So, writing plays is pretty cool. My one-act play, The Ten Minute Play (With a Nice Picture of Jimmy Carter) has been selected for a reading at the Midwest Dramatist Conference in late September, in Kansas City. I’ll be attending and participating in panels and see my play being performed.
Another one-act play, Mundy Tuesday Friday, was selected over the summer as a Finalist by the Shakespeare in the Burg theater company in Middleburg, Virginia. Of course, it would have been nice to have the play actually produced, but the director of the company is very nice. I’ve received several nice rejections for this play from other companies. One day, somebody’s going to pick this up and stage it.
The biggest news (and I know I’m burying the lede) is that I just finished a full-length play called The Cabots of Broadway. It’s a comedy about three generations of actors. Each act is about one generation and how they became the First Family of the Theater. I’ve been submitting it to theater festivals around the country in the hopes that someone loves it and wants to do it. I love it. It’s my best work so far.
All of my plays ( I have several) are available on New Play Exchange (https://newplayexchange.org/users/14397/greg-hatfield) under my name.
So there you have it. Updates. While you’re here, go ahead and read some of the older posts. The Crosby post is good, as is the Grace Metalious post. I’m also fond of the Harpo and Dorothy Parker posts. And if you want to cry a little, The Day the Sheriff Shot My Dog is up your alley.
Thanks for reading.
I feel like I’m close to finishing some of the essays I’ve been working on. Just to give you a preview of what is in store for my readers, I have the following in various stages of completion:
A Short History of the Dublin Gate Theater, featuring the founders, Hilton Edwards and Michael MacLiammoir. This has been all-consuming lately, with the reasons detailed in my essay. Founded in 1928, in Dublin, Ireland, the Gate is one of the longest-consecutive running theaters in the world. It’s difficult writing about productions and actors you’ve never personally seen (except maybe in filmed clips), but I hope to get across the passion and brilliance of both Edwards and MacLiammoir, and all the paths that lead to them.
What Moss Hart Means to Me. Playwright and director Moss Hart was a very talented man, known for being George S. Kaufman’s most successful collaborator. He certainly influenced my life and Hart has seen a bit of a renaissance lately with the production of his autobiography, Act One, on Broadway, so I’ll take a look at his career and life.
I’m trying to figure out a couple of stories about, well, me. I’d like to write about a play I directed in college, Neil Simon’s The Gingerbread Lady, because it was memorable and interesting, I think. I might also write about my time in comedy, starting with The Act, my duo with Scott Levy. I may also publish some unpublished work, including parts of my novel The Dick Beaks Show, or sketches that didn’t make the cut for one reason or another.
This is all part of the bigger picture leading to my memoirs called Scrap Heap.
In the meantime, it’s the start of the holiday season, so my timeless Bing Crosby article gets shoved to the front.
See you soon.
Der Bingle: A Short Appreciation of Bing Crosby
He was once the most popular singer ever.
He recorded over 1600 songs over a 58 year recording career. His records have sold over one billion copies. He had 38 number one hits, including the most popular song ever.
He appeared on about 4000 radio programs.
His television show regularly was watched by over 50 million people weekly.
He appeared in 83 movies and sold over one billion tickets, which puts him third overall on the most popular actor category, behind Clark Gable and John Wayne. He was nominated for 4 Academy Awards and won one, and introduced fourteen Oscar nominated songs in these films, which won four.
He is largely forgotten, with the exception of this time of year, where his music is rotated liberally and his name is synonymous with the holiday season.
He is Bing Crosby whose life and legacy still live on among those of us who cherish popular singing.
And that’s what he was, a popular singer, singing songs of every type and genre, with an easy-going style that belied his immense talent. Bing made it look easy and everyone, from all walks of life, would enjoy his music. And man, that voice, that incomparable voice; that deep baritone that takes every musical phrase seriously and glides it to its musical height. Jazz, ballads, blues, cowboy songs, hymns, show tunes – he sang practically everything, captivating his audience with those full, rich notes. They clung to every word, every syllable, as Bing invented what became the crooner. Many tried to imitate. Sinatra started out as a Bing clone.
