The magnificence of the Ambersons

I mentioned back in January that I had ordered a copy of Orson Welles’ The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) on a Region 2 DVD available from Universal (UK) via Sendit.com, and I just recently got around to slipping it into my DVD player for a look-see.  This amazing film—which some argue tops Welles’ freshman effort, Citizen Kane (1941)—receives a not-too-shabby treatment on disc…though once again, I’m curious as to how Universal (UK) obtained the rights to an RKO property that now belongs to Warner Home Video (courtesy of Ted Turner, natch).  I suppose I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth—after all, it could have been colorized like the loathsome Region 2 DVD treatment of The Big Steal (1949).

The grapevine says that WHV is bringing Ambersons to disc sometime next year, so I suppose I could have waited (if they do it up nice and include some interesting extras I may purchase that version) but this disc will do for the time being…and besides, I don’t know where I’ll be a year from now.  There is an interesting interview with Bill Krohn (a director-writer-producer on the 1993 documentary It’s All True, which partially reconstructs Welles’ ill-fated 1942 project of the same name) included on the Region 2 version that provides an interesting timeline on the events surrounding the butchering of Ambersons (approximately fifty minutes of the finished product was cut, leaving a bowdlerized version with a tacked-on “happy” ending), a film that just may very well have been (in its completed form) Welles’ true cinematic masterpiece.  The featurette is sort of tough to slog through, mainly because of Krohn’s halting French (but, hey—he speaks the language better than I do, so I suppose I should shut up), but I was taken with his argument that what sealed the director’s fate at RKO was not the poor box-office reception of Kane or Ambersons (Krohn argues that RKO wasn’t expecting either film to do boffo b.o. because of their “art” status) but that of Journey Into Fear (1942), the programmer produced and partially directed by Welles (who also played the memorable role of Colonel Haki) that the studio was counting on to recoup the losses from the first two films.

“Your obedient servant…”

March of 1943 found Jack Benny sidelined with a serious case of pneumonia—and his producers settled on a most unlikely choice for interim host: the one and only Orson Welles. Welles was no stranger to Jack’s program, of course—he had previously been a guest star on the March 17, 1940 broadcast, playing Jack’s “dramatic coach” and appearing in a spoof of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Benny scribes Bill Morrow and Ed Beloin created a humorously exaggerated persona for Orson, that of an omniscient and egotistical wunderkind that the actor referred to as “Crazy Welles” or “Imperial Welles”:

I used to play Orson Welles all the time on Jack Benny. That’s the Orson Welles everybody still thinks I am. The secretary used to atomize the microphone before I would speak into it. You know, a lot of people believed it. In other words, the comedy figure rubbed off on me…I regard it as an enormous and articulated marionette, which is standing in the hallway waiting for me when I am called to do a job. You know, it’s completely foreign to me—and the part of it that is like me. I don’t even recognize even though it’s there. You see, of course, there must be a lot there, but I don’t think there is, because it’s an inexpressibly exasperating personage.

With Benny show regular Verna Felton as his Gorgon-like secretary, Miss Harrington, Welles enlivened many a “missing Benny” broadcast, and the April 11, 1943 program finds Jack returned to his proper place on the show—although he’s struggling to get back into the pink, with some help from Rochester’s dosing of his cough medicine with gin. (When Jack remarks that he’ll leave the mixing of the cough medicine to the drugstore from now on, Rochester responds: “Okay, boss—but you’ll find very few pharmacists with the imagination I got.”) A rehearsal for that evening’s show has been scheduled at Jack’s house, and Mary is the first to arrive:

MARY: How do you feel, Jack? Do you think you’ll be able to make the show today?
JACK: I’ve got to…I can’t disappoint my public…just think, Mary—people have been deprived of hearing my voice for five long weeks…
MARY: You’d be surprised how fast they went…
JACK: Well, I’ll admit that Orson Welles did a pretty good job…
MARY: Pretty good? He’s one of the most polished performers I’ve ever worked with…
JACK: He is, eh…
MARY: He had the most beautiful speaking voice I’ve ever heard…
JACK: Oh, he has, eh…
MARY: Gosh, when he says (lowering voice) Good evening…this is Orson Welles… (squealing) I get goose pimples all over!
JACK: I don’t care if you break out in billiard balls—he’s no better than I am!

