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Jack and Mary and Fred and Portland: The American Magic of Vaudeville
I’ll admit right out of the gate that I’ve been on a bit of a nostalgia kick lately, something that can probably be blamed on not having seen home since January, and having been in lockdown alone since March. Things may have occasionally come to the ‘rocking out to metal songs sung by Christopher Lee about Charlemagne at 11 pm while washing dishes in llama pajamas’ point of solitary living. Maybe. Either way, when I’m not working or doing something useful, I find myself more and more seeking out the comfortingly old fashioned. It should be acknowledged that most of the cultural products I associate with nostalgia aren’t ‘personally nostalgic’ for me, in the sense that I had or have a contemporary connection (only post-1999 things could be such). One of the biggest parts of this recent obsession has been old radio comedians, mostly Jack Benny and Fred Allen.
Readers of a certain age will probably have at least some memory of Benny, who dominated radio and television from the ‘30s almost until his death in 1974. My mother absolutely and completely despises him, and threatens homicide if I listen to his ‘40s broadcasts in the car, so he played no great role in my early life. Allen, meanwhile, is a largely forgotten figure, mentioned, if at all, as a “comedian’s comedian” and witty satirist who failed to make the transition to television, a contrast to his arch-nemesis. I could, I think rightfully, laud their comedy chops, their innovativeness, and their lasting impact on American popular culture. These certainly all deserve praise, but what has struck me most in listening to and watching their performances in the last few weeks is who they were and who they became.
Jack Benny was in fact Benjamin Kubelsky, the son of Eastern European Jewish immigrant business owners in the suburbs of Chicago. Allen, meanwhile, was really John F. Sullivan, a Massachusetts-born son of Irish Catholic parents who came of age in a deeply dysfunctional and shattered family, something George Burns identified as a common denominator among his generation of comedians (he noted his best friend, Benny, as a rare exception to this pattern). Both men, then, came from groups that were often regarded with hostility in more than one quarter, and Allen suffered the additional handicap of poverty and early experiences with family tragedy. By all rights, they should have expected modest success in life at best, but Vaudeville put them on an entirely new path.
By the time that Benny and Allen entered the Vaudeville circuit (roughly the same time, sharing a birth year), it was well established and well known. Neither man began as a comedian, the Waukegan native was initially one half of a serious piano and violin act, while his counterpart from Cambridge was a monologist who juggled. Through a series of act changes and nearly endless movement around the country, both began careers on radio, and became enduringly successful in that medium. Vaudeville was the perfect stepping stone, a way for people to come into contact with living difference, as well as enjoy live entertainment. And it forced a two-way method of assimilation. The performers, many of whom hailed from immigrant or minority religious roots, had to shape their performances to the tastes of their audiences, while the same audiences came face to face with the very human (and talented) members of groups which they may have despised. For others, seeing these entertainers may have been the first time they saw people of their background in positions of prominence, or gaining widespread acceptance and fame.
Of course, Vaudeville was far from perfect. Racism was rampant, and minority (especially black) performers often found themselves paid less than their white colleagues, denied lodging or the chance to bring their acts to the best venues, and made the butt of harmful stereotypes. Benny and Allen’s use of stereotypes shows just how conscious both men were of the line between the humorous and the pernicious, undoubtedly influenced in some part by their own experiences with discrimination. Allen’s Alley was a popular part of the comedian’s radio program, populated by a cast of caricatured men and women (heavily accented Jewish housewife Mrs. Nussbaum, bellicose Southern senator Beauregard Claghorn, and stoic Northern farmer Titus Moody among others), but “the warmth and good humor with which they were presented made them acceptable even to the most sensitive listeners.”
Rochester, Benny’s famously gravel-voiced valet, was never subservient and often outsmarted his vain and penny-pinching boss but as the ‘40s wore on, Benny insisted on dropping the more offensive stereotypical parts of the character’s makeup (his womanizing, frequent drunkenness, gambling, etc). When a skit in one radio broadcast involved Rochester punching his employer at his behest, and a plethora of Southern stations cut off the show for the offense to the white race, Benny labeled the complaint absurd and refused to apologize. His own character (for the Jack Benny of sound and screen in very few ways represented the real man) did not rely on common negative perceptions of Jewish thrift, but was consciously all-American and areligious.
