Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment (7 page)

Today it’s hard to imagine a world without television. Over the past half century, it’s become such a central part of every household—and not just in America.
Eight Is Enough
, for example, was an international hit. It played in various European countries under such titles as
La Famiglia Bradford
,
Otto Bastano
,
Huit
,
ça suffit!
, and
Con Ocho Basta
. Today television shows are broadcast around the world almost as soon as their release in the United States. The enormous influence and power of television is, for good or bad, an integral fact of our world. Television has become the centerpiece of every home, and even the advance of computers has done little to diminish its stature.

But there was a time before television. Until a few years after World War II, as my old friend and producer Bob Evans points out in his memoirs, radio was “king.” Bob captures the times perfectly: “No matter how poor you were everyone in America had a church-shaped Philco or Edison in their living room. It was the family hearth.”

And the shows broadcast over the “family hearth” were as diverse as our television programming. Just as today, families gathered around their radios to listen to their favorite shows, ranging from detective stories, mysteries, soap operas, comedies, and variety shows—even cartoons broadcast by real actors. And following those shows required a fertile imagination. As Larry King has recently noted, radio created a genuine “theater of the mind.” Unlike the passivity of watching television or movies, radio made you work—everyone became involved in the creative process of putting flesh and bones to the names and places described by the great radio actors. With radio everyone participated. If a million people heard a program, then the story played out in a million different “theaters of the mind”—a million unique creations prompted by the writers and actors, but brought to life in every single unique imagination.

Among the most popular cartoons of my childhood was
Reg’lar Fellas
. Written and drawn by Jerry Devine, it was known to everyone who picked up a newspaper. In 1941, NBC decided to turn
Reg’lar Fellas
into a radio show. I landed the part of Jimmy Duggan, the lead character. Others were Raymond Ives Jr. as Puddin’ Head Duffy, Eddie Phillips as Wash Jones, and Dickie Monahan as Dinky Duggan, my younger brother. Also, Skippy Homeier had a small part as the sissy in the group. He would later star with my sister, Joyce, in the Broadway hit,
Tomorrow the World
. In May of 1941,
Reg’lar Fellas
replaced
The Jack Benny Show
for the summer at the prime-time spot on Sunday night. The show was first recorded live at 7 p.m. Later we all returned to the studio to broadcast a 10 p.m. performance for the West Coast.

Reg’lar Fellas
was one of several hundred shows I worked on during twenty years in radio. Among the most popular were
Young Widder Brown
,
Henry Aldrich
,
David Harem
, and
Duffy’s Tavern
. Each of them were hits that lasted for years. In fact, my schedule was so hectic that on Thursdays I did
David Harem
at 11:00 a.m. then went to
Young Widder Brown
at 3:45 p.m. and ended with
Henry Aldrich
at 8 p.m.

But there was one show that stands above the rest:
Miss Hattie
. Running for two years in the early 1940s,
Miss Hattie
was unusual for two reasons: first, there were only two regular stars. Most of the shows had large ensemble casts. I played one of the roles, Teddy, the nephew of the widow,
Miss Hattie
Thompson. Second, my co-star was the great Ethel Barrymore.

It would be impossible to exaggerate the stature of Ethel Barrymore. Known as “the first lady of the American theater,” Ethel was the sister of John and Lionel Barrymore and easily the biggest stage actress of the first half of the twentieth century. As a young woman, she was engaged to Winston Churchill, and, although they never married, the two maintained a close friendship throughout their lives. Many giants of Broadway, like Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, with whom I eventually worked, came of age when the theater world was ruled by the Barrymores. In fact, by the time I worked on
Miss Hattie
with Ethel Barrymore, there was already a theater named after her on Broadway.

Although I was just thirteen years old when we began our radio program together, I recognized that Miss Barrymore was viewed differently by others, almost with a sense of awe. Perhaps my mother was the one most astonished—and delighted—that her child was actually sharing the limelight with this icon of the American stage. It was especially fortuitous because Ethel actually did very little work on the radio. Born in 1879, Ethel was the granddaughter of John Drew, patriarch of one of the oldest American theater families. One other such elite theater family in the mid-19
^th
century was the Booths. On occasion, I marvel at the brevity of time, considering that I worked with a woman whose grandfather may well have known and acted with John Wilkes Booth, the man who assassinated President Lincoln.

Recently I listened to an old recording of
Miss Hattie
. This particular episode is a courtroom drama called,
Teddy Thinks He’s Blind in One Eye
. Hearing Ethel Barrymore perform not only kindles old memories, but reminds me of a very different age of acting. Her voice was a model of perfect enunciation. It possessed a dignified quality, almost like an elevated British accent—which makes sense given her relationship with Churchill. Like her brothers, John and Lionel, Ethel represented a classical style of acting that reigned over Broadway for many years.

Listening to
Miss Hattie
, I also noticed my own voice sounded remarkably like Mickey Rooney. Mickey was the biggest child star in America, and like everyone my age, I loved his
Hardy Boy
movies. While I don’t recall ever consciously making an effort to imitate Mickey’s intonation, it may well have been in the back of my mind. Actors, like singers, often begin by copying those they admire before fully developing their own style. Of course, it may also be that as a youngster I just happened to sound a bit like Mickey.

One aspect of live radio programming that people may not fully realize is that shows were often broadcast in big theaters to large crowds. Throughout the years, I played radio programs in front of thousands of people at the biggest theaters in New York City and many other cities, and the pulse of the audience could be as integral to a good performance as it is in the theater.

I always deeply admired the radio actors. They were what I call “fast actors.” They learned their parts quickly, and the best ones could change character at a moment’s notice. My favorites were Richard Widmark, Frank Lovejoy, and Agnes Morehead—and I had the good fortune to work with all of them.