Then Phil makes his entrance (“You look like you went to the blood bank and forgot to say when,” he cracks to Jack) with a little gift for his ailing employer:

PHIL: Say, Jackson—I got a surprise for ya…Alice Faye, now appearing in Hello, Frisco, Hello, made a dozen doughnuts for you with her own little hands…
JACK: A dozen doughnuts? Where are they?
PHIL: Out in the car—I’ll get Rochester to help me carry ‘em in…

With his cast present and accounted for, Jack begins to demonstrate the insecurity that was such an indelible part of his character’s nature (Dennis doesn’t help matters any by commenting: “Gosh—The Orson Welles Show without Orson Welles…I worry about things like that.”) and the fun begins with the arrival of Miss Harrington and Orson:

JACK: Now as I was saying, fellas—Don introduces me, then I come on…
ORSON: Ah, pardon me—there doesn’t seem to be a chair here…
VERNA: What? No chair? Mr. Welles doesn’t have a chair!
MARY: Oh my goodness! Here, Orson—take mine!
DON: No, Orson—take my chair!
DENNIS: Take mine! It’s got a pretty cushion on it!
PHIL: Take my chair, Orson—it’s peachy…
JACK (exasperated): Here, take the bed! I’ll go out and hang on the clothes line!!!

Towards the end of the program, Welles commits THE cardinal sin of broadcasting: mangling the sponsor’s message, which leads to ad-libbing hilarity during the commercial. As things turn out, Orson will have to fill in again for Jack after his doctor, instead of an aspirin, gives him a sleeping pill by mistake. Welles’ comedic gifts would later resurface on the short-lived 1944 series Orson Welles’ Almanac and in guest appearances with Edgar Bergen & Charlie McCarthy and Fred Allen (one of the funniest Allen broadcasts features Orson and Fred in a version of “Les Miserables”).

The second program on this Ultimate Jack Benny Collection CD was originally heard over NBC November 28, 1943, and is notable for the absence of Mary Livingstone, laid low with a case of “laryngitis.” Truth be told, Mary was often a no-show on many Benny broadcasts, owing to periodic bouts of “mike fright”—and on this occasion, Barbara Stanwyck (a personal friend of Mary and Jack’s) is on hand as a substitute. (Both Stanwyck and Alice Faye would often find themselves coming off the bench to be “second-string Marys.”) Babs uses her patented piss-and-vinegar tough gal persona to good effect here, delivering Mary’s lines with a great deal of comedic bite:

DON: By the way, did you see Jack?
BARBARA: Yes, he’s out in the hall talking to Dennis…I heard Dennis asking him for a raise…
DON: Yes, yes, I know…the kid tried to get a raise last week but…now he’s willing to compromise…he only wants half as much…
BARBARA: If I know Jack, he’s holding out for unconditional surrender…that’ll go on for weeks…
DON: Ah, but you certainly got to admire Dennis…his motto is: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again…”
BARBARA: Well, Mary tells me he doesn’t stand a chance, ‘cause Jack’s motto is: “If at first you don’t get it—you just don’t, brother…” I feel sorry for the boy…

(snip)

BARBARA: Say, Phil—did you ever ask Jack for a raise?
PHIL: Yeah, but I had to cut it out—it’s habit-forming…
BARBARA: Oh…well, anyway, Phil—you got no kick coming…you’re doing all right, aren’t you?
PHIL: Yeah, but what am I gonna do if Alice quits workin’?
BARBARA: You’ll be out in the hall where Dennis is…

Meanwhile—out in the hall—Dennis continues to negotiate with the “wily and parsimonious” Jack in one of the funniest routines I’ve ever heard on the show—which I unfortunately had to edit severely here due to its length. I get the feeling that both Benny and George Burns (see below post) attended night school classes taught by Bud Abbott:

