“…another transcribed drama of mystery and adventure with America’s number one detective…”

America’s number-one detective? Please—I doubt even Ripley would believe that one. But from 1951-55, Barry Craig, Confidential Investigator did do a credible journeyman’s job with respect to the “mystery and adventure” part, even though the series (this is an opinion I can get behind) “seldom rose above B-grade detective fare,” according to John Dunning.

Barry Craig starred William Gargan, an actor beloved by film buffs today for a formidable string of appearances in A- and B-pictures, specializing in playing detectives, sergeants and other tough-guy roles. His best-known performance is probably that in They Knew What They Wanted (1940), a movie that earned him an Academy Award® nomination for Best Supporting Actor. Gargan had previously starred in Martin Kane, Private Eye—a series originally conceived for television but which also had a run over Mutual Radio from 1949-52. Gargan called it quits on the TV series in 1951, claiming the program had become “a vehicle for the meat parade”—but he soon found another role awaiting him on Barry Craig, which debuted over NBC Radio October 3, 1951. (Gargan later returned to TV in a syndicated series entitled The Return of Martin Kane.)

The role of Craig may have been just a little too tailor-made for Gargan. For starters, the series was originally titled Barry Crane, Confidential Investigator—but producers of Martin Kane emitted a yelp of protest, charging that “Kane” and “Crane” sounded a little too similar. So the character’s surname was changed to “Craig.” Gargan also brought a great deal of expertise to these roles, having previously worked in a detective’s office and as a credit investigator before getting into the acting business.

It’s been quite a while since I paid ol’ Bar a visit; I remember that Barry Craig, Confidential Investigator was one of the featured programs on Victor Ives’ Golden Age of Radio Theater back in the early 1980s. So I grabbed a pair of shows with me in order to reminisce, the first being “Hay is For Homicide,” originally broadcast August 31, 1954. While vacationing in Vermont, Barry and pal Jake (Parley Baer), the elevator operation in Craig’s building, stumble across a corpse in a hay wagon and encounter a woman (Joyce McClusky) firing at them. (CRAIG: “This time it’s not the farmer with the shotgun, it’s the farmer’s daughter.” JAKE: “Spoil a lot of stories that way…”) As our story unfolds, Barry learns that the corpse is an escaped convict who returned to the area to rescue a hidden cache of $30,000 obtained from a bank job, which is also being sought by a fellow con named Brady (Jack Moyles) and his moll Dina (Vivi Janiss). “Ghosts Don’t Die in Bed” (9/7/54) has Barry taking a midnight train to Dorning, NY, where an old friend needing help has asked him to come to a residence known as the Tower House. On the way, he encounters a pistol-packing woman named Ruth Adams (Virginia Gregg)—Craig gains her confidence and learns that she, too, has been summoned to the same house by her uncle, who in an amazing scripted coincidence, is Barry’s friend.

At the end of “Ghosts Don’t Die in Bed,” the listener can hear Gargan’s pre-recorded remarks talking about next week’s show (“The Corpse Who Couldn’t Swim”), but he is quickly cut off by announcer John Lang, who reads the program credits and then drops this little bombshell:

We regret that with the program you have just heard, we conclude the present Barry Craig series…we hope you have enjoyed them, and we look forward to bringing them to you again sometime in the not too distant future…

Less than a month later, “the not too distant future” has arrived—the program has been given a reprieve and resumes on October 3, 1954 (with “Corpse”). It then ran one more season before finally bowing out June 30, 1955.

Barry Craig, Confidential Investigator may not be the most inspired detective series of Radio’s Golden Age, but the two episodes I listened to had some snappy, funny Saint-like dialogue—penned by Louis Vittes. Veteran scribe Vittes (The Adventures of the Thin Man, Mr. & Mrs. North) had a talent for eccentric characters and offbeat dialogue, as illustrated in this exchange from “Hay is For Homicide”:

CRAIG: Hmm…I don’t like this much…but the only thing left for us to do now is…uh…sit down…
JAKE: Excuse me while I cheer…I…
BRADY: Well, what are ya waitin’ for? Go ahead, Grampa—cheer!
JAKE (to Barry): Company.
CRAIG: So I notice…kind of thing you’re liable to run into in old houses…they come out of the woodwork, I think…
BRADY: Uh yuh…don’t try to insult me, mister…
CRAIG: Why not?
BRADY: Anyt’ing you’re liable to say is liable to be true…
CRAIG: Don’t be foolish—I don’t use that kind of language…
BRADY: You also ain’t usin’ the kind of language I would like to hear…
CRAIG: What language would that be?
BRADY: The one tellin’ me where the baby’s buried…
JAKE: A boy or a girl baby?
BRADY: Oh, that Grampa’s a joker…Grampa could easy get his head knocked off…
JAKE: Put the gun down, son, and Grampa will be glad to tangle with you…

Parley Baer does an dead-on impersonation of Parker Fennelly in this episode, and while I won’t swear to this as gospel, it would appear that Jake made earlier appearances on the show, since Fennelly often appeared as a supporting player when Barry Craig was produced in New York from 1951-54. Many veterans of the New York radio series found work on this program, like Elspeth Eric, Santos Ortega and Ralph Bell (who did play a recurring character, Lt. Travis Rogers from 1951-53). In fact, while the series originated from the Big Apple the show's director was none other than Himan Brown of Inner Sanctum fame.

Approximately sixty episodes of Barry Craig, Confidential Investigator have survived for collectors today, and while the program’s plots are sometimes pretty standard stuff, Gargan has a nice way with a hard-boiled quip and the supporting cast of players rarely disappoints. That having been said, I’ll take a cue from Mr. Craig and close this post with a simple “Good night, folks…”

”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!"

”He hunts the biggest of all game! Public enemies who try to destroy our America!”

While you insert your own John Ashcroft joke here, Thrilling Days of Yesteryear will take a moment to recognize one of radio’s most popular juvenile detective shows—The Green Hornet. Debuting January 31, 1936, this entertaining crime drama originated from WXYZ in Detroit, Michigan—the birthplace of another famous crime fighter, The Lone Ranger, only three years earlier.