The radio actors also had to be adept with a live mike. Unlike today’s film or television shows, the radio shows were all broadcast live. As a result there was the occasional screwup, which could be fatal. One such instance involved,
Uncle Don
, one of the most popular kid shows in America. I well recall the scandal that ended Uncle Don’s career—one that involved a moment when Uncle Don, like many of our politicians, came to appreciate the dangers of a live mike only after it was too late. One evening, just as the show was ending, Uncle Don gave his trademark, “This is your Uncle Don, saying, ‘Goodnight, Kiddies.’” He should have left it at that. Instead, without realizing he was still on the air, he muttered, “That should hold the goddamn brats.” Needless to say, there was an abrupt demise to Uncle Don’s career.

At the same time my radio career took off, Broadway was again reacting to events abroad, and Mom was anxious for me to land a part in a giant new spectacular, directed by George S. Kaufman. The play, written by Moss Hart, was to be a celebration of the American way of life. But, it was also a warning against dangers threatening that way of life, from within as much as from aggressive foreign powers. It was interesting to hear President Obama, in his recent inaugural address, warn that we must “reject as false the choice between safety and our ideals.” We should protect our American way of life without sacrificing the principles that make us who we are. Striking that balance is, perhaps, the greatest challenge confronting any free nation, and it was no different in the late 1930s than it is today.

In the winter of 1938, the drums of war were sounding in Europe, and Americans were already embroiled in a debate over what we should do when the fighting started. Broadway, as always, responded to the situation—this time with a patriotic extravaganza titled,
The American Way
—one that raised serious questions about national loyalties.

The play was a massive production, staged at my favorite venue in New York City, the Center Theater on 47
^th
Street in Rockefeller Center. The Center, which was later transformed into New York’s first Ice Theater, was modeled on Radio City Music Hall, which is next door. The Center was a gorgeous playhouse, with three balconies as well as dressing rooms with mirrors instead of walls, so the actors could see themselves from every angle before heading onstage.

The Center was enormous, seating around four-thousand people. It was also enormous underground. One day I discovered a secret passageway in the basement that wound around all the way to Radio City Music Hall. In time, the forty other kids in the play and I were exploring those old tunnels. Although I was the only child with lines in the play, there were no hierarchies among us. In fact, I even developed my very first crush on a young girl named Connie Large. Regrettably, she didn’t reciprocate. I don’t know what ever happened to Connie, and although she broke my heart back in 1939, I hope she’s had a happy life.

The American Way
told the story of Martin Gunther, a German immigrant, played by Fredric March. Gunther brought his family to the United States late in the 19
^th
century, and when World War I broke out, he found himself in the midst of a terrible internal conflict. His wife, played by Florence Eldridge—who was married to Fredric March in real life—was opposed to their son fighting in the war, fearing he might be forced to kill the children of their friends and family back in Germany. There’s a scene I still remember vividly when the townspeople, in a fit of xenophobia, gather outside the Gunther home, throwing bricks through the windows. The mob yelled, “Slacker, Slacker,” a word that at the time had a different connotation than today. Rather than “lazy,” it meant “coward,” and the mob was angry that Gunther’s son, played by David Wayne, had not yet enlisted. They got their way, and despite his mother’s reservations, the young man signed up and died in the war, leaving the Gunther family angry and bitter.

Things then moved ahead to 1927, at which time I entered as Karl, Martin Gunther’s grandson. My initial entrance was the moment when Fredric March scolded me for talking to him about the Joe Louis fight. I remember my first lines: “What about Lindy? Did he get there yet?” Staged in 1939, this act of the play was set twelve years earlier on the night of Charles Lindbergh’s historic flight across the Atlantic. Everyone listened for news of his progress on the radio as he headed toward Paris.

Lindbergh’s flight took place in May of 1927, over a year before I was born. But Lucky Lindy was still a hero to me. My parents talked a great deal about the kidnapping of his child, which took place in 1934, when I was five years old. We listened to reports from the trial on the radio, and I remember when Bruno Hauptmann was executed in 1936. Recently, I saw the courtroom where the historic trial was held in Flemington, New Jersey, and was told that each year a local theater group performs a reenactment of the trial in the same courtroom.

The American Way
ends with Karl, now grown up in 1939, joining a German Bund, whose members are sympathetic to the Nazis. Again his Grandfather tries to convince his wife and grandson that they are Americans now and should reject these flirtations with the racist propaganda emanating from the Third Reich—propaganda that too often found a home among impressionable young men in the German-American Bunds.

The play raised this dilemma of divided loyalties. Such divisions are an inevitable problem in a country of immigrants. Even as a ten-year-old in 1939, I understood that if we went to war our soldiers might be fighting against relatives or friends back in Europe. In fact, I understood the issues in this play in a very personal way because of the alliance between Mussolini and Hitler. On the Italian side of my family, there was strong sentiment against our involvement in the war. My mother’s sisters, aunt Lucille and aunt Beatrice, were especially vocal in their support of isolationism.

There were many prominent people in the country who shared their view. The most famous was Lindbergh himself. At the time, Lindy was a leading spokesman for the America First movement, which opposed our intervention in the War. His passion for isolationism brought accusations of anti-Semitism and of being a Nazi sympathizer against him. Those charges were largely laid to rest after Pearl Harbor when Lindy reenlisted in the Air Force and flew fighter planes in the Pacific Theater. There were many other distinguished people in the America First movement, both liberals and conservatives, including a young Gerald Ford, who would, of course, become President of the United States and Potter Stewart, later a Supreme Court Justice.