We rightfully celebrate civil rights leaders, educational campaigners, and activists of all stripes for their efforts to bring more equal opportunity to the American experience, but I think that Vaudeville and a lot of its progeny deserve a share of the glory too. (And we as conservatives can, of course, appreciate that this sprang out of a non-governmental, capitalist enterprise). Often without intending to, they conveyed to everyday Americans that differences in race, religion, and tradition, within a solid civic framework, were not going to produce the ‘downfall of the white race’ or anarchy, but brought much-needed vitality, diversity, and humor to their country. Fred Allen was an open, devout Catholic, unashamed of his beliefs, and thus showed the skeptical that “paptists” could also be pretty great comedians and relatable people (something I, as a Massachusetts-born Catholic, am grateful for). His boxing partner Benny, meanwhile, was an example for the children of all immigrants of the promise of America, that hardwork and dedication really could make good. What better, and more enjoyable, expression of the American ideal is there than that?
*If you’re looking for a place to start, this appearance of Allen on Benny’s television show is great fun.
Published in General
My favorite Jack Benny line: “I’m thinking about it! I’m thinking about it!”
Still, Jack Benny gave me one of the most horrifying memories from my childhood.
On his TV show in the sixties, he stood in front of a curtain and started introducing a lion tamer. He went on and on about how great this guy was. From behind the curtain, there was the continuous sound of a lion roaring. Mr. Benny has the curtain raised to reveal . . . A lion chewing on a human leg with a calf-length boot attached to it.
I was about eight years old at the time.
I wonder sometimes if that’s he reason I’ve got such a sick sense of humor.
But, can you spell Btfsplk?
Or, as @roblong says, “Bob Hope in a hippie wig.”
I’m sure his daughter says something to this effect in their joint memoir, but I think his fundamental goodness as a person shone through the character of Jack Benny. And it helped that, and I really wish I could remember the interview this came from, he based the character (as it evolved) on the kind of ‘familiar uncle’, someone most families had and could feel equal affection for and exasperation with. The name changes these performers did always fascinate me, in the sense of what they illuminate about the separation between stage persona and the actual person. For example, most of George Burn’s close friends called him Natty, a reference to his given Yiddish name, and Jack, while generous by nature, was even more so because he was afraid that people in real life would think him to be just like his character. And apparently Mary had some horrible fear of being made to feel like Sadie Marks all over again when they moved to Hollywood, because she wished to be as high and mighty as the daughters of established film moguls, not the daughter of a Vancouver Jewish scrap dealer. She seems to have suffered the most grief in reconciling those double identifies because after a point she never wanted to be anything but Mary Livingstone.
I think that gave me nightmares, ugh. So does the image of middle aged to elderly Bob Hope trying to seduce nubile young models on USO Tours, although Jack Frost was pretty great revenge on Dolores’ part.
If anyone ever wanted a taste of Benny working blue, you can find a five minute audio clip of him at a roast for Harry Joe Brown here. It doesn’t really qualify as R rated by today’s standards, or even in comparison to the tape someone has posted of Milton Berle for the same event (which, considering all of the stories there are about Uncle Miltie and his endowment, doesn’t surprise me in the least).
Hope seemed to want to expand out from his basic comic persona of the womanizing coward that was locked in place from the Paramount films, especially those with Bing — “The Seven Little Foys” and “Beau James” were his two mid-50s bio pics where he tried to stretch his limits, and really they aren’t bad. But they’re also apparently not what the audiences of the day wanted from Bob Hope, and from that time period on he seems to more be going through the motions of what worked (though his NBC shows were still decent through the early 60s).
I’ve seen a couple of his appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson from the ’70s and ’80s, and very little that he said was funny or very interesting, he seemed to struggle without writers (although apparently he sometimes even brought cue cards there). The only time he was mildly amusing was in combination with other guests, like Dean Martin or George Gobel, but even then they were the ones pulling most of the comedic/conversational weight.
Apparently that wasn’t his first time cosplaying as a hippie. To be fair, Jack Benny seemed to relish any opportunity to do drag.
“In his prime Bob Hope was at the very top of his game. In fact, Woody Allen has confessed on several occasions that he outright stole Hope’s character when performing in his early comedies.“
Shameless Plug®: Tonight’s “Saturday Night Radio” features “The Burns and Allen Show” with special guest Frank Sinatra.
Jack normally didn’t do his filmed shows in the 1950s in front of a live audience because of Mary’s mike fright — they’d be shot single camera with gaps left in for the canned laughter to replace the live audience reaction. But there were a couple of Mary-less shows where Jack borrowed the “I Love Lucy” sound stage because he wanted a live audience response, including the episode with George Burns, where he substituted for Gracie Allen:
There’s a fun story behind the clothing Jack is wearing in that episode. According to George Burns, Jack took Gracie’s role (and her make-up) quite a few times after she retired for live performances they did together, but the first time they did that act was at a charity dinner. Harry Cohn, president of Columbia Pictures at the time, got in on the scheme and had the studio’s costume department do him up to the nines in advance, including dressing him in a black sequined suit worn by Rita Hayworth in Gilda. Jack hung onto it, and George insisted for the rest of his life that it was his favorite outfit.
You guys are giving a great course right now. I’m learning a LOT.
My experience with Benny, Allen et al is limited due to my rabid Marxism, a philosophy based on Groucho and the boys. Maybe the funniest human being ever created.
A favorite old expression: “If I have seen further, it is because I stood upon the shoulders of giants.”
I’m so glad you’re enjoying it, I very nearly didn’t post this piece at all because I didn’t think there would be an audience for it.
If you’re looking for more to watch/places to learn:
-An excellent documentary done by PBS about the radio comedians of the ’30s and ’40s, with interviews from Benny and Burns among others.
-George Burn’s book All My Best Friends chronicles the professional and personal exploits (mainly) of his vaudeville companions Benny, Cantor, Jessel, and Jolson.
–This archive contains more than 100 Fred Allen shows from the run of his time on the radio, including guests like Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby.
-An hour long televised “love letter” from the ’80s to Benny from George Burns, Johnny Carson, and Bob Hope. Has a lot of great clips from his radio and tv show.
-CBS’s tribute to Benny, produced right after his death, has many fascinating interviews with colleagues and footage of his funeral/the eulogy given by Bob Hope.
-An episode of Allen’s failed tv show, Judge for Yourself.
-A wonderful collection of Allen’s letters (he was prolific and had many interesting correspondents), first complied by his wife.
–Allen’s appearance on Benny’s show shortly before his death, they end where he ad libs is very fun.
-An interview done with Benny on the death of Allen, in which he talks about their friendship and Allen’s work.
Now, now. You don’t want to get “cancelled” over this. You mean jibe, or gibe.
You probably mean TCM (Turner Classic Movies) not TMC (The Movie Channel, which may no longer exist).
There used to be an evening radio program in Los Angeles that played 1940s radio programs. It was on at 9PM but I don’t recall which nights.
Typo, yes.
When I saw this thread in the list, the part about “The American Magic of Vaudeville” was not visible. So I was expecting – hoping for – another good bashing of Portland, Oregon, somehow related to “Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice.” But it was not to be.
Sounds like the OTR program that @jameslileks posted about.
I listened to those shows when I was a kid and remember Fred Allen more than Jack Benny on radio. I also listened to Fibber Magee and Molly and the radio version of Amos and Andy. Our black nursemaid loved Amos and Andy.
The title for the post was a take on that movie, but I’m nowhere near clever enough to relate it to the CHAZ.
Performers of that era allowed, even encouraged, the blurring of the public persona and the private individual. There was “Jack Benny” and then there was Jack Benny, two totally distinct people occupying the same body and the same name.
After years of being introduced as “Fibber McGee and Molly starring Jim and Marion Jordan” they eventually just stopped using their real names in public. And while Gracie always called her husband George in public, at home he was Nat or Nattie. (Real name Nathan Birnbaum.)
As for the comments about Bob Hope, his broadcast work was definitely “of the moment.” If his motion picture work was a drink it would be a mellow wine and the broadcast monologues are a glass of milk – best not consumed when left out on the counter for more than 2 hours. If there’s a point about his latter TV days he probably shouldn’t be forgiven for was Brooke Shields. If not for his specials she would have faded away long ago.
Reminds me of an episode of the series Supernatural where some kind of time-demon prevented the sinking of the Titanic because he never wanted to hear Celine Dion sing about it and become famous for it.
When I’m driving around, I listen to channel 148 on Sirius/XM, the OTR channel. The drama and police programs are mostly listenable, allowing for their age (but I do kind of hate the organ intro/outro bits on some of them).
On the other hand I find none of the comedy shows funny, except for Jack Benny. It’s always the same but it’s virtually timeless.
Wasn’t @jameslileks posting that OTR is on the way out? Or was that only for his local NPR station?
That was a local program where actors did old scripts live. Somebody speculated that the satellite OTR might get put into somebody’s sights soon.
I’m crazy about Bob and Ray. As others have written, they were the ancestors of Monty Python, Gilda Radner’s Emily Litella, Woody Allen, and Bob Newhart. I’d add Jonathan Winters and the comedy of “Best in Show” and “A Mighty Wind”
I just found this from a Dennis Drabell on the web:
We also love George and Gracie and Fibber McGee and Molly.