George W. Trendle, the station's owner, was positively giddy with the success of The Lone Ranger, and by 1935 began looking for a derivative of the famous western—not a spin-off, necessarily, but a similar series that would feature a modern-day hero. The show’s writer, Fran Striker, and director, James Jewell, kicked around a few ideas with Trendle, and a decision was made that the new show would focus on an individual forced to confront the forces of corruption in politics and society. Legend has it that Trendle wanted to link the new program to some sort of a bee—which originated from a night he once spent in a hotel room in which a bee had been trapped, buzzing constantly.

Originally, the show was to be called The Hornet, but WXYZ was worried about possible legal entanglements since that title had once been used for a previous series. The show's creators decided to link their insect with a color, discussing various hues like blue and pink, before deciding on the color green. (I have been told that a “green hornet” is considered the angriest of its kind, but since I make it a point to avoid angry hornets whenever possible, I cannot verify this—ultimately, you’ll have to make the call.)

In developing the show, the fertile minds of WXYZ liberally borrowed many of the devices associated with The Lone Ranger. The Hornet’s mode of transportation, for example, was a sleek, black automobile nicknamed “Black Beauty.” (The Ranger, as you are well aware, rode a steed dubbed “Silver.”) Also, the Hornet operated outside the law (though he himself was not lawless) in the same fashion as the Ranger, and was often mistaken for a criminal by both citizens and the police. Finally, the Hornet had a faithful sidekick in Kato—a Filipino valet who was chief-cook-and-bottle-washer to his boss, while at the same time dabbling in chemistry (many of the Hornet’s weapons, like his gas gun and smokescreens, were dreamed up by the K-Man) and the secrets of Oriental combat. One of the popular myths about Kato that refuses to die even to this day is that he was Japanese when the series first premiered, but the show’s producers changed his nationality after the events of December 7, 1941. It makes a good yarn, but it’s simply not true—he was described as being Filipino (of Japanese descent) at least two years earlier. Kato was said to possess a “keen intelligence,” and I’ll bet he was a hit at the Mensa meetings, since he was also the only one who knew the Green Hornet’s real identity: newspaper publisher Britt Reid.

Which brings us to the final Lone Ranger parallel: Britt Reid was the son of Dan Reid who, as faithful listeners know, was the nephew of the famed masked man. (A controversy rages on to this day over whether this was planned from the get-go or if it just conveniently happened as the series progressed—I’m not going to open up this can of worms, however.) In the early days of The Green Hornet, Britt was a callow playboy (which served as a nice cover for his Hornet-related activities) and his wealthy father (that silver mine sure came in handy), concerned about the direction his son’s life was taking, installed him as the publisher of the family’s newspaper, The Daily Sentinel. Dan Reid only made occasional appearances on the program, but when he did he was usually played by John Todd—who just so happened to play Tonto on the The Lone Ranger, further cementing the bond between the two shows.

The job as newspaper publisher came with a bodyguard—a former Irish cop named Michael Axford, who was a garrulously nice guy but seemed to have a force field of stupidity surrounding him. (The character was a contribution from a previous Trendle production, Warner Lester, Manhunter, which had just been given the heave-ho by WXYZ.) Later in the series, rank favoritism reared its ugly head as Axford was installed as a reporter for the newspaper. Mike would become apoplectic at the mention of “the Har-nut,” and vowed to the end of his days to catch “that no-good spaul-deen” but…well…Coyote…Road Runner…you do the math.

Rounding out the cast of characters on The Green Hornet was Reid’s secretary Lenore Case (“Casey” to Axford, “Miss Case” to Britt), who seemed to have a little more moxie on the ball than her co-workers; she often suspected a strong connection between her boss and the Hornet and by the end of the series’ run had pretty much figured it out, though she kept it to herself. Also present at the paper was the Sentinel’s top reporter, Ed Lowery, who often got the scoop on those stories later investigated by the Green Hornet. (I’m often concerned when I listen to those episodes in which Lowery isn’t around; if that paper had to depend solely on Axford it would fold like a card table.)

Like its sister show, The Lone Ranger, The Green Hornet’s memorable opening music was taken directly from classical music: namely, Rimsky-Korsakov’s “The Flight of the Bumblebee.” The show’s announcer would then intone: He hunts the biggest of all game! Public enemies that even the G-men can’t catch! As you may have guessed, this got FBI director J. Edgar Hoover’s undies in a bunch, and so the producers modified the last part to Public enemies who try to destroy our America! The talented sound effects crew at WXYZ was also able to find a way to reproduce the bee’s buzzing that had so obsessed Trendle by using a theremin, an instrument that later became de rigeur for any self-respecting science fiction film of the 1950s (as well as being featured in the classic Beach Boys hit, “Good Vibrations”).

I listened to a pair of episodes from 1946 last night, in which the part of Reid/The Hornet is played by actor Robert Hall, who appeared on the series from 1944-51. The show’s original Hornet was Al Hodge, who started from its debut in 1936 until he went into the service in 1943. (Hodge was so identified with the character that Universal had him come in and dub some of the lines for the Hornet in the 1940 13-chapter serial based on the radio show. He later achieved television immortality as Captain Video.) In the first show, “The Wrapped Book” (October 5), Reid is trapped into delivering a bribe to a corrupt senator who plans to vote against a bill that would regulate the publishing and newspaper industry (and though I hate to look at this through 21st century eyes, the fact that Reid is in favor of this bill stretches credibility somewhat). The second show, “The Prodigal Brother” (10/27/46), concerns an ex-con who is being blackmailed by a racketeer into participating in a grocery truck heist; the ex-con’s sister (who thinks he’s dead) has recently married a popular state senator, so that’s bound to complicate things some. Though some might perceive the show as hokey, I’m a fan of The Green Hornet because it was one of the first programs I listened to when I got involved in the old-time radio hobby. Unfortunately, the sound on these two shows wasn’t much to write home about, but my understanding is that Terry Salomonson (who will forget more about The Green Hornet than I’ll ever know) is on the case regarding the poor audio of most Hornet programs in circulation.