What made me start thinking of Crosby was the programming of local radio. Several stations here in Cincinnati – as I am sure other cities have done the same thing — have begun playing Christmas music 24/7. I had the occasion to listen to a large block of that programming one night and noticed that, roughly, one out of six songs were songs by Crosby, including at least two versions of White Christmas, the aforementioned most popular song ever, with sales of over 100 million.
I thought about that. I thought about how much I like Crosby’s music and mused sadly that this is probably the only time of the year in which Crosby is played on mainstream radio. SiriusXM radio even has a channel devoted this time of year called “Bing Crosby Christmas Radio”. To be fair, you can listen to Crosby songs on Sirius’ 40’s channel and Pandora and Spotify also program Crosby music into your specific playlists.
TMC does show the occasional Crosby film, Going My Way being the most popular. Sometimes a Bob Hope/Bing Crosby “Road” picture pops up, but these are mostly dated comedies and, as much as I love Bob Hope, his humor is very topical and era-specific.
Yes, Bing Crosby has some skeletons in his closet. He could be aloof and dismissive. He probably wasn’t the greatest father to his four sons by his first marriage, but apparently redeemed himself by his second marriage, with three children.
(There’s a biography of Bing called The Hollow Man, which presents a less than flattering portrait of him. For years, during my friends and my annual White Elephant Christmas party, we gave away the same copy of this book each year to some unsuspecting recipient, who was obliged to give it away the following year.
My friend, Rick Simms, né Clem Coffee, said that if “One fifth of what was written in that book is true, Bing Crosby was the most despicable man who ever lived.” And Clem liked Bing Crosby.
A better biography is Gary Giddins’ Bing Crosby: A Pocketful of Dreams, The Early Years 1903-1940. This came out in 2001, with a promised second volume that is taking some time to see print.
So, this holiday season, when you hear Bing Crosby sing those delightful Christmas carols that can make the other ones seem lame, pause and reflect just one minute that the man you’re listening to is a superstar in the world of popular music. And if you have Pandora or Spotify, give a listen to some of his other non-holiday music. I’ll bet you’ll end up liking it and wanting more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put on my vinyl copy of Bing Sings Whilst Bregman Swings.
A while back, I presented a book proposal on the deaths of famous writers. An editor suggested it for me and I sketched out some rough outlines of Poe, Hemingway and my favorite, Dorothy Parker. Since I’m terribly late in posting my latest story, I’m filling in with this chestnut, complete now with visuals. I hope you enjoy it. — Hat
Dorothy Parker: “I do not care what is written about me so long as it is not true.”
When Dorothy Parker died on June 7, 1967, her death surprised many people. After reading her obituary in the New York Times, they shook their heads in disbelief. They thought she had died years ago. Indeed, death came much too late in life for Mrs. Parker. The famed literary wit of the 1920’s had, after all, attempted suicide on at least three different occasions. After her second attempt, her friend, the humorist Robert Benchley warned her that if she wasn’t careful she was “likely to make herself sick.” On her 70th birthday, she said if she had any manners, she “should be dead by now. All of my friends are.”
Mrs. Parker and Mr. Benchley
Alone and forgotten at her death, Dottie had lived the last years of her life in her beloved New York, where she had made her biggest contribution. She was the darling of the Algonquin Round Table, whose ranks included the most famous drama critic of the day Alexander Woollcott; widely read newspaper columnist Franklin P. Adams (from whose poetry style of light verse Dottie borrowed heavily); award-winning playwright George S. Kaufman; and the New Yorker founder Harold Ross. Ironically, she outlived all but two of its members.
The Algonquin Round Table by Al Hirschfeld
Dottie was one of the original staffers at Ross’ new magazine, the New Yorker, where she is credited with creating the prototypical “New Yorker Short Story,” that is a story under 7000 words, urbane, witty and well-written. But her biggest success came from her poetry; short, humorous poems, usually about suicide or failed relationships, that she called “trifles,” never taking it seriously, but nonetheless knowing its popularity among her readers. In the early days of the struggling magazine, Ross scolded her for turning in an article late. “Sorry,” she said, “someone else was using the pencil.”