JACK: Now look, Dennis…you’re getting thirty-five dollars a week, aren’t you?
DENNIS: Yes, but I’ve got a cousin who makes forty dollars a week and he’s a shoe salesman…
JACK: All right…all right, your cousin makes forty dollars and he’s a shoe salesman…that means he has to work every day in the week for it…now, you don’t work Monday, do you?
DENNIS: No…
JACK: You don’t work Tuesday…
DENNIS: No…
JACK: You don’t work Thursday…
DENNIS: You forgot Wednesday…
JACK: Yeah, Wednesday…
DENNIS: No…
JACK: Now, look—you don’t work Friday and you don’t work Saturday…the whole week is almost over, and you haven’t worked yet…
DENNIS: Gee…I’m a bum…

(snip)

JACK: You see, Dennis, your song only runs two minutes…and for that, you get thirty-five dollars…that’s $17.50 a minute…now, there’s sixty minutes every hour…and twenty-four hours a day…seven days a week…hmm…that’s $7.50 a minute…
OFFICER (interrupting): Mr. Benny, it’s against the rule to write on the walls…
JACK: Oh…oh, I’m sorry, Officer…you can erase it…
OFFICER: I haven’t finished erasing your argument with Kenny Baker yet…
JACK: Oh…well, I’ll do it myself…now there you are, Dennis—there are 10,080 minutes in a week…and since you get $17.50 a minute, that means you’re being paid $186,000 a week…
DENNIS: Oh boy! Am I loaded!
JACK: Yes, sir--$186,000…you know what that amounts to a year, kid? $9,672,000!!! What do you think of that, kid? Huh?
DENNIS: And my cousin’s been snubbing me…

In later Benny broadcasts, of course, Dennis would emerge the victor in his battles with Jack, driven to exasperation by the tenor vocalist’s Gracie Allen-like “illogical logic.” So his turning the tables on Dennis is funny stuff (asked as to whether he got his raise, Dennis sneers “Who needs a raise? I can’t count the dough I’m makin’ now!!!”). Meanwhile, Phil has a separate grievance of his own:

PHIL: Well, it’s about last week’s show—I didn’t have no dialogue…gee, and Alice had our little baby sittin’ by the radio to hear her Daddy’s voice…
JACK; Well…she heard her Daddy’s music, didn’t she?
PHIL: Yeah, and when I got home she bit me…

Character actress Butterfly McQueen (Gone With the Wind, Mildred Pierce) is introduced on this show as Rochester’s niece, and she would appear on the program for a short time as Mary’s maid (she’s interviewed by Stanwyck on Mary’s behalf). McQueen was replaced soon after by radio veteran Doris Singleton as Mary’s new domestic, Pauline.

First Person Singular

Before Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons, Touch of Evil, and all those other cinematic masterpieces—Orson Welles found a home…on radio. Welles had already established a celebrated career on stage, of course, before becoming a mainstay over the airwaves—performing with the legendary Katharine Cornell in productions of Romeo and Juliet and Candida in 1934, then teaming up with producer John Houseman in 1935 to form a stormy, intense three-year partnership that, according to OTR historian John Dunning, “created some of the most startling and talked-about theater New York had seen in decades.”

As for radio, Welles had joined the cast of The March of Time as a regular beginning in 1934, and was finishing his first season (1937-38) in the starring role of Mutual’s The Shadow when CBS Radio offered both he and Houseman the opportunity to bring much-talked-about Mercury Theater to the airwaves with a weekly one-hour dramatic program beginning July 11, 1938. Houseman was a little spooked by the whole prospect, realizing that the two of them had only two weeks to select a property, cast it, rehearse it…and perform it. Legend has it that after Welles scrapped what was to be their first broadcast—an adaptation of Treasure Island—less than a week before the show’s debut, he and Houseman worked for 17 hours straight at a 24-hour New York eatery putting the finishing touches on an adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Three days later, the show was broadcast as the premiere installment of what was finally titled The Mercury Theater On the Air.

The Mercury Theater was scheduled for a nine-week run over CBS, but the critical buzz and favorable press convinced the network to continue the series through the fall, moving it to Sunday nights beginning September 11. It is interesting to note that the program was sustained, which means that the network was footing the bill for nothing more than a little prestige. I’ve always been fascinated by how common it was for many radio shows of the 1930s to be put on the air (the Columbia Workshop and many of Norman Corwin’s works are good examples) without the network expecting any kind of financial recompense—a far cry from broadcasting today, where the bottom line is everything. Sustained programs were fortunate in that they could afford to be a little more daring, not having to deal with sponsors wondering if a script was going to offend listeners—and potential consumers—somewhere out in West Succotash. Programs that were sustained also encouraged experimentation, both in scripting and in sound effects—a Mercury Theater production of The Count of Monte Cristo (8/29/38) featured the story’s dungeon scenes being played from the floor of a CBS restroom, because the acoustics were ideal to recreate the subterranean reverberation. (A microphone was placed inside a toilet bowl with the stopper left open, allowing—as Houseman recounted—“a faithful rendering of the waves breaking against the walls of the Chateau d’If.”)

Although producer Houseman was chiefly responsible for paring down the “fat Victorian monsters” that served as the material for much of the series’ plays (he later hired a young writer named Howard Koch to take over the scripting chores), and conductor Bernard Herrmann provided the excellent for Mercury Theater, there was very little doubt that the show was, “An Orson Welles Production.” That is to say, the wonder that was Welles accepted a good deal of the credit as both director and star. In listening to old broadcasts of the show, you can’t help but be a little awed by many of the productions, and even the lesser shows have a little “oomph” to them. I would be remiss, however, if I didn’t point out that Welles’ repertory cast—Martin Gabel, Ray Collins, George Coulouris, Everett Sloane, Alice Frost, Agnes Moorehead, to name only but a few—deserve every bit of the credit for the fine acting that permeates each and every show.

This evening, I put on the October 23, 1938 broadcast of “Around the World in Eighty Days,” based on the classic novel by Jules Verne. It tells, of course, the tale of Englishman Phileas Fogg (Welles), who has accepted a wager (£20,000) to travel around the world in the titular time period. Accompanied by his valet, Passepartout (Edgar Barrier), he is pursued throughout his journey by a detective named Fix (Collins), who is convinced that Fogg is responsible for the recent robbery of the Bank of England. It’s a wonderful production, and I think the hour-long length helps it tremendously, allowing it to move along at a breezy clip—unlike the bloated, three-hour-plus film version of 1956. Included in the supporting are Eustace Wyatt, Frank Readick, Stefan Schnabel, Al Swenson, William Alland, and Arlene Francis (Mrs. Martin Gabel).

Although I didn’t think about it before selecting this show, it is interesting to note that the following week (October 30) would bring about what would become the most famous—and in many ways, notorious—of all The Mercury Theater On the Air productions, “The War of the Worlds.” (That should ring a bell, I’m sure.) This celebrated broadcast put Welles and company on the map, making Orson a household word and securing the series a sponsor in Campbell Soups—which is why the show was rechristened The Campbell Playhouse beginning December 9, 1938. The first-class status awarded to the show by the sponsor's cash was both a blessing and a curse, however—the show's continued run may have been guaranteed but now, big-name stars would be lured to each broadcast, much in the style of The Lux Radio Theatre, and crowding out many of the Mercury supporting players. Campbell Playhouse continued as a weekly hour until March 31, 1940, scaling back to a half-hour in November of that year (and sans Welles, who had his hands full with Citizen Kane at that time) before ringing down the curtain June 13, 1941. The program experienced a brief revival in 1946 (June 7-September 13) as The Mercury Summer Theater, which reunited Welles with some of his former Mercury players like Barrier, Frost and Moorehead—and was sponsored by Pabst Beer. (And you thought Welles had sold out with Paul Masson wines.)

Orson Welles is considered by many to be a tragic figure—due immeasurably to the fact that since his first film was his finest, he had no other place to go afterward but down. But I’ve always been intrigued by this anecdote in Leonard Maltin’s The Great American Broadcast, related by Richard Wilson, on how radio really kept Orson's excesses in check:

Radio was the only medium that imposed a discipline that Orson would recognize, and that was the clock. When it came time for Mercury to go on the air, there was no denying it. I can’t think of one theater production…that was not postponed, but [in] radio, he knew every week that clock was ticking, that red light [would come] on and say “On the Air.” And good or bad, right or wrong, boy, that was it. It was the only discipline Orson was able ever to accept.

”Harry Lime had many lives…and I can recall all of them. How do I know? Very simple…’cause my name is Harry Lime.”

Classic film buffs and fans are in general agreement that The Third Man, the 1949 thriller directed by Carol Reed and based on the novel by Graham Greene, is a genuine cinematic masterpiece. Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten), an American pulp Western writer, journeys to postwar Vienna to meet up with his old chum Harry Lime (Orson Welles). Upon his arrival, Martins learns from Harry’s lover (Valli) and friends that Harry is dead, but as Holly probes into the events surrounding his death, he learns that Harry is indeed very much alive. Lime, however, is living on borrowed time: wanted by the police for his black marketing/war profiteering activities, he is chased in a memorable climax through the sewers of Vienna, where he meets his demise.

The character of Harry Lime, as played by Welles, is barely in the movie for more than ten minutes, but he remains so unforgettable that his presence is felt throughout the entire story. (His introduction in the film is also one of the silver screen’s most memorable entrances.) Welles was recruited some time later by British producer Harry Alan Towers—on behalf of Lang/Worth syndications—for a radio series based on the movie; the result being The Lives of Harry Lime, which was first broadcast over tiny “pirate station” Radio Luxembourg August 3, 1951.

The radio program transformed Harry from the film’s amoral scoundrel to a more lovable, steal-from-the-rich-give-to-the-poor con man, a “prince of knaves,” as described by John Dunning in On the Air. Indeed, though the radio Harry was a dyed-in-the-wool rogue, his victims were often greedier than he was, so he remained sympathetic (and almost admirable) when fleecing them. (Harry also had standards, drawing the line at both murder or blackmail.) In addition, because Lime snuffs it in The Third Man, it was always noted in the introduction of each episode that these adventures took place before the events that transpired in the feature film version.

In Radio Drama, Martin Grams, Jr. observes that The Lives of Harry Lime (and a second series that Orson appeared in, The Black Museum, which he narrated) was granted a large budget, which allowed guest stars like Sebastian Cabot and Dana Wynter to appear in various episodes. (Listening to the show today, it doesn’t sound all that expensive—I get the feeling that Welles might have been skimming some off the top to finance Othello [1952].) The series was directed by Tig Roe and most of the scripts were penned by Ernest Borneman—Welles also contributed some scripts as well, including the show’s premiere episode, “Too Many Crooks.” Welles even lifted the plot of one of his scripts, “Man of Mystery,” for his 1955 feature film Mr. Arkadin (1955). The opening and closing theme for the series was the same zither music composed and played by Anton Karas that was featured in the 1949 movie—the popular instrumental, “Third Man Theme,” became a #1 hit in 1950; in fact, whenever my father talks about the film, he invariably adds the word “theme” to its title.

Last night, I was entertained by two entries of The Lives of Harry Lime; in the first, “The Elusive Vermeer” (from May 16, 1952), Harry meets a man who offers him a lucrative business proposition selling fine art to American tycoons. In the second, “Murder On the Riviera” (5/23/52), Harry stops to help a beautiful motorist and ends up involved in a murder case after finding a dead body in her car. Both shows are fun, relying on interesting plotting and the charm of Welles to propel them along. In addition, I also took a half hour to watch an episode of the 1959-65 TV series (for which the title reverted back to The Third Man); a syndicated show starring Michael Rennie (The Day the Earth Stood Still) as an even more sanitized Lime—in this version, Harry’s gone corporate as the head of a Viennese import-export operation and an international troubleshooter (shades of The Man Called X). “Listen For the Sound of a Witch,” broadcast September 29, 1960, features old-time radio vets Joe de Santis and Ralph Moody, plus Raymond Bailey (The Beverly Hillbillies) and an incredibly young Suzanne Pleshette (she looks like she’s 15 in this one). It’s sad to see the Harry Lime character watered down in such a fashion, but I did enjoy the television episode; I just wish I could have seen one of the earlier entries when Jonathan Harris ("Oh the pain, the pain...") played Harry's sidekick Bradford Webster.

The Lives of Harry Lime was later brought over to this side of the pond in 1952, and all 52 episodes were broadcast via U.S. syndication. (All of these programs—plus the 52 broadcasts of The Black Museum—are extant for OTR listeners to enjoy today.) Again, my opinion of the program is a little colored by my admiration and affection for Welles and his work—but if you’ve seen and enjoyed The Third Man, you’ll flip for the radio show as well. (And if you haven’t seen the film, put the computer down now and get thee to a DVD player. Criterion has the definitive version, with two nifty bonus extras: the “Ticket to Tangier” episode of The Lives of Harry Lime and the April 9, 1951 Lux Radio Theatre treatment of The Third Man, with Joseph Cotten reprising his role as Holly and Ted De Corsia as Harry.)

”Sure, sure, sure…”

Day 4 of “Twenty Days Well-Calculated to Keep You in Suspense.”

Donovan’s Brain

Dr. Patrick Corey is conducting research into whether it’s possible for a brain to live outside the human body. His early experiment with a simian brain proves unsatisfactory, but Fate steps in to provide him with a human brain—belonging to wealthy stockbroker William H. Donovan, who’s been incapacitated by a private plane crash. Corey removes the organ from Donovan and places it in a jar; soon after, the scientist finds himself absorbing some of Donovan’s traits—like smoking cigars and writing left-handed. The brain grows powerful and takes over Corey completely, manipulating him into having his wife committed to an asylum (she had pleaded with him to put an end to his experiment) and finally—in a mad grab for extreme power—forces him to perform a brain transplant operation with his son as the unwilling subject.

A spine-tingling sci-fi/horror tale based on the 1943 novel by Curt Siodmak, “Donovan’s Brain” was the first Suspense production to be broadcast in two parts (May 11 and May 18, 1944). It was also the program’s first foray into science-fiction; one of producer-director William Spier’s inviolable rules concerning the show’s stories was that that they had to have a firm grounding in reality rather than a supernatural or fantasy bent. But rules were made to be broken—the success of the earlier “The Hitch-Hiker” and “Donovan’s Brain” paved the way in convincing Spier to consider doing one or two stories from that genre a season. (Another cardinal rule of Spier’s, that the killer always be brought to justice, was tossed aside in the production of “Sorry, Wrong Number.”) When Antony Ellis took over the producer-director chores in 1954, Suspense finally began to delve more and more into horror and science-fiction stories.

“Donovan’s Brain” marked Orson Welles’ swan song on Suspense, and the actor really delivers the goods in his last appearance. He plays the part of Corey in a soft-spoken, almost Ronald Colman-ish voice while switching to harsh, guttural tones in his dual role of the millionaire Donovan. The supporting cast includes such Suspense mainstays as Jeanette Nolan, John McIntire, Hans Conried, and Jerry Hausner; interestingly enough, McIntire (who plays Corey’s colleague) would inherit the role of Corey in the hour-long version (broadcast February 7, 1948) of the play when Suspense experimented with a sixty-minute format briefly in 1948.

“Donovan’s Brain” also made several forays to the silver screen; the best-known version being the 1953 film starring Lew Ayres and future First Lady Nancy Davis (Reagan); it had been previously filmed in 1944 as The Lady and the Monster, and its third go-round was a 1962 German production called The Brain (also known as Vengeance). The author of the novel, Curt Siodmak, was no stranger to the movies, having written the story and screenplays for several of Universal’s classic horror films, among them The Invisible Man Returns (1940), The Wolf Man (1941), and Son of Dracula (1943) (the latter being directed by his brother Robert, who helmed a series of memorable film noirs during his long, distinguished career).

I think “Donovan’s Brain” is most assuredly worthy of its Best of Suspense status; it’s a first-rate radio production that—for me, at least—is far more effective than the any of the three film treatments of the same story. (Admittedly, I’ve only seen the 1953 and 1962 versions, so unless the 1944 film—and considering its Republic Studios pedigree it’s more than a little unlikely—is some sort of Casablanca-like masterpiece I’ll stand by this statement.) Some thirty-seven years after entertaining radio audiences in 1944, “Donovan’s Brain” was still receiving critical plaudits and laurels: a long-playing record release of the broadcast on the Radiola label copped the 1981 Grammy for “Best Spoken Word, Documentary or Drama Recording.”

”And now…another tale well calculated to keep you in…SUSPENSE!"

The dramatic anthology known as Suspense debuted over CBS Radio on June 17, 1942 and ran for nearly twenty years on the network until closing out Radio’s Golden Age (along with Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar) on September 30, 1962. Billed as “radio’s outstanding theater of thrills,” the award winning series (it won a Peabody in 1947) set high standards for dramatic programs with superb behind-the-scenes craftsmanship, fine scripts, and top-flight celebrity guest stars.

Suspense was originally auditioned on July 22, 1940 on a CBS summer series called Forecast, in a production of “The Lodger” starring Herbert Marshall and directed by Alfred Hitchcock (who helmed a feature film-version of Marie Belloc Lowndes’ novella in 1927). This audition recording is in circulation among OTR hobbyists today, though it bears only a slight resemblance to the program that was yet to come.

Suspense excelled in the areas of sound effects (by Berne Surrey and David Light) and music (conducted by the likes of Bernard Herrmann, Lucien Moraweck, and Lud Gluskin), and its entire production was supervised in its early years by producer-director William Spier, who demonstrated a knack for fine-tuning each week’s scripts to the talents of the various celebrity guests. In later seasons, Spier’s chores were handled by such radio veterans as Anton M. Leader, Elliott Lewis, Norman Macdonnell, and William N. Robson.

When it first appeared on CBS, Suspense was a sustaining program (meaning it was sans sponsor)—but that all changed on December 2, 1943 when Roma Wines began paying the show’s bills; even today, there are often inquiries on the Old-Time Radio Digest as to whatever became of the wine company and whether it is still in business. Autolite took the sponsorship reins in 1948 for the next six seasons, and the program’s final years fluctuated between periods of continued network sustaining and multiple sponsors.

Since it has been estimated that barely 1-2% of all programs originally broadcast during the Golden Age of Radio have survived today, Suspense has indeed been very lucky; nearly 900 out of the program’s original 945 broadcasts are still around for OTR collectors to listen to and enjoy. For Christmas, Santa Claus was kind enough to place the Radio Spirits CD box set The Best of Suspense under my tree this year, and so we’ll begin with Disc 1.

The Hitch-Hiker

Lucille Fletcher was employed by the Columbia Broadcasting System as a copyright clerk and publicity writer when husband Bernard Herrmann—the network’s musical director—coaxed her into giving scriptwriting a whirl. Her efforts resulted in “The Hitch-Hiker,” a script she tailored to the talents of radio’s resident Renaissance man, Orson Welles. Welles originally produced Fletcher’s play on his self-titled CBS series The Orson Welles Show; it was first broadcast November 10, 1941.

The September 2, 1942 broadcast of Suspense was Welles’ first-ever appearance on the program, and producer William Spier selected Fletcher’s play for Welles’ debut. Before the drama gets underway, Welles prefaces the production with some humerous remarks, including a sly reference to the broadcast (the 10/30/38 “War of the Worlds” production) that catapulted him to radio fame:

Personally, I’ve never met anybody who didn’t like a good ghost story…but I know a lot of people who think there are a lot of people who don’t like a good ghost story. For the benefit of those, at least I go on record at the outset of this evening’s entertainment with the sober assurance that although blood may be curdled on this program, none will be spilt. There’s no shooting, knifing, throttling, axing, or poisoning here…no clanking chains, no cobwebs, no boney and/or hairy hands appearing from secret panels or, better yet, bedroom curtains. If it’s phosphorescent foolishness that people who don’t like ghost stories don’t like, then again I promise you, we haven’t got it—not tonight. What we do have is a thriller—if it’s half as good as we think it is you can call it a shocker…it’s already been called “a real Orson Welles story.” Now frankly, I don’t know what this means—I’ve been on the air directing and acting in my own shows for quite a while now and I don’t suppose I’ve done more than half a dozen thrillers in all that time. Honestly, I don’t think even that many, but it seems I do have a reputation for the uncanny…quite possibly, a little escapade of mine involving a couple of planets—which shall be nameless—is responsible.

During Welles’ speech Herrmann and the orchestra launch into a rendition of “Funeral March of the Marionettes”—which would later achieve television immortality as the theme of Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

Welles plays Ronald Adams, a young man who has embarked on a cross-country trek from New York to California. While driving, he recurrently spots an odd-looking individual hitch-hiking by the side of the roads on his journey. Unnerved by the constant sightings of the hitch-hiker, it is only after he places a call to his mother that he learns the reason for why he continues to encounter the mysterious drifter.

“The Hitch-Hiker” has long been one of my favorite Suspense episodes, and it really kicks off this collection with a bang. It’s an eerie, spine-tingling tale that benefits tremendously from an outstanding acting/narrative performance from Welles. (Years of his shameless hawking of Paul Masson wines have sometimes blinded me to the fact that Welles was truly a talented actor.) Since Welles later performed this play for a third time on the June 21, 1946 broadcast of The Mercury Summer Theater of the Air, I’m going to assume that Orson was as big a fan of “The Hitch-Hiker” as I am.

Fletcher’s play is no doubt better recognized by modern-day audiences from an episode of TV’s The Twilight Zone; though in that production the lead character undergoes a gender change as is played by actress Inger Stevens. (My first exposure to this fine radio play was not, however, through TZ or Suspense, but rather an early 80s production recorded at Marshall University’s WMUL-FM; the lead was played by a friend of a friend of mine, and though he did an okay job I’m sure Welles didn’t suffer any sleepless nights as a result.)

Cabin B-13

Broadcast November 9, 1943, this John Dickson Carr-scripted tale finds newlyweds Anne and Richard Brewster (Margo, William Johnstone) sailing off to Europe aboard the luxury liner Maurevania. The Brewsters have stored their luggage in their stateroom (the title of the show) but once the ship sets sail, Anne is stunned to learn from a fellow passenger, Dr. Paul Heinrich (Philip Dorn), that Cabin B-13 doesn’t exist! Anne begins to doubt her sanity when both her new husband and his luggage disappear into thin air, and only Heinrich believes her claims that she is married despite the lack of evidence to prove her husband’s existence.

With a plot that closely mirrors a similar story told in the 1950 British film So Long at the Fair, “Cabin B-13” is a nifty little gem that benefits from both Carr’s fine script (with a nice twist ending) and great support from Hans Conried and Dennis Hoey—a character actor best-known for his role as Inspector Lestrade in the Universal Sherlock Holmes movie series starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce (“That’s right, Mr. ‘Olmes—and it’s no good saying it ain’t.”). Carr himself was a renowned mystery writer who contributed many early Suspense scripts (including “The Burning Court,” the program’s premiere) but left CBS in a dispute and journeyed back across the pond to write for the BBC. He later returned to America and used “Cabin B-13” as the inspiration for a short-lived, same-titled mystery series that premiered on July 5, 1948; he also assumed the duties of the series' writer and director. The author soon experienced difficulties in meeting the required weekly deadlines, however, and Cabin B-13 came to a halt January 2, 1949.