The Green Hornet remains popular today with OTR fans, and deservedly so—it’s amazing when you consider that this show, The Lone Ranger, and Challenge of the Yukon originated from a local station and was fed to a nationwide audience (but then again, WXYZ was not your average radio station). It takes us back to a simpler time, back when things were looked at in black and white—and when the bad guys and evildoers would be brought to justice “by the sting of the Green Hornet!”

”Coming, Mother!”

One Thursday night I was engaged in a discussion with some of the regulars on #oldradio on IRC, and if memory serves me correct, I conducted an impromptu poll on how they felt about The Aldrich Family, since I had recently listened to a couple of episodes from that show. The results strongly suggested to me that I was in the minority in my fondness for this family situation comedy, so I guess it’s what one would describe as a “guilty pleasure.”

The Aldrich Family made its weekly debut as a series on July 2, 1939 over NBC Radio, and for the next 13 years was one of radio’s most popular comedy shows. It certainly isn’t a gut-buster by any stretch of the imagination, just a warm, gentle chuckle-type program that focused on—as the show’s announcer usually termed it—“the troubles of Henry Aldrich.” Henry was a decent, geeky kid who had a penchant for turning the simplest of everyday situations into utter disaster and chaos. There wasn’t any malice to his mayhem, however; he was just a lovable, well-meaning…um, screw-up.

The character of Henry Aldrich originated in a 1938 Broadway play, What a Life, written by playwright Clifford Goldsmith. Henry started out as a relatively minor presence in what was originally a heavily serious dramatic piece, but the play’s producer, George Abbott, suggested to Goldsmith that he transform the material into a comedy. Even after doing so, the author had reservations about its success—to the point where he once contemplated selling half-interest in the property in exchange for a winter coat.

What a Life later duplicated its stage success on the silver screen as a 1939 feature film released by Paramount and starring child star Jackie Cooper as Henry. (The studio then released a second Cooper-as-Aldrich film, Life With Henry, in 1941, and then followed that success with a series of nine B-picture comedies from 1941-44 with Jimmy Lydon in the title role.) But before the movies, the Aldrich family appeared on radio, thanks to Rudy Vallee, who had seen Goldsmith’s play and asked him to write some skits for his Fleischmann Hour program. After that triumph, producer Ted Collins signed Goldsmith and the cast to a 39-week stint on The Kate Smith Hour, and then in the summer of 1939, The Aldrich Family graduated to weekly series status as a summer replacement for The Jack Benny Program before returning for General Foods in the fall.

Each week, Henry Aldrich’s comical misadventures would begin with the sound of his mother calling “Henreeeee! Henry Aldrich!” with the teen responding in his cracked, pre-pubescent voice: “Coming, Mother!” It’s an opening that most people who’ve never even heard the series remember. Then Henry and his friend-in-dorkdom Homer Brown would strike up a chorus: Oh, the big red letters stand for the Jell-O family/Oh, the big red letters stand for the Jell-O family/That’s Jell-O!/Yum, yum, yum/Jell-O Pudding!/Yum, yum, yum/Jell-O tap…ioca pudding, yes sirree!

The adolescent tones of Henry were originally done by Ezra Stone (who had played the part on stage), who remains the best-known actor in the role of the “typical teenage boy.” Stone gave up the part in 1942 when he received a letter from Uncle Sam (“Greetings!”) and Norman Tokar, who had once been Stone’s understudy in What a Life, took over from 1942-43. Tokar also got a letter from the same relative, and veteran child actor Dickie Jones (the voice of Walt Disney’s Pinocchio) did the Henry thing from 1943-44. Jones succumbed to the Henry-Aldrich-caught-in-the-draft curse after that, being replaced by Raymond Ives until Stone returned to the part in November 1945. With the exception of Bobby Ellis in the 1952-53 season, Stone made the role of Henry Aldrich his bread-and-butter from then on. He later had a successful career as a television director (among his assignments, the TV version of The Aldrich Family) and also served as director of the David Library of the American Revolution. His pal Homer Brown was played throughout most of the show’s run by Jackie Kelk, who doubled as Jimmy Olsen radio's The Adventures of Superman. Visually, Kelk looked more like a Henry Aldrich than Stone did; a passage in Raised on Radio quotes Kelk as saying: “It was a big shock to people who came to see the show in the studio, because I looked more the part; I was slight and skinny. Ezra was this little fat man in a vest who smoked cigars.”

The two Aldrich Family episodes that I selected to take with me to work last night originate from the show’s final season in 1952-53. In the first show, the season premiere (September 21, 1952), Henry (Bobby Ellis) and Homer (Jack Grimes) have joined the Centerville High School debate team, and their first assignment is to argue the “horse” side of the statement “Resolved—that the steam engine has contributed more to the progress of civilization than the horse.” As they say in Sitcomland, the wacky complications ensue when with only a half-hour before the debate, they discover that they were supposed to study and debate the “steam engine” side. In a second episode originally broadcast November 23, 1952, Henry and Homer’s families are involved in a dispute over the last Thanksgiving turkey left in the town’s grocery store. While the shows are amusing, I miss the presence of both Ezra Stone and Jackie Kelk—to me, they are Henry and Homer. Ellis was brought in on the program’s last season no doubt because he was already playing the part on TV.

The Aldrich Family ushered in a wave of wacky teenager comedies on radio, among them That Brewster Boy (1941-45) and Archie Andrews (1943-53, based on the famous comic book character), and on the distaff side, A Date With Judy (1941-50) and Meet Corliss Archer (1943-56). I love every one of these goofy shows (although Archie tends to grate after an episode or two), but I still think The Aldrich Family is by far and away the best; it’s dated and corny, to be sure, but if you listen to it as it really is—a charming period piece—I think you’ll fall under its spell as I did. While I was employed at a Savannah, GA radio station from 1984-86, I often amused my co-workers by writing and performing little programs poking merciless fun at the owners; I “borrowed” the Henry Aldrich voice for the part of the general manager (whose father owned the station) as he was sort of a shallow, callous playboy who didn’t seem to be all that enthused to be in charge. They were quite popular with the staff, and so I owe a debt of gratitude to the one-and-only Ezra Stone. Just remember: For desserts that are delicious/There is something you should know/They are made by famous…J-E-L-L-O…

”These are stories of the future, adventures in which you’ll live in a million could-be years on a thousand may-be worlds…”

In the entry for the classic science fiction series X-Minus One in John Dunning’s invaluable On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio, the radio historian writes that “the most interesting dramatic radio of the 1955 season was produced by two genre series, Gunsmoke, a western, and this space opera.” I’m inclined to agree with Dunning’s assertion, and I’ve often found it interesting that I discovered the delights of “this space opera” and—well, “this horse opera,” at the same time.

Let’s take the WABAC machine to 1983, when a young college student (that would be me, by the way) discovers that the library at Marshall University has a small collection of old-time radio shows on reel-to-reel tape. Still being an OTR novice at the time (I had a small—very small—collection), I did what anyone in my position would do—I went at those tapes like the kid in the proverbial candy store. As production director at the campus radio station, I was allowed access to the production studios on the weekend and I took every one of those tapes and dubbed off copies for myself—I just wish I had managed to hang onto them. A March 14, 1956 episode of X-Minus One, “Tunnel Under the World,” still continues to resonate with me today. Based on a story by Frederick Pohl, it’s about an experiment conducted by an ad agency that it so monstrous it…well, I can’t do the program justice by describing it. I heartily recommend that you seek that particular one out, because the ending will knock your socks off.

Since radio is often referred to as “the theater of the mind,” I’ve always believed that both it and the genre of science fiction are a match made in heaven. Both depend heavily on the power of the individual’s imagination; indeed, when sci-fi is presented either on television or the silver screen, I’m in awe for maybe five seconds, and then I start wondering what kind of special effects or, as Arch Oboler once humorously described such visual trickery, “paper mache” it took to put the production together. My imagination makes anything more frightening than the efforts of a special effects wizard. I suppose you could attempt something like “Tunnel Under the World” on TV or in the movies with an assist from George Lucas’ bankbook—but why would you want to?

X-Minus One, which debuted over NBC Radio on April 24, 1955, was an extension of an equally fine NBC science fiction anthology, Dimension X (1950-51). X-1’s first 15 broadcasts were adapted from this earlier series, after which it blazed trails with newer “transcribed tales of new dimensions in time and space.” Two highly respected sci-fi magazines, Astounding Science Fiction and Galaxy, supplied the material for the series’ stories, with an occasional original—usually penned by either George Lefferts or Ernest Kinoy, two NBC staffers—tossed in for good measure. X-Minus One transcended the usual radio kiddie fare like Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers in favor of adult, literate tales from the likes of the finest science fiction writers: Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Robert A. Heinlein, etc. Happy endings were often nudged out by meatier wrap-ups that allowed the “bad guys” to emerge triumphant, like the unforgettable “Mars is Heaven,” an adaptation of Bradbury’s classic short story.

As with Gunsmoke, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a really bad X-1; even the weaker entries manage to avoid the pitfall of being dull. The series maintained a consistently high batting average, with classics like “The Cold Equation,” “Junkyard,” “Hallucination Orbit,” and “The Seventh Victim.” “A Gun For Dinosaur,” “The Skulking Permit,” and “Lulungameena” are also among my personal favorites. I treated myself to a triple helping of 1957 shows last night at work—since the length of X-1 shrank during its later run to accommodate a five-minute network newscast, it was possible to squeeze in three programs on one CD. First, “Volpa” (8/29/57), a bizarre comic entry about a scientist (Nelson Olmsted) who creates a species of flying mutants and convinces them that they hail from another planet in order to play an elaborate practical joke on the world.

Following that was “Saucer of Loneliness” (9/5/57), a quiet, understated piece based on a story by Theodore Sturgeon, in which a woman (Lydia Bruce) finds herself badgered and harassed by government officials and the press after coming into contact with a flying saucer. (I had previously heard this one on Victor Ives’ syndicated The Golden Age of Radio Theater, so it was kind of like “old home week.”) The final show, and my favorite of the three, is “Death Wish” (10/10/57), in which the crew of a spaceship that has been shot out of the solar system tries to solve its problem by computer—which provides them an ingenious (and deliciously ironic) solution.

Like its predecessor, Dimension X, X-1 suffered from an extensive shuffling of its timeslot while on NBC’s schedule, which made it difficult to secure an audience beyond that of its devoted cult following. Yet in the tradition of shows like Escape, it overcame this handicap by showcasing some of the finest radio drama ever broadcast. The program ended its run on January 9. 1958, but the radio renaissance of the 1970s allowed X-Minus One a reprieve: transcriptions from the 1955-58 series were brought back in a test run beginning June 24, 1973. Alas, a resurgence in radio drama was not to be—its scheduling was even more erratic (once a month, sometimes on Saturdays, sometimes Sundays), proving that those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it. It came to a sad end on March 22, 1975, but fortunately for both sci-fi and OTR fans, X-1’s entire run has been preserved today—to give a generation of new listeners an opportunity to start another “countdown for blast-off…”

”Ruth? Turn around, Ruth…”

Day 12 of “Twenty Days Well-Calculated to Keep You in Suspense.”

The Bullet

Harry Martin (Elliott Lewis) has just been released from a three-year stretch in prison, and his wife Ruth (Ida Lupino) has transformed his failing business into a booming success during that span of time. But Harry is jealous of Ruth’s newly-acquired independent streak, and when Ruth asks him for a divorce so that she may marry her lover (William Conrad), he demands that she sign a divorce decree turning over the entire business to him. She refuses, and Harry makes her life a continual hell by pointing a gun to her head and pulling the trigger with a resounding…CLICK! Sure, the gun is empty—but what’s to guarantee it will stay that way?

Written for Suspense by Larry Marcus, “The Bullet,” originally broadcast December 29, 1949, is the first real clinker in The Best of Suspense CD box set. What sinks this episode—and what makes me scratch my head in complete puzzlement as to why it was included in the first place—is an ending that destroys the credibility of everything that preceded it.

There are some things of interest in “The Bullet”: Elliott Lewis gives a memorably slimy performance (and even receives billing in the show’s opening credits) as the abusive, no-good louse of a husband, and William Conrad nearly matches him as Lupino’s paramour—who may even be more of a creep than Lewis’ character. But the biggest disappointment resides in Lupino; for a newly-independent female she certainly lets herself be pushed around by Lewis a lot. It’s also hard to swallow that she could love either of these two jerks; she’s a graduate of the Barbara Stanwyck School of Dames—the same gal who got rid of Alan Hale in They Drive By Night (1940) by closing the garage door on his still-running automobile, croaking him with carbon monoxide fumes. Hale didn’t even point a gun at her. (A cartoonist I once knew, who was fond of Ida, would often remark “If Ida Lupino is the poor man’s Bette Davis—then thank Heaven I’m a poor man!”)

I briefly considered giving away the ending to “The Bullet,” in the hopes that it would ward off anyone curious enough to give it a listen. But after careful deliberation, I decided not to play God and instead, invite you to exercise your own free will. I will reiterate, though, that after hearing this Suspense episode, both “The Search For Isabel” and “The Red-Headed Woman” look a heck of a lot better in retrospect. You’ve been warned.

On a Country Road

David (Cary Grant) and Dorothy (Cathy Lewis) are driving home one night when they hear a bulletin on the car radio about an escaped female mental patient who’s apparently already decapitated four people with a meat cleaver. So it was probably not a wise idea to have taken the shortcut down that desolate country road—and an even worse plan to run out of gas…

In a story (written by Walter Bazarr) that would have felt right at home on Inner Sanctum Mysteries, Suspense presents one of its all-time classic nail-biters: “On a Country Road,” first broadcast November 16, 1950. It’s a heart-pounding little suspenser that features one of Suspense’s favorite guests, Cary Grant—and excellent support from Cathy Lewis, Jeanette Nolan, Larry Thor, and Joseph Kearns.

Radio Spirits founder Carl Amari cites “On a Country Road” as the program that started his love affair with old-time radio; I myself first heard it while attending Marshall University some twenty years ago, so I can identify with how influential this particular broadcast can be. I rented it from the college library, took it back to the dorm and listened to it with the lights out. It literally terrified me more than any horror movie I’d ever seen, and it was then that I began to truly understand the power of radio. “On a Country Road” quickly became a favorite of the show’s fans, making three encore appearances after its inaugural broadcast: twice in 1954 (January 4 and December 9) and the final on May 10, 1959. The latter broadcast is interesting in that it features the husband-and-wife team of Howard Duff and Ida Lupino in the Grant and Lewis roles, long after celebrity guests had become a page in Suspense’s history.

At beginning of the series’ 1950-51 season, frequent Suspense performer and occasional announcer Elliott Lewis took over the directing-producing chores from William Spier and Norman Macdonnell. Lewis experimented by taking the program into different directions, often basing the scripts on real-life events in history. Lewis, best remembered for his roles on The Phil Harris-Alice Faye Show (as Frankie Remley) and Voyage of the Scarlet Queen, became quite a force at the Columbia Broadcasting System during that period, acting as director-producer-writer for several CBS shows, including Broadway’s My Beat, Crime Classics, and On Stage (a program which also featured wife Cathy). Lewis would continue in the role of director-producer on Suspense until Autolite dropped its sponsorship in 1954.

”It…is…later…than…you…think…”

My introduction to famed horror maven/radio playwright Arch Oboler dates back to the autumn of 1982, while I was attending Marshall University in Huntington, WV. I had come across a blurb in a student magazine describing a Halloween program (“Sticks,” from ZBS Productions) that would be broadcast over various public radio stations that very weekend—what made this production so interesting was that it would be presented in a form of “audio 3-D,” which you could experience via headphones. I turned on my radio that Sunday afternoon and tuned into the local NPR affiliate in an attempt to locate it.

Instead, I stumbled onto a curious dramatic excerpt where two men, exploring an old, abandoned house, encounter a mysterious fog that turns its victims inside out! Yipes! I remember saying to myself. After that segment concluded, the host introduced and interviewed Arch Oboler, writer-director-producer of the classic Golden Age of Radio horror show Lights Out. (I later learned that the “inside out” segment—commonly titled “The Dark”—and a second excerpt played during the interview, “A Day at the Dentist’s,” were culled from a 1960s era Capitol LP entitled Drop Dead!

Though Oboler is usually considered the driving force behind Lights Out, the origins of the series actually lie with a man named Wyllis Cooper, an NBC staffer at its studios in Chicago. Cooper created, wrote, directed, and produced the fifteen-minute horror series, first broadcast over the Windy City’s WENR January 1, 1934 (the show expanded to thirty minutes in April of that same year). On April 17, 1935, it landed a berth on NBC nationwide, and was usually broadcast around 11:30 or 12 midnight, as intuited by its opening: “This is the witching hour! It is an hour when dogs howl, and evil is let loose on the sleeping world. Want to hear about it? Then turn out your lights!”

Lights Out was an excellent blend of well-written scripts, top-notch performances, and revolutionary sound effects, billed enthusiastically by NBC as “the ultimate in horror.” Some of the names among the Chicago-based talent involved include Harold Peary, Willard Waterman (both Peary and Waterman played The Great Gildersleeve), Mercedes McCambridge, Arthur Peterson, Macdonald Carey, and Betty Winkler. But the show occasionally attracted big-name Hollywood stars as well, most notably Boris Karloff. The series was especially boastful of its sound effects: spare ribs snapped with a pipe wrench allowed listeners to visualize human bones being broken, and bacon in a frypan gave a realistic impression of someone being electrocuted.

Cooper left Lights Out in 1936 for a burgeoning Hollywood screenwriting career (among his efforts: two of the Mr. Moto films and the 1939 Son of Frankenstein, the third film in Universal Studios’ successful Frankenstein franchise) and was replaced by Oboler, another unknown NBC staffer who was at that time writing for Rudy Vallee and the Grand Hotel series. Oboler wasted no time in putting his own personal stamp on the program with his first script, “Burial Services,” the story of a paralyzed girl buried alive. (Oboler was off to a good, controversial start: NBC received more than 50,000 letters of complaint after that debut broadcast.) Many of the best-remembered Lights Outs sprang from Oboler’s prolific typewriter: “Cat Wife,” a classic chiller where a cuckolded man (Boris Karloff) must deal with his tramp of a wife after she is transformed into a human-sized cat; “Revolt of the Worms,” in which ordinary earthworms grown to enormous proportions after a scientist carelessly tosses his growth formula into the backyard; and of course, “Chicken Heart,” a fondly remembered tale (made immortal in a comedy routine by Bill Cosby) of a little organ that grew and grew and grew until (thump-THUMP…thump-THUMP…thump-THUMP) it consumed the world.

Oddly enough, Oboler never really cared that much for the horror genre; his dramas often consisted of “message plays,” like “Profits Unlimited,” a stinging rebuke of the evils of capitalism. In an interview with Leonard Maltin, he once commented: “I didn’t write about little green men, monsters with dripping talons and grotesque faces from the special effects department…I wrote about the terrors and monsters within each of us.” By 1938, Oboler had discovered the monster—Adolf Hitler—and he quit the program to concentrate on writing more patriotic plays, leaving Lights Out in the hands of NBC staffers until it departed the airwaves August 16, 1939. Three years later, Oboler resurrected the series beginning October 6, 1942 on CBS for Ironized Yeast. Many of Oboler’s old Chicago scripts were dusted off and presented in new versions for the listening audience, favorites like “State Executioner” and “Oxychloride X.” The show lasted but one season, but it’s probably the version best-remembered by OTR fans, as the bulk of the programs that have survived today originate from this series.

Lights Out would make only three more appearances on the radio networks—twice on NBC in the summers of 1945 (Fantasies from Lights Out) and 1946, and another summer run on ABC in 1947. These episodes consisted of new versions of old Wyllis Cooper scripts, with Cooper contributing a few originals to the 1947 series. Having returned to radio, Cooper created yet another memorable series in Quiet, Please, which showcased a sort of subtler, psychological horror and which has acquired quite a cult following among OTR fans today. Cooper later dabbled in live television, including the TV transplant of Lights Out, which ran on NBC-TV from 1949-52. (Reruns of this early horror series were at one time featured in a late night Friday timeslot on cable’s The Sci-Fi Channel.)

As for Oboler, he eked out a semi-successful movie career, writing and directing films like Strange Holiday (1945), Five (1951), and Bwana Devil (1952)—the movie that kicked off the 1950s 3-D craze. He would not return to Lights Out until the 1970s nostalgia boom, when a reedited syndicated radio version of the old 1942-43 broadcasts debuted, entitled The Devil and Mr. O (1970-73).

Last night, I listened to a couple of Lights Out programs—the CD I took with me to work has Oboler’s picture on the cover, but the two shows were taken from the 1945 and 1946 NBC summer runs. First, “Man in the Middle,” an AFRS rebroadcast of a show that originally aired over NBC August 25, 1945: businessman John Phillips is involved in a ménage a trois with his wife Lucille and secretary Patricia. He’s in way over his head and even after taking the easy way out (committing suicide) his problem still hasn’t changed. I thought at first that this episode was just being unintentionally funny (the ending sort of dispels that notion), but overall it’s pretty so-so—there’s a lot of surface noise during the last third of the show that makes it somewhat of a chore to listen to. I did like the stream-of-consciousness monologue employed to illuminate Phillips’ inner thoughts; a technique often used in many of Oboler’s scripts for the series.

The second episode, “Haunted Cell” (broadcast July 20, 1946), is a definite improvement—small-time hood Max Young (Norman Gottschalk) is pinched by a cop named Miller (Roy Engle) for a filling station holdup, but as it turns out Maxie’s also the prime suspect for the murder of Miller’s partner. After his attempt to get the hood to talk via the rubber hose treatment fails, the cop locks Maxie up in a special cell—one haunted by the ghost of cop killer Skeeter Dempsey (Stanley Schull). This eerie ghost story is quite entertaining, and while listening to it I could easily imagine it being retooled and used on Cooper’s Quiet, Please.

”Ringing Murray Hill Four-Oh-Oh-Nine-Eight…”

Day 3 of “Twenty Days Well-Calculated to Keep You in Suspense.”

Sorry, Wrong Number

Last night I revisited what is probably the most famous of all of Suspense’s productions with the February 24, 1944 broadcast of “Sorry, Wrong Number.” Lucille Fletcher's heart-pounding play tells the story of Mrs. Elbert Stevenson, an invalid who mistakenly overhears a telephone conversation between two men plotting to murder a bedridden woman. She frantically tries to get both the telephone operator and the police to do something to prevent it from happening (at 11:15pm), but the scant details with which she provides them they dismiss her as an elderly crank. Agnes Moorehead gives a tour-de-force performance of absolute hysteria in the part; a role that most deservedly earned her the title “The First Lady of Suspense.”

When the play was first broadcast on May 25, 1943, the actor playing the role of the “killer” committed a gaffe and missed a crucial cue, leaving the play’s outcome up in the air to many in the listening audience. Nearly three months later, the show’s producer rectified the mistake with an encore performance on August 21, 1943. “Sorry, Wrong Number” would eventually be presented a total of eight times, with Agnes Moorehead stepping up to the mike for each and every one of them. She used the same script for each performance because she superstitiously believed it to be a good-luck charm; eventually the script became torn, tattered and heavily marked from overuse but since Agnes had most of the dialogue memorized by that time it didn’t seem to matter.

Orson Welles remarked that “Sorry, Wrong Number” was “the greatest single radio script ever written”—a sentiment that I can’t quite share; I also strongly disagree with OTR author John Dunning’s assertion that the production is “rather boring.” I first heard Fletcher’s play over KMOX in St. Louis (back when AM radios could really pick up distant stations, since we lived in West Virginia) in the late 70s and a year later, was delighted to find that the script had been included in our textbook for my high school English class. Listening to it late at night—with the lights out, of course—it still gives me goose pimples. Moorehead was simply terrific in this broadcast, and supporting players Cathy Lewis, John McIntire and Hans Conried were equally top-notch.

“Sorry, Wrong Number” was later brought to the silver screen in a fleshed-out feature film by Paramount in 1948. If you look at it as a completely different take on the radio play, it’s not too bad—although I think they made a major mistake in passing up Moorehead for Barbara Stanwyck for the Mrs. Stevenson role. I find it a little hard to buy that the ball-busting dame from films like Double Indemnity (1944) and The File on Thelma Jordon (1950) could ever be a helpless, bedridden invalid. (Stanwyck must have done something right, however, she earned an Oscar nod for her performance in the film.)

Lucille Fletcher was a fertile contributor to Suspense; penning classics like “The Hitch-Hiker,” “The Diary of Saphronia Winters” (also with Moorehead), and “Fugue in C-Minor.” But “Sorry, Wrong Number” remains her most famous work; so influential, in fact, that it provided material for some of the funniest shows in Radio’s Golden Age—for example, a October 17, 1948 Jack Benny Program (with Barbara Stanwyck as guest) in which Jack intercepts a conversation via crossed wires and hears his sponsor planning to cancel his contract. A Burns and Allen broadcast from March 13. 1947 sends up the same material, while adding a parody of The Adventures of the Thin Man to boot.

The Dark Tower

Orson Welles stars in this May 4, 1944 broadcast as the great stage actor Damon Wellington, whose newest play is being threatened with the loss of his leading lady—his sister Jessica (Jeanette Nolan)—through the oily machinations of her Svengali-like husband, Stanley Vance (Hans Conried). Damon uses his acting talents to “remove” Stanley for the sake of both his sister and the play. Director-producer William Spier adapted Alexander Woolcott and George S. Kaufman’s stage play of the same name for this Suspense; a feature film version of The Dark Tower (1943) premiered a year earlier.

I had never heard “The Dark Tower” until last night and while I enjoyed it, I’m not certain I would have included it in this “Best of” Collection. (I think two of Welles’ earlier Suspense efforts, “The Marvelous Barastro” and “Lazarus Walks” are much superior productions.) That tiny quibble aside, it’s definitely worth listening to for Welles and Welles alone; his delicious burlesque of his idol, John Barrymore, is a truly inspired performance. Consummate radio pros Conried, Nolan, John McIntire (Nolan’s husband), and Verna Felton all provide Welles good support.

Orson also gets the opportunity to poke a little tongue-in-cheek fun at his own image with this amusing line: “There’s a little thing I like in the second act, too…Jessica asks me why I don’t stop drinking and I say ‘What? Would you have me subsist entirely on food and reach the gargantuan proportions of an Orson Welles?’ That ought to needle the boy wonder.” I think one of Welles’ most endearing qualities was his ability to laugh at himself, as anyone who’s ever heard his guest appearances on The Jack Benny Program or the famous “Les Miserables” skit on Fred Allen’s show will attest.

”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.

“Ho-ly cow!”

I’ll come clean; I’m a sucker for those old television sitcoms from the 1950s. Yes, I know that there is absolutely no resemblance between these shows and real-life families (although if you’ve ever been curious to see an authentic reproduction of Ozzie and Harriet you should drop in and meet my parents sometime) but that’s all part of the fun of watching. I can’t help but giggle at the rainbow-colored idealism of programs like The Donna Reed Show or Leave It to Beaver. (My friend Jeff states unequivocally that Leave It to Beaver is the best situation comedy in the history of television, and has written several non-published pieces on the subversive subtext of selected episodes. I keep prodding him about getting them published.)

One of the best-known examples of the wholesome white-bread, WASP-family sitcom is Father Knows Best. When I was young, I hated this show with the intensity of a thousand white-hot suns. I hated Robert Young and his wise, all-knowing patriarchal role of Jim Anderson, whose dispensed advice as freely as Young’s other famous TV character, Dr. Marcus Welby, dispensed prescriptions. I hated his perfect wife, Margaret (Jane Wyatt) and his all-too perfect children: Betty (Elinor Donahue), Bud (Billy Gray), and Kathy (Lauren Chapin). I hated their perfect little house on their perfect little street in their perfect little town (Springfield).

Then I was introduced to the radio version of Father Knows Best, which ran on NBC Radio beginning August 25, 1949 and ending April 25, 1954. If you’ve ever had the opportunity to listen to this series, I think you’ll get a chuckle out of it because—at least to me—it presents the all-too perfect Andersons in a slightly dysfunctional light.

The late Robert Young was a popular film actor who generally played nice, genial leading man roles—I never really cared for him since he was a little on the bland side. But he did turn in some interesting performances, particularly in films that showcased his darker side like The Mortal Storm (1940) (he plays a Hitler-Youth Nazi in that one!) and They Won’t Believe Me (1947). Young was also no stranger to radio; appearing on such series as The Frank Morgan Show (aka Maxwell House Coffee Time), Good News, and Passport for Adams (a 1943 wartime series in which he was the star). Both Good News and the Morgan show were sponsored by Maxwell House/General Foods; the company would also pay the bills for Father Knows Best—I’ve often wondered how the Sanka people felt about this when Young did a popular series of commercials for them in the 1970s.

The December 20, 1948 audition program for Father Knows Best, which is in circulation among OTR collectors, is an interesting, embryonic look at what would later become one of TV’s beloved family shows. The last name of the Anderson clan is Henderson in this early show, and Young’s father comes across as a bit of a numbskull--only slightly smarter than, say, Ozzie Nelson. It’s also interesting to note that Young’s patriarch comes across as a man who has a bit of a short fuse; you sometimes expect him to take a tip from The Stepfather and do away with the entire family when no one’s looking. The Anderson kids are also not the role models of the TV series; Betty is a bit on the spoiled and shallow side, and Kathy is pretty much an obnoxious brat. It has been speculated that the series in its early incarnation seemed to play out as if there were a question mark after the title.

But by 1953, the program found its niche and became fairly close to the classic TV show remembered by fans today. I listened to a broadcast from December 31, 1953 last night—which is particularly fitting, since the New Year is almost upon us. The Anderson clan are engaged in New Year’s preparations, particularly Jim and Margaret, who are getting the opportunity to ring in 1954 at a neighbor’s party since the children have plans to go elsewhere:

JIM: Hey, where’s the new black bowtie I bought to wear tonight?

BETTY (from the hall): Mother…!!!

JIM: I put it right here on the bed!

BETTY (entering the bedroom): Mother, I snagged these stockings…do you have an extra pair of real sheer dark ones?

MARGARET: Look in my top drawer…I think there’s one pair in there…

BETTY: Those are the ones I snagged…

MARGARET: Oh…well, did you look in the…

BETTY (interrupting): There’s none there either…

MARGARET: Well, maybe you can…

BETTY (interrupting again): That won’t work either…the only solution I can see, Mother, is for us to exchange stockings…

MARGARET: I should wear the snagged ones…???

BETTY: Well, after all, Mother…it doesn’t matter so much how you’re…uh…well, I mean…when a person gets to be…well, in a crowd of elderly married people who looks at anyone’s legs?

MARGARET: Well, there’s your father…and Mr. Davis…and Mr. Phillips, Mr. Liggett, Mr. Stevens…and Mr. Stewart…

JIM: Betty, have you seen an elderly black bow tie anywhere?

BETTY: Father, I’ve got problems of my own…

JIM: Oh, I’m sorry…

BUD (from the hall) Mom…???

MARGARET: Betty…I may be caught up in the Stanley Steamer crowd, but I plan to wear these stockings tonight even though…

BETTY (as she exits the bedroom): Oh wait—I think I might have another pair in my room…

BUD (still in the hall) Mom…!!!

JIM: I can’t imagine where that tie went to…

BUD (entering the bedroom): Mom, where’s that checked flannel shirt of mine?

MARGARET: Bud…you can’t wear that to a party…

BUD: It hasn’t got any holes in it…

MARGARET: I know that…

BUD: …and it’s clean…

MARGARET: Bud, I want you to dress up…

BUD: Why? All that’s gonna be there is just some fellas…and some girls…

JIM: Nobody but people, huh?

(snip)

JIM: Bud, wear your good shoes and stop badgering your mother…

BUD: Well…okay…if you want your boy to be a wallflower…

JIM: Wait a minute, Wallflower…do you know where my new…

BUD (exiting the bedroom): No!

JIM: I didn’t think so…now what do you suppose happened to that tie? Margaret, are you sure you didn’t pick it up?

MARGARET: I haven’t even seen the tie, Jim…

JIM: It was right here on the bed…

KATHY (from the hall): Mommy!

JIM: …now what could have happened to it?

KATHY (entering the bedroom): Mommy, how do I look in my new black hair ribbon?

MARGARET: Does that answer your question, Jim?

Though the role of Margaret Anderson was essayed by June Whitley in the early run of the radio series, by the time of this broadcast actress Jean VanderPyl had taken over the part. VanderPyl is perhaps best-known to today’s audiences as the voice of Wilma Flintstone on the prime-time animated cartoon series The Flintstones (1960-66), though her radio résumé included shows like The Halls of Ivy and Joan Davis Time.

The New Year’s preparations hit a snag when the friend that Kathy (Helen Strohm) had planned to spend the night with is taken ill (the girl apparently became sick after eating mistletoe), which necessitates the hiring of a baby sitter. The regular sitters used by Jim and Margaret are already booked up, but one of them sends her nephew Freddie Zollers (Gil Stratton, Jr.) in her place—Freddie is a handsome college student who immediately catches the eye of fickle little minx Betty (Rhoda Williams):

BUD: Hey, who’s he?

BETTY: Shhh…!!!

BUD: Who’s Freddie?

BETTY: That’s Kathy’s sitter…

BUD: Sitter? Howlin’ cats, Dad—get a load of that sitter…

BETTY: Who’s on the phone, Ralph?

JIM: Yes—did you say the sitter’s a he?

BUD: Take a peek in the dining room…

BETTY (taking the receiver) Hello? Oh yes, Ralph…well, no…I’m not ready yet…Ralph, I’m afraid I’m not going to make it…

BUD: See him, Dad?

JIM: Yeah…

BETTY: Well, Ralph, I have a simply, utterly crushing headache and I just don’t think I can go to the party tonight…

JIM: Now, wait a minute, Betty…

BETTY: Oh, I’m awfully sorry, Ralph…I just wouldn’t be any fun at all tonight…

JIM: Now listen here, Betty…

BETTY: Well, I’m sorry too, Ralph…but this came up awfully sudden…

JIM: It certainly did…

BETTY: Well, thank you, Ralph, I will…goodbye…

(SFX: phone hang-up)

JIM: Betty, I’m ashamed of you…

BETTY: But why, Father? You wouldn’t want me to go out with a crushing headache, would you?

JIM: No…no, of course not…in fact, now that I think of it…I’m glad you did that…

BETTY: You are?

JIM: Certainly! Now that you’re going to be home we won’t need the sitter…

You gotta get up pretty early in the morning to pull a fast one on Father Anderson, that's for sure. For the rest of the episode, as they say in Sitcomland, the wacky complications ensue—and by the show’s end, all of the Andersons (and Freddie) end up spending New Year’s Eve together at home.

Like many well-known film stars, Robert Young learned that a weekly radio series could prove to be quite lucrative, but Father Knows Best didn’t necessarily tie the actor down. While Young was on tour appearing in a play, his co-stars often joined him in each city to do their regular broadcast. Father Knows Best was one of the more successful radio shows to transplant to television, making its debut on October 3, 1954 and running on all three major networks (CBS, NBC and ABC) until 1963.