also vacationing nearby, in search of a silk-producing moth) to invest in a formula for “synthetic gasoline”; it turns out to be a bust, but lepidopterist Bergen has discovered a use for it for his moths, and everything comes out in the wash by film’s end.

Here We Go Again doesn’t quite have the same punch as its predecessor, but it’s still grand entertainment for any OTR fan. The movie does boast of a boost in star-wattage: Ray Noble, Bergen’s orchestra leader and comic foil, and dummy Mortimer Snerd make appearances, and joining Hal Peary’s Throckmorton Gildersleeve and Isabel Randolph’s Abigail Uppington are Gordon and Bill Thompson as super-milquetoast Wallace Wimple (“Wimp” is the brains behind the formula). Also in the cast of OTR stars is Ginny Simms, a singer-actress who achieved fame as vocalist for Kay Kyser’s orchestra, and was also featured on The Bob Burns Show and her own self-titled variety show on radio from 1942-47. Ginny plays Gildy’s sister Jean and is Bergen’s romantic interest in this movie (I guess that whole Lucille Ball thing didn’t work out). Two other actors from Look Who’s Laughing, Sterling Holloway and George Cleveland, also have small roles in this film as well.

Here We Go Again contains some memorable set-pieces: Gildy and Fibber trade insults over a game of pool, Edgar and Charlie play Indian, and Molly cuts a rug with Cadwalader (both Marian Jordan and Gale Gordon do some pretty impressive hoofing in this one). Even Charlie McCarthy has a song-and-dance number—yes, you read that right, dance. Director Allan Dawn got the idea to allow both Charlie and Mortimer to be a little more mobile thanks to some doubling by midget actors. (This idea to use little people would later resurface in a memorable television episode of The Jack Benny Program; Jack pays Edgar and Francis Bergen a visit and is stunned to see both dummies moving about like real people.) The movie also contains a novel chase sequence at the end that eschews the traditionally tired use of cars and substitutes horse-and-buggies instead (you know how it is with those "A" cards).

Once again, as in Look Who’s Laughing, the comedic strengths in this film emanate from the witty dialogue provided for the stars: Bergen scribe Royal Foster joins Zeno Klinker and Dorothy Kingsley in supplying Edgar and his dummies’ material, and Don Quinn performs the same favor for the McGees. Allan Dwan returns to helm this second film as well; Dwan was a veteran director whose output includes Suez (1938), Frontier Marshal (1939), and Sands of Iwo Jima (1949). All in all, Here We Go Again is a breezy, pleasant romp and a must-see for any old-time radio fan.

“We love the halls of Ivy…that surround us here today…”

Just as it’s hard to believe that Our Miss Brooks was created without Eve Arden originally in mind, it is equally difficult to fathom that Ronald and Benita Colman were not the first performers considered when Don Quinn originated The Halls of Ivy. Veteran character actor Gale Gordon and actress Edna Best were originally cast as Dr. and Mrs. William Todhunter Hall, a college president and his wife who presided over Ivy College in a small middle America town with the same name.

In an audition record dated June 22, 1949, both Gordon and Best do a pretty good job in their roles, but NBC was reluctant to commit to Gordon, seeing as how he was already doing similar school work on Brooks. The director of Ivy, Nat Wolff, then hit upon the novel idea to offer the part to his friend Ronald Colman. Both Colman and his wife, Benita Hume Colman, had demonstrated an extraordinary talent for dry comedy with their guest appearances on The Jack Benny Program—and beginning January 6, 1950 over NBC Radio for Schlitz Beer (beer and college—a perfect ad match, wouldn’t you say) the Colmans breathed life into one of radio’s best and most memorable sitcoms.

Colman’s portrayal of Hall is one of the reasons I became a fan of his; the character he plays, an erudite individual who manages to avoid coming across as a staid, stuffy, professorial caricature, is a fully three-dimensional personage, never stooping to your typical cardboard stereotype. (Hall reminds me of a similar part Colman played in the movies—that of Professor Michael “Mike” Lightcap in The Talk of the Town (1942), after he’s been "humanized" by Nora Shelley, played by the always delightful Jean Arthur.) Hall’s commitment to both the college and students is truly inspiring. But the real revelation on this series is Benita Colman, whose character of Hall’s wife—the former Victoria Cromwell, English music hall entertainer—is an absolute treasure; her vivacious, effervescent personality and lilting, infectious laugh endeared her to many a radio listener (consider me guilty of falling under her spell as well, especially when she calls her fictional husband “Toddy-dear.”).

Joining Ronnie and Benita on The Halls of Ivy was a supporting cast of first-rate radio veterans, beginning with Herb Butterfield as Clarence Wellman, Hall’s nemesis on the Board of Regents, and Willard Waterman (The Great Gildersleeve), who as John Merriweather was frequently Hall’s lone voice of support. Elizabeth Patterson and Gloria Gordon were both heard as Penny, the Hall's maid. In the two episodes that I listened to while at work last night, I was delighted to hear from such talents as Gil Stratton, Jr., Frank Martin, Jane Morgan, Herb Vigran, Janet Scott, Jack Kruschen (who was sensational as a college-educated cop) and Jerry Hausner.

As mentioned before, writer Don Quinn created The Halls of Ivy, and Quinn’s name crops up quite frequently when discussing old-time radio since he was the mastermind behind one of OTR’s classic comedies, Fibber McGee & Molly. Ivy was a definite change of pace for the veteran scribe, although you can definitely detect his signature wordplay in many of its scripts. (In one episode, Vicky mentions that a local diner, the Dew Drop Inn, is referred to by the students who have eaten there as “the Dew Drop Dead.”) But Quinn’s forte was jokes; he was aware of his limitations in developing plots and situations, and so writers like Walter Brown Newman, Jerome Lawrence & Robert Lee, and Milton & Barbara Merlin were around to ably assist him in the writing. Their contributions brought some wonderfully poignant overtones to the scripts—the character of Dr. Hall often found himself nostalgically flashing back to the early days of his and Vicky’s courtship and eventual marriage.

A broadcast from April 7, 1950 is a good example of the top quality that is The Halls of Ivy, as Dr. Hall approaches the missus with an announcement:

TODDY: Victoria…it’s much too beautiful a day for work…let’s play hooky…
VICKY: Hooky? On a school day?
TODDY: Of course! Can’t very well be played on a day of rest…to play hooky at all, one must have something to play it from…I mean to say, those are the ground rules…
VICKY: Yes, but would it be cricket?
TODDY: Oh, no, no…it’s nothing like cricket…if anything, it resembles dirty pinochle…but actually, it’s hooky…
VICKY (laughs): Well, it’s a lovely idea…and beautifully expressed…but you can’t…you’ve got a meeting scheduled for two o’clock this afternoon with all your department heads…Quincannon, Haislip, Gearhart…
TODDY: No, I refuse to consider it…I won’t spend a moment of this day cooped up indoors…not one sun-swept, dazzling moment…how could you even suggest such a course of action? To a man known in his youth as “Gypsy” Hall…
VICKY (laughs): I was only reminding you…
TODDY: I’ll get out of it…I’ll phone Quincannon…I’ll tell him I have a cold…
VICKY: Toddy, you’re not going to tell him a thumping lie…?
TODDY: Bad form, eh?
VICKY: Very bad form…
TODDY: Wouldn’t be…ethical?
VICKY: Far from it…
TODDY: All right, then I’ll have Penny do it… (calls) Penny!

Hall manages to deceive Quincannon (Frank Martin) into thinking he’s under the weather, but his and Vicky’s plans for a picnic outing soon go astray:

(SFX: door opens, then slams quickly)
TODDY: Oh good heavens!
VICKY: What is it?
TODDY: Quincannon…he’s in his yard, across the street…playing with the children…
VICKY: Oh, did he see you?
TODDY: No…you’d think, wouldn’t you, that a man in his position would have something better to do…he should be working!
VICKY: I’m sure he’s finished at least one class this morning…
TODDY: I wonder how long he’ll stay out there…I hate to lose a moment of this sunlight…I know!
VICKY: We’ll sneak out the back way…
TODDY: Uh…sneak is a rather shabby term, Victoria…surely we are privileged to leave our own house by the rear entrance if the whim seizes us?
VICKY (mock contrition): I beg your pardon…
TODDY: I accept your apology…now, let’s sneak out the back way…

A series of interruptions prevent the Halls from escaping the house, but when they finally are able to leave, Toddy begins to feel guilty about abandoning his sense of duty and returns to the college for the meeting—only to discover that he wasn’t the only one who thought about “playing hooky.” A second episode, from April 14, 1950, is equally entertaining and amusing, as the Halls are taking a cab en route to a dinner party:

VICKY: I do like dinner parties…I wonder what the main course will be?
TODDY: Main course? Me. There is nothing Mrs. Foster likes to serve her guests so much as a celebrity—major or minor…
VICKY (laughs): She should be very happy this evening, then…in your black tie, you’re quite a tasty dish…
TODDY (chuckles): Thank you—but not as tasty, I’m afraid, as the major celebrity she originally intended to have tonight…he disappointed her at the last moment…
VICKY: Oh? How?
TODDY: He led with his right, and was knocked out in the sixth round—and thereby ceased to be a major celebrity…ah, she forced to settle for a college president…
VICKY: Oh, poor woman…
TODDY: She is not, thank heavens, a poor woman…she’s one of the richest in town…and one of the loneliest…that’s why she fritters away so much of her wealth on trivialities…I’ve been trying for over a year to guide her interests into more constructive channels…
VICKY: Like, say, um…gymnasium constructive? Or library?
TODDY: Exactly…I have a feeling that when we leave tonight, I’ll have a nice, fat endowment check in my pocket…
VICKY: Well, I have the same feeling…Mr. Merriweather told me that you made a very great impression on her…
TODDY: Yes, I suppose I have…I mean to say, I…I have some, er, respectable degrees…and I’ve written a few good books…
VICKY: Ah, it’s your good looks that have impressed her, not your good books…
TODDY: Oh, nonsense…nonsense, Victoria… (laughs) I never…never heard anything so ridiculous in my life… (laughs) good looks… (laughs) me… (laughs, then long pause) you really think so?
VICKY: Of course I do! And I’m not the only one…every coed on the campus is mad about you…
TODDY (laughs): You’re just saying that… (chuckles) Really?
(SFX: car stops)
CABBIE: This is as far as I can go…
VICKY: Driver, you took the words right out of my mouth…

The Halls are forced to walk the rest of the way (due to road construction), and on their way there they encounter a runaway dog—in the process of trying to find the mutt’s owners, they end up being late and missing the party. This one is a real gem, particularly when Benita Colman talks “baby talk” to the dog, it alone is worth the price of admission. (The plot resolution of this show is also pretty easy to figure out for students of sitcoms, but trust me, getting there is half the fun.)

Sadly, The Halls of Ivy enjoyed a relatively brief run on radio, wrapping it up on June 25, 1952. Though it also appeared for a short time on television (from October 19, 1954 to September 29, 1955), it’s a shame that such a gentle, literate comedy bowed out too soon. (I’ve only seen one episode of the TV series—“The Umbrella Man” (5/17/55)—and while it’s very entertaining, it simply can’t touch the radio version; plus, I was sort of distracted by Colman’s all-too-obvious dependency on cue cards.) Nearly ninety episodes of the series are extant today (many of them rebroadcasts from the Voice of America), and I heartily recommend this warm, underrated show to each and every old-time radio fan.

“We’re gonna miss you around here, boy…”

Last night before leaving for work, I went searching through the voluminous Thrilling Days of Yesteryear archives to find a CD to listen to later on in the wee hours—and I chose a pair of Red Skelton programs from 1946 and 1947. (In keeping with this month’s April Fools theme, you understand.)

The first broadcast was originally heard over NBC Radio on June 4, 1946—the final program for the 1945-46 season (Skelton had returned to his show in December of 1945 after serving a hitch in the service for eighteen months):

RED: Well, Rod—tonight’s the last night!
ROD: Yes, Red—the last show of the season…why don’t you stay on the air during the heat of the summer?
RED: Why? The other shows don’t…
ROD: I know, but they don’t leave the audiences as cold as you do…
RED: Hey, tell me—what do you really think of my acting?
ROD: Well, really, Red…words fail me…
RED: Yeah, truthfully now…
ROD: …so I’ll use letters…
RED: Yeah?
ROD: P.U…
RED (ad-libbing): You proud of that, ain’tcha? You’ll wind up as head boy on Ben Ruben’s barracuda barge…

In that week’s “Skelton Scrapbook of Satire,” Red does a skit with Clem Kadiddlehopper, who gets a summer job at a gas station, and Junior, “the mean widdle kid,” who’s preparing to go on vacation:

NAMAW: Come on…let’s get on with our packing…
JUNIOR: Hey, how come we gonna go away, huh?
NAMAW: Your grandfather’s got a three-week vacation and we’re going to take a trip…we’ll pick him up downtown…
JUNIOR: Uh, where’s we going?
NAMAW: We’re going to Yellowstone National Park, Glacier National Park and then over into Canada…
JUNIOR: Well, does I get to go along, or is this gonna be a pleasure trip?
NAMAW: Well, of course! It’s going to be a wonderful trip!
JUNIOR: Oh goody! You gonna drive?
NAMAW: Yes!
JUNIOR: In our own car?
NAMAW: Yes!
JUNIOR: Pack it up full of groceries and stuff and bags?
NAMAW: Yes!
JUNIOR: Thousands and thousands of miles we’ll travel, huh?
NAMAW: Yes!
JUNIOR: Let’s fly—it’s quicker…
NAMAW: Oh, Junior…you’ll love Glacier Park…wild animals roaming around…
JUNIOR: Competition, huh? Well, you know what I’s gonna do?
NAMAW: What?
JUNIOR: I gonna feed the bear…I gotta real wive bear, I gonna feed him…
NAMAW: No, no…that’s something I want to warn you about right now…you can’t feed the bear…
JUNIOR: Why?
NAMAW: …because when all you have to give them is gone, they’ll bite you…
JUNIOR: Ah, nah…not me, boy…I’ll walk right up to the ol’ bear, and I’ll show him me teeth, you know…and I’ll stand wight there and let him charge me…and if he comes at me on his hind legs…with his mouth open…and his big, sharp teeth…and his fangs ready to bite me… (suddenly upset) Oh no no no no no no no!!!
NAMAW: Junior, what’s the matter?
JUNIOR: I just remembered I ain’t gotta gun, I ain’t gotta gun…
NAMAW: He scared himself…
JUNIOR: Yeah, I scared meself!!!
NAMAW: The bears won’t get you…
JUNIOR: Yes, they will, too…the bears will get me…
NAMAW: Aw, bless his little heart…
JUNIOR: Yeah, bless his widdle heart…
NAMAW: Why, if a bear should bite you, I’ll…I’ll shoot him!
JUNIOR: Yeah… (stopping short) Well, you wouldn’t have to do that, you know…if a bear bites me, in a couple of hours he’ll die from natural causes…

The second broadcast—dated September 9, 1947—is sort of a special occasion for Skelton; it celebrates his tenth year on radio (not on the program, you understand—his show for Raleigh debuted on October 7, 1941). Most of Red’s shows have a tendency to be sort of footloose and fancy free with the ad-libs, but this particular show has a real “loosey goosey” feel to it—he chats with a few members of the audience, and when he asks one gent, “Do you remember when I first went on the air for Raleigh?” the guy shoots back: “I think I was too young to understand you then…”

Listening to some of these Skelton shows, it’s hard not to notice the unsung contributions from Red’s announcer, Rod O’Connor. Announcer Truman Bradley (later of TV’s Science Fiction Theater) was Skelton’s pitchman from 1941-44, and while he read the sponsor’s commercials in a competent manner, O’Connor really added a great deal of zest to the proceedings—he was a great foil for Red, and he often played supporting parts in sketches from the “Scrapbook of Satire.” His timing is pretty first-rate, too; when Red off-handedly remarks that the sponsor doesn’t want any commercials on the show that evening, O’Connor quickly retorts, “Why, is he dead?” In this exchange, Rod plays straight man to perennial moron Clem Kadiddlehopper, who is brought on as the “President” of the “Red Skelton Fan Club”:

CLEM: Well, here I am! (sings) Do do do do do do do do do do do do…yes sirree, it’s good to be back…boy, I should be hot tonight—I just had a light lunch, you know…had a match in my mouth and I swallowed it…boy, it’s a brilliant way to waste money, to ask me to appear on a program…
ROD: Are you Clem Kadiddlehopper?
CLEM: Well, what do I look like, a human being?
ROD: Well, you’ll pardon me for saying so—but I’ve never seen anything like you before…
CLEM: Well, you’ll pardon me for saying so, but I ain’t neither…on second thought, I did…the cat drug it in one day, and…of course, we buried it three days later…
ROD: Well, how did you happen to become a Red Skelton fan?
CLEM (stammering): Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh…I’ll tell you in just a…well, one day… (ad-libs) had one of my teeth pulled and I talk with a limp now…one day, I was sashaying down the street, minding my bubble gum, see…and I bumped into him…well, I doff my chapeau and I wiggled my ears, kinda cute-like, you know…and I says, “Well, Red Skelton—howdy doody to you!” And he says, “What do you want, imbecile?” Well, sir…it sort of impressed me, the way that he knew me so well…
ROD: And ever since then you’ve been one of his fans?
CLEM: Yes, sir…I never missed one of his radio shows…every Thursday night I sit there, spellbound…
ROD: Thursday night?
CLEM: Yep!
ROD: Red Skelton’s on Tuesday night…
CLEM: He is?
ROD: Yes…
CLEM: Maybe that’s why I enjoy him so much…

It’s a typically funny Skelton broadcast, with a comic look at the highlights of his career (his first appearance on The Rudy Vallee Show, etc.) as dramatized by Red’s characters Willie Lump Lump and Deadeye. And of course. Junior:

(SFX: door open)
JUNIOR: Hey, Namaw! (SFX: door slam) Your widdle thorn in the side is home!
NAMAW: Good…now hurry and get dressed…we’re going to Red Skelton’s anniversary party…
JUNIOR: Red Skelton? You mean that good-lookin’ boy on the wadio?
NAMAW: That’s right…
JUNIOR: The one with the wed hair?
NAMAW: Yes!
JUNIOR: The big guy that talks like widdle kids?
NAMAW: Yes!
JUNIOR: Wouldn’t walk across the street to see the bum…

For further background on this immortal comedy great, I encourage you to check out this website.

“All that makes life seem worthwhile…dwells in your eyes and the spell of your smile…”

October 3, 1946 saw the debut of Jack Benny’s resident tenor-comic Dennis Day in his very own sitcom spin-off: A Day in the Life of Dennis Day (also known as The Dennis Day Show), which enjoyed a five-year run over NBC Radio for Colgate. Day essentially played himself—though not the character who earned $35 a week from Benny (and mowed his lawn to boot). This Day had the same name, but struggled on a much lower salary of $8 a week as a drugstore soda jerk in a little burg called Weaverville. (He could, though, sing just as well as his Benny Program counterpart—some said even better.)

Dennis resided at the Anderson Boarding House, run by a harridan named Mrs. Anderson whose first name I never did learn but whom her husband Herbert affectionately referred to as “Poopsie.” Herbert was played by Francis “Dink” Trout, a radio vet who specialized in creampuff roles like that of Chester A. Riley’s pal Waldo Binney on The Life of Riley. The formidable Mrs. A was portrayed by the wonderful Bea Benaderet for most of the show’s run, though the character was essayed by Paula Winslowe early on. (An audition for A Day in the Life of Dennis Day features Verna Felton as Mother Anderson; Felton, as has been previously noted, played Dennis’ battleaxe of a mom on the Benny show.) Suffice it to say, Mrs. Anderson was not one of Dennis’ fans: Dennis was dating her daughter Mildred (Sharon Douglas, also Barbara Eiler and Betty Miles) and she believed that her progeny could do much, much better, often encouraging Mildred to cast her net for Dennis’ rival, Victor Miller. Actor John Brown completed the supporting cast, playing Mr. Willoughby, the owner of the drugstore where Day plied his soda-jerking trade.

A Day in the Life of Dennis Day is pretty much your typical, run-of-the-mill situation comedy, but it’s buoyed immeasurably by Day’s wonderful singing voice (he often did two or more musical numbers per show, like McNamara’s Band and September Song) and great comedic talent. He had a real gift for dialect humor: a November 14, 1946 episode finds him convincing his boss to sponsor a dramatic show on radio, and he ends up having to play practically all the parts himself. (This broadcast also has an amusing in-joke gag: when the radio station’s salesman asks if he’s ever listened to The Jack Benny Program, Dennis replies: “No sir…for some reason, I’m never home.”) A broadcast from January 22, 1947 provides an excellent example of Day’s show; Mr. and Mrs. Anderson have mistaken Dennis for missing heir (and wealthy playboy) Schuyler Van Renseleer:

MRS. ANDERSON: Dennis! I, uh, I want to talk to you…
DENNIS: To me, Mrs. Anderson?
MRS. ANDERSON: Yes…do you know who you are, my boy?
DENNIS: Why—yes, ma’am…I think so…
MRS. ANDERSON: Who?
DENNIS: Well…offhand, I’d say I was me…
MRS. ANDERSON: No.
DENNIS: I’m not?
MRS. ANDERSON: Definitely not…we have proof…
DENNIS: Gee—I was so certain, too…
MRS. ANDERSON: Now, Dennis…try to think…do you remember your father?
DENNIS: Oh, sure…he was a relative of mine…
MRS. ANDERSON: Did he ever discuss with you what you’d be doing in your later life?
DENNIS: Well, let’s see…I do remember my father saying he'd hope I grow up…
MRS. ANDERSON (interrupting): Yes?
DENNIS: …that’s all…
MRS. ANDERSON: We’ll try a new tack…what do you know about your birth?
DENNIS: Well…I’m pretty sure it happened…
MRS. ANDERSON: I don’t mean that…do you remember where you were born?
DENNIS: Well, Mother told me it was in a small town out West…
MRS. ANDERSON: Wrong! You were born in a big Eastern city…
DENNIS: Oh…well, anyway, it was in 1925…
MRS. ANDERSON: Wrong again! It was 1926…
DENNIS: In June?
MRS. ANDERSON: November…
DENNIS: Gee…Mother didn’t know much about me, did she?

Since the person that finds “Schuyler” will collect a $10,000 reward, Mr. Willoughby suggests to Mrs. Anderson that they send Dennis to a psychiatrist (Elliott Lewis), who soon begins to sympathize with what Jack Benny had to put up with week after week after spending time with the addlebrained Day. The doc resorts to hypnotizing Dennis into thinking he’s Van Renseleer, and of course—the wacky complications ensue:

(SFX: door opening)
MR. ANDERSON: Dennis!
DENNIS: The name is Schuyler, shorty! Who are you?
MR. ANDERSON: Why…why, don’t you know me? I’m Herbert Anderson…
DENNIS: Glad to meet ya, Herbie! Is that all there is of you or are you standing in a manhole?
MR. ANDERSON: My goodness gracious…
MRS. ANDERSON: Oh, there you are, Dennis…you’re back…
DENNIS: Who’s this character, Shorty? Your mother?
MRS. ANDERSON: Oh! Why, how dare you…!!!
DENNIS: Skip it, babe…
MRS. ANDERSON: Babe? Why, you’ve never called me anything but Mrs. Anderson in your life!
DENNIS: Well, don’t crowd your luck!
MRS. ANDERSON: Oh! My goodness…
DENNIS: Well, how about a little snort, huh? Just a single Scotch with a gin chaser for me—I’m on the wagon…

In the second broadcast (2/12/47) that I listened to last night at work, Mr. Willoughby finds himself in trouble when he gets a tad too friendly with a chorus girl at a lodge function. Dixie, the girl in question, comes around to the drugstore with a compromising photo of Mr. W (she’s sitting on his lap, folks—after all, this is 1947) and threatens to tell the wife. So Willoughby cons her into thinking that Dennis is the president of the drugstore chain, and she latches onto our hero like Velcro. To further complicate matters, Mrs. Willoughby needs Dennis to pretend to be her husband in order to pick up a refrigerator she’s won (Mr. W has hightailed it on a fishing trip in the meantime), and naturally, Mildred is upset that her beau has suddenly become a regular chick magnet.

Old-time radio historian John Dunning observes in On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio that A Day in the Life of Dennis Day underwent a format change around 1950, becoming a variety show with Dennis as master of ceremonies. Since most of the sixty-some extant episodes of the series are from 1946-49, I guess we’ll have to take John’s word on this (of course, he may be referring to Day’s program The Dennis Show, which ran over NBC from September 19, 1954 to March 20, 1955). But a pair of AFRS broadcasts (dated June 3rd and 10th of 1950) that I obtained through Ed Carr sometime back does provide evidence that there was at least one change on the program: these two shows have Dennis shaking the Weaverville dust off his boots and in Hollywood, where he’s become a struggling actor. (The Andersons have disappeared, but Bea Benaderet was still on the program, playing Dennis’s Irish landlady.)

“Good night, folks—see you in the fall…”

Last night at work, I finished up April’s Jack Benny project with the last CD in Radio Spirits’ Ultimate Jack Benny Collection. The first of these two broadcasts, from March 6, 1955, has Danny Kaye as Jack’s guest star, and the second is Benny’s final radio show (May 22, 1955).

In its final radio years, The Jack Benny Program still remained popular and entertaining, but the show had loss a good deal of its luster—often possessing a going-through-the-paces staleness that contrasts sharply with the late 30’s/mid 40’s broadcasts, when Jack was at the peak of his powers. Many of these later shows utilized an endless recycling of earlier scripts and gags, and new comic innovations were truly few and far between. But this is all a minor quibble—funny is funny, and in the show’s defense, its flaws are noticeable only because modern-day listeners can listen to an entire season in one sitting and delineate the repetition.

But back to the March 6, 1955 broadcast—in which Mary informs Jack’s cast that Warner Brothers has floated up a trial balloon of making a motion picture based on Benny’s life story:

JACK (haughtily): Well…hello, everybody…hello, Donald…
DON: Hello, Jack!
JACK: Hello, Dennis my lad…
DENNIS: Hello…
JACK: Mahlon…
MAHLON: Hello…
JACK: How do you do, Miss Livingstone…
MARY: Take off that monocle…
JACK: It’s not a monocle…I broke my bifocals and managed to save one focal…here, Donald—take my gloves and cane…thank kew! There…
DENNIS: Gloves and cane…oh boy, are you snooty!
MARY: Dennis, the gloves are snooty…the cane is necessary…
JACK: Go ahead, go ahead…have your little fun…but you’ll all apologize when you know what’s happened to me…
DENNIS: Oh, we know…we know…
DON: Yeah…yes, Jack…Mary told us Warner Brothers are going to make a picture about your life…
JACK: Yes, sir! The same studio that made the life of Emile Zola…the life of Louis Pasteur…the life of Mark Twain…and now, the life of Jack Benny…they’re going to trace my entire career and include everyone that’s played a part in it…
DENNIS: Gee—I hope they change the names to protect the innocent…

Jack asks Mary to go with him to “take a meeting” with studio head Jack Warner, resulting in one of my all-time favorite Benny gags, as they encounter a little resistance at the studio gate:

JACK: Hey, mister—what’s the big idea of shooting at us???
MEL: You took the space reserved for Mr. Jack Warner…
JACK: Oh, yes…he always was touchy about that…but look, fella—I’m Jack Benny, and I’ve got an appointment with…
MEL (interrupting): Jack Benny?
JACK: Yes…
MEL: The one that starred in The Horn Blows at Midnight?
JACK: That’s right…I did that for Warner Brothers fifteen years ago…did you see it?
MEL: See it? I directed it!!!

Waiting for Warner in his outer office (Benny’s real-life daughter Joan plays Warner’s secretary), Jack and Mary encounter Danny Kaye, who’s also waiting to see the studio head. Jack is seething because of Danny’s phenomenal "hat trick" with the film successes Knock On Wood (1954), White Christmas (1954), and the previewed-but-not-yet-released The Court Jester (1956, one of the funniest motion picture comedies of all time):

MARY: You know, Jack—I can’t understand it…every time somebody makes a little progress, you get sore at ‘em…
JACK: I do not…
MARY: You do, too…when Lassie got her own television show, you were so mad you bit her…
JACK (mimicking her): I bit her, I bit her…I snarled at her once, and you make a big thing out of it…

Jack’s “jealousy” towards Danny is pretty much of the manufactured variety; Benny possessed a great deal of admiration for both Kaye and his talent, almost to the point of idolatry, as Milt Josefsberg writes in The Jack Benny Show:

While Jack thought that George Burns was the greatest comedian in the world, he thought that Danny Kaye was the greatest everything in the world. He once said, “If Danny set his mind to playing golf, he’d be another Ben Hogan. If he seriously tried to be an opera singer, he’d run Enrico Caruso a close second.” And Jack was one of the first to extol Danny’s virtues as a chef in the Escoffier tradition, which is strange because Danny’s most widely known culinary coups are not French, but of the Chinese variety.

The three of them are ushered into Warner’s office, where Jack learns that the studio wants to cast Danny in the role of…Jack Benny. (Jack will play his own father.) A read-through of the script provides some priceless moments:

WARNER: Go ahead, Danny…remember, you’re asking your father for money, and you’re Jack Benny at the age of nine…
DANNY: Yes, sir… (clears throat) Papa…
JACK: Wait a minute! When I was nine years old, I could talk…now read it right…
WARNER: Go ahead, Danny…ask the old man again…
JACK: Hmm…
DANNY: Okay… (clears throat, then with Russian dialect): Poppa…poppa…could I have it four dollars for to buying a violin?
JACK: Just a minute there…what’s the idea of doing Russian?
DANNY: Well, isn’t Waukegan in Russia?
JACK: No! It’s in Illinois! Jeepers!
WARNER: Try it again, Danny…remember, you’re a little country boy…
DANNY: Okay… (as a rube) Hey, Paw…Paw…huh…can I have four, uh, dollars to buy a violin? Huh, Paw, huh???
JACK: Now stop it! Stop it! What do you think I was when I was a kid—a moron?
MARY: And besides, he outgrew it…
JACK: Yes, heavens to Betsy!
WARNER: Danny, you better try it as a city boy…
DANNY: A city boy? Okay… (Brooklynese) Hey, Pop…Pop…can I put da bite on youse for four frogskins ta buy a fiddle? C’mon, Pop—whatcha say, whatcha say?
JACK: Now cut that out!

This broadcast is an example of the extensive recycling that went on at the show during its final years—the script had been previously used for a May 28, 1944 broadcast back when Benny was still pushing Grape Nuts. (I’m a big fan of an October 19, 1952 show that also uses the “life of Jack Benny” theme, which has Jack buying the RKO studios and features real-life 20th Century-Fox mogul Darryl Zanuck as an office boy.)

The final Jack Benny radio broadcast eschews the sentimentality associated with many “final” shows—it’s pretty much a standard, business-as-usual program, though it is mentioned that it’s the last show of the season. Jack spends most of the show being continually frustrated by sound effects man Twombly, played here by Mel Blanc. (For the record, there really was an SFX artist on the show named Twombly; Gene Twombly, who was married to Benny Show supporting player Bea Benaderet.) I liked this exchange between Don, Jack and Mary at the show’s beginning:

DON: Jack’s right, Mary—he deserves a little more respect from us…after all, he’s one of the pioneers in the broadcasting industry…
JACK: You’re darn right…why, when I did my first program there were hardly any radios in the country…
DON: …and darn few people…
JACK (mimicking him) Darn few people, darn few people…plenty of people when I started…
MARY: They may have had feathers in their hair, but they were people…
JACK: Mary—if I were Jackie Gleason, you know what I’d say? “One of these days…one of these days…POW!!! Back to the May Company…”
MARY: If you were Jackie Gleason, I wouldn’t have to go back…

Many of the usual Benny stooges appear in this final broadcast, including Mr. Kitzel (Artie Auerbach) and Mabel (Sara Berner) and Gertrude (Benaderet):

MABEL: So what does he want?
GERTRUDE: He wants I should call the parking lot to let them know he’s leavin’ soon, so they can get his car ready…
MABEL: Well, ain’t he an eager beaver…what’s he in such a hurry about, to get his car?
GERTRUDE: He always does that…it takes fifteen minutes to get the boiler hot…

(snip)

MABEL: Well, you know, everybody can kid Jack about being cheap—but I happen to know he has a generous side, too…
GERTRUDE: What makes you say that?
MABEL: Well, the other night we’re havin’ dinner at the Sportsmen’s Lodge…and you know how most people only leave ten percent of the bill as a tip?
GERTRUDE: Uh-huh?
MABEL: Well, Jack insisted that I leave fifteen…

Finally, as Jack makes preparations for his summer vacation, the show’s writers manage to squeeze in one last toupee joke:

JACK: Well, Rochester—did you pack my new gray suit?
ROCHESTER: No, sir…it’s dirty…I’m gonna send it to the cleaners…
JACK: But I want to wear it tomorrow in Las Vegas…
ROCHESTER: But, boss…that gray suit doesn’t give enough contrast with your golden, curly locks…
JACK: But, Rochester, what can I do? I don’t have any other new suits…
ROCHESTER: I know, but you’ve got other locks…

The only evidence that the curtain is being rung down on an era comes briefly at the show’s end, as Jack thanks the people who make the program possible—and even then, there’s a little lemon to cut the sweetness:

JACK: Ladies and gentlemen…although this is called The Jack Benny Program, I’d like to say that its success is due to the competent people I have working with me…my wonderful cast…the great supporting players I have…my producer, my engineer, my sound man…my capable writers…my fine musicians…
DENNIS: How can you read that stuff? Doesn’t it make you sick?
JACK: Good night, folks—see you in the fall…

But alas, he did not—at least, not on radio. Though his television show would continue on for another ten years, and then multiple specials after that until his passing in 1974, Jack Benny had pretty much folded up his radio tent. The show would be heard over CBS Radio from 1956-58 in reruns, however, titled The Best of Benny and sponsored by Home Insurance Company.