The New Yorker’s first issue, 1925
Mrs. Parker, Benchley and Woollcott were all on the “advisory” staff
“I hate writing. I love having written.”
She published seven books during her lifetime, collections of her short stories and poetry, including Enough Rope (1926), Sunset Gun (1927), Death and Taxes (1931) and After Such Pleasures (1933). She won the O. Henry Prize for “Outstanding Short Story” in 1939 for her story, Big Blonde. A collection from her entire body of work, The Portable Dorothy Parker, was first published in 1944 and remains in print today, bringing thousands of new readers every year. As she grew older, she and her then-husband Alan Campbell moved to Hollywood, where they worked on screenplays. Dottie, Alan and Robert Carson were nominated for an Academy Award for their screenplay for the 1937 film, A Star is Born.
Always a champion for social causes, upon her death Mrs. Parker left her entire estate to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Upon his assassination, the rights reverted to the NAACP. Author Lillian Hellman was the executor of Dottie’s estate, but never claimed her ashes for burial, after finding out, and getting angry, that Dottie hadn’t left her the rights to her literary works. Mrs. Parker’s ashes languished in a box in an attorney’s office for over fifteen years before the NAACP took Dottie’s remains and interred them in a memorial garden at their national headquarters in Baltimore, Maryland. Dorothy had her own suggestion for her epitaph:
“Excuse my dust.”
The United States Postal Service issued a commemorative stamp with her likeness, as part of the Literary Arts series on August 22, 1992, on what would have been Mrs. Parker’s 99th birthday.
Mrs. Parker isn’t the only Round Table member to be commemorated on a postage stamp. Others include:
Artist Neysa McMein
Author Edna Ferber
Playwright Moss Hart
A film of her life, Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle, directed by Alan Rudolph and starring Jennifer Jason Leigh, was released in 1994 and released on DVD in 2006.
See the trailer here:
What Harpo Marx Means To Me
How One Man from the World’s Greatest Comedy Team Shaped the Life of a Boy He Never Met
From the Introduction to Harpo Speaks by Harpo Marx
“I’ve been lucky enough, in my time, to do a number of things that most people get around to doing. I’ve played piano in a whorehouse. I’ve smuggled secret papers out of Russia. I’ve spent an evening on the divan with Peggy Hopkins Joyce. I’ve played croquet with Herbert Bayard Swope while he kept Governor Al Smith waiting on the phone. I’ve gambled with Nick the Greek, sat on the floor with Greta Garbo, played ping-pong with George Gershwin. George Bernard Shaw has asked me for advice. Oscar Levant has played private concerts for me at a buck a throw. I’ve been a member of two of the most famous Round Tables since the days of King Arthur – sitting with the finest creative minds of the 1920s at the Algonquin in New York, and with Hollywood’s sharpest professional wits at the Hillcrest.”
(At the time I first read this, I had no idea who anyone was, except King Arthur.)
Who Is Harpo Marx?
When I look deep inside myself and reconnect with the boy I was growing up, there is one man who influenced me greatly and shaped not only my personality, but the direction my life would take as an adult. This man was responsible for me becoming a writer, a comedian and showed me that I could love theater, film and literature. What’s even more amazing is that this man barely made it though second grade. He learned through the school of hard knocks and was befriended by great writers, great wits and other great artists of the 20th Century.
It’s not too much of a stretch to say that
Everything I Learned, I Learned From Harpo Marx.
How It Happened
As a child growing up in the 1950’s, I was, from the moment I saw him, infatuated with Groucho Marx. His television quiz show, You Bet Your Life, became my favorite show and I watched it whenever I could. Groucho was obviously very funny, even if I didn’t quite understand all the jokes, but I loved his mannerisms, his conversations with the contestants and his banter with the announcer, George Fennemann. The game component almost seemed inconsequential to the show, but that was alright with me, as long as Groucho held front and center, which, of course, he did.
During one particular summer, my parents, my brothers and I were on vacation, probably in the Great Smokey Mountains, and in the motel, I turned on the television. Television in the late 1950’s was suspect anyway, and reception in the depths of Tennessee was not the greatest. But there, on the screen, I could see it. A much younger version of Groucho was on TV in a movie. His moustache was different and he was wrestling with a couple of men who also looked and acted, and were, funny.
That movie was Monkey Business. The other men were Harpo and Chico Marx. I was only able to watch maybe the last forty-five minutes of the movie (and it would take me over fifteen years to finally be able to see it in its entirety), but it left an impression on me that has lasted a lifetime.
I was captivated instantly with Harpo. He was silent, of course, but he was full of mischief and brought an energy which mesmerized me when he was on the screen. I remember him running around destroying anything in his path and chasing girls, often stopping what he was doing before to chase a pretty girl in his sight. I couldn’t wait to see him again.
Only One Problem with That
Before video tapes and DVDs, there was no outlet for watching old films on demand. No YouTube or Netflix. We were at the mercy of movie theaters running revivals, or the late show on television showing films from that period. I was in a predicament, for sure. My salvation was due in part to the fact that I was voracious reader and knew where to go for information in the Print Age.
(As a sidebar, I actually won my sixth grade reading contest for most books read in a month. I read for fun at every turn and it was easy to wipe out the sixth grade competition (I’m talking to you, Joanna Peebles) with practically quadruple the books of my nearest rival.)
My parents didn’t read, but my mother encouraged my reading and bought me books on a regular basis. She would drive me to go to the small main public library in Covington, Kentucky. There, becoming a self-taught expert of the library’s tools, I would research the Marxes, reading selected excerpts from the big volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica and, the much easier to use and read and carry, World Book Encyclopedia, as well as the yearbooks of Current Biography. I learned how to use microfilm and looked through old newspapers. There were bound collections of Time and Newsweek magazines throughout the years and I hunted for old articles about the brothers.
(I did happen to catch Harpo on television on a rerun of I Love Lucy. Lucy tries to impress Carolyn Appleby, who conveniently lost her glasses, by dressing up as Hollywood celebrities and “visiting” Lucy and Ethyl. One of the celebrities Lucy impersonates is Harpo Marx. The real Harpo drops by as a favor to Ricky and Lucy and Harpo collide. It’s very funny as they do the “mirror scene” from Duck Soup. Ironically, Lucy was in the Marx Brothers movie, Room Service, made for RKO studios in 1938. She was a “B” actress then. Once she and Desi had become successful with the I Love Lucy show, they bought RKO Studios and turned it into the Desilu Studios.)
What Is This Thing Called Vaudeville?
The first thing that made an impression with me was this thing called Vaudeville, which was live variety entertainment from the late 1880’s to the early 1930’s, and really hitting its peak around 1914-15. Vaudeville was a hodge-podge of every kind of show business act: comedians, singers, jugglers, dancers, acrobats, animal acts – and sometimes an act contained all of these elements. Celebrities from all walks of life did vaudeville. It was the primary form of entertainment for America.
These performers, many of whom were immigrants, or the children of immigrants, endured all kinds of grueling travel, living and eating conditions. They traveled (cheaply) all over the country on “vaudeville circuits” where every major and secondary city (and if a performer was really unlucky, tertiary ones) had theaters. The shows, with multiple acts on the bill, would play three, four, even five times a day. Some circuits were living hells, while others were luxurious. It was every performer’s dream to work their way up to the top and play The Palace, the most famous vaudeville theater in New York.
In these articles, I discovered W.C. Fields, Fanny Brice, Will Rogers, Florenz Ziegfeld, and many other performers of the day, including the Marx Brothers. The library actually had a book called Show Biz: From Vaude to Video (the first time I had ever heard the word video), by Abel Green, the editor of Variety, and Joe Laurie, an old vaudevillian and popular radio comedian.
The first books I read about the Marxes were two books written by Arthur Marx, son of Groucho: Life with Groucho and Not as a Crocodile. I checked them both out.
Life with Groucho was an affectionate, yet light biography of Groucho, written with a son’s perspective, of course, and how Groucho mainly interacted with his family. But it was eye-opening for a young boy from Kentucky, whose main contact with show business was television and the occasional movie.
The book did discuss the Marx Brothers on Broadway, which opened that part of their career up to me, and first introduced me to the brilliant playwright George S. Kaufman.
There were only small mentions of the movies (Groucho hated making movies, except the two the brothers made with Irving Thalberg at MGM) and barely any mention of Harpo and Chico, which, I guess, was appropriate since it was about Arthur growing up in Groucho’s house as a kid. Arthur did say that his uncles were just about the coolest uncles in the whole world, which was what I was thinking, too.
Not as a Crocodile was kind of a disappointment to this ten year old. It was primarily about Arthur’s adult life and not being in Groucho’s shadow. As a writer, Arthur had a big theatrical hit with The Impossible Years, which became a successful movie with David Niven.
Xapno Mapcase: U.S. Spy
Ironically, it was my own father who led me to another chapter in my quest for Marx Brothers information. I discovered in his pile of old magazines the June 1961 issue of Argosy magazine. Right on the cover was the proclamation that this issue featured Harpo Marx with the “Year’s Funniest Spy Story”! I couldn’t wait to devour this story and read and re-read it over and over.
In 1934, Harpo Marx visited the Soviet Union as part of an artistic cultural program when the United States finally recognized the Soviet regime just as Hitler was taking power in Germany. Harpo saw his name on the playbill and in Russian it looked like “Xapno Mapcase. His performances “killed” in Russia and he was given a twenty-minute standing ovation following one memorable show.
When he was about to leave, some men from the U.S. State Department came into his room and asked him to perform a service to his country. They taped some documents to his ankle to be retrieved upon his return to America. Needless to say, Harpo worried throughout his return passage, keeping his taped leg out of the bathtub as he showered and generally favoring it. He was relieved upon arrival when the agents came and got the documents.
I remember putting down the magazine dumbstruck. While Groucho was content with raising a family in Beverly Hills and reading quietly by the fire, Harpo was traveling the world, engaging in espionage and smuggling documents out of Soviet Russia! The dichotomy of the two brothers couldn’t have been more apparent. The article said it was an excerpt from Harpo’s new autobiography called Harpo Speaks, which was already out. I had to have it.
I went back to my public library and talked to the librarian. I told her exactly what I wanted and she made notes, nodding her head in agreement with me. Yes, I can see you’re keen to read it, she said. I’ll certainly do everything I can do to get it in for you. No, I don’t know how long it will take. Fill in this card and we’ll mail you a notice when it arrives.
So that was that. It was early 1964. I was eleven years old and had to go back doing the things a normal eleven year old boy does. I read other books. I learned about Chief Black Hawk, great Sauk tribe warrior (dibs on turning his life into a movie). I fell in love with the Little Britches series of books written by Ralph Moody about a boy growing up during the depression and, what seemed to be cool to this city boy, his wonderful adventures in bleak dust bowl Kansas trying to stay alive with his family. (Dibs on this, too.)
Then, many weeks later, the postcard arrived telling me that my reserved copy of Harpo Speaks was waiting for me at the library. I pleaded with my mother to drive me downtown to get it that very day. As luck would have it, the library was open late that night and after dinner we went to the library. I was nervous walking in. What if I didn’t like the book? What if it wasn’t what I expected?
When I got to the counter, I announced my name and the librarian went to a bookshelf behind her and got the book. When I first saw it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The book was massive, well over 450 pages. It was thick, twice as thick as Groucho’s autobiography, Groucho and Me.
I got the book and ran back to the car. I opened it and began reading. Even in the introduction, I knew I was in for quite a ride. Harpo teased at all the things he did and the stories he was going to tell. As I mentioned before, I had no idea who any of those people were. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to read it and when I was done, and through the years afterward, I knew who everybody was.
What I Learned
I firmly believe that much of my own self-taught education of the late 19th century and the early 20th century came straight from the pages of Harpo’s book. I learned about the poverty that immigrants faced coming to New York from Europe in the late 19th Century and how they survived. How the neighborhoods were segregated and rarely did they mix.
Harpo’s descriptions of growing up and getting thrown out of school in the second grade (literally by a bully) seemed so foreign to me, a kid from the suburbs. But his descriptions of his family life, growing up with his brothers and their mother, Minnie, and their father, Frenchie, were absolutely wonderful. Their affection for one another, and their mother’s drive for them to succeed in show business, almost made them forget the fights over the last bread roll at dinner, or how much money they owed the landlord.
The Marx Brothers had a long road to travel before they became The Marx Brothers. First, they were the Three Nightingales, then the Four Nightingales, then the Six Mascots, before coming up with the moniker, The Four Marx Brothers. From 1907 until their Broadway debut in 1923, the Marxes played vaudeville, honing their act and characters.
When they did arrive on Broadway, in an almost slapped together musical called I’ll Say She Is!, good luck arrived in the form of Alexander Woollcott, the most powerful drama critic in New York at the time.
Woollcott was supposed to attend another play’s opening, but a last minute cancelation of the show changed his plans and he dragged himself to see what he thought was some “acrobats”. Woollcott thoroughly enjoyed himself and wrote a rave review for the next day’s paper. He was particularly taken with Harpo, calling him a “great clown” and praising him throughout the review.
Woollcott visited Harpo backstage the next night and invited him to a poker game with the playwright George S. Kaufman, popular newspaper columnist Franklin P. Adams, soon-to-found The New Yorker Harold Ross, and New York World editor Herbert Bayard Swope. Harpo was also invited to lunch with them at the Algonquin Hotel where he met such writers as Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Edna Ferber, Robert E. Sherwood, Alice Duer Miller and artist Neysa McMein. The quips at lunch were fast, furious and intelligent.
And, just like that, I was hooked forever. I longed to have friends like that, where conversation ruled, where everyone tried to top each other with one-liners.
I became enamored early with Alexander Woollcott. He wasn’t the founder of the Algonquin Round Table, but he was its center. Everyone, it appeared, seemed to gravitate to him and what interested him, interested them. No one was safe from his quick-witted barbs and there was probably always someone who wasn’t talking to Woollcott because of some remark.
During the 1920’s, Woollcott was the most important drama critic in New York, where legitimate theater was the most important part of show business, and also a conduit of social activity. He had many friends, from the leading actors of the day and businessmen to politicians and the Kings and Queens of Europe.
He played croquet for high stakes and even higher bragging rights, and other games, often devised by Neysa McMein. He entertained everyone who was anyone, from George Bernard Shaw to Eleanor Roosevelt. In the 1930’s, he became one of the most popular figures in radio, where he captivated a nation with his show, The Town Crier, often telling gruesome stories about murderers, such as Lizzie Borden, or sharing his enthusiasm about some book, like Goodbye, Mr. Chips or The Bridge of San Luis Rey. He was the Oprah of his day. When he told people to go out and buy a book or a product, or see a play, they did in droves.
When people think of Alexander Woollcott today, it’s usually in the context as the basis for the main character of Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman’s play The Man Who Came to Dinner, which also features a character named Banjo, based on Harpo.
In 1935, New York’s most influential drama critic and radio personality, Alexander Woollcott, published The Woollcott Reader: Bypaths in the Realms of Gold, an anthology of short fiction whose authors he liked and on whom he commented following the story.
When the book was published, Woollcott brought the book to a gathering of some of his famous friends and asked, “Oh, what can be more rare than a Woollcott First Edition?” Columnist Franklin P. Adams responded, “A Woollcott Second Edition.”
The publisher, Viking Press, printed a limited slipcase edition of 1500 copies, which Woollcott signed and numbered. Presenting copy number 302 to Susan Fleming Marx, wife of Harpo Marx, he wrote, “(This edition of The Woollcott Reader) is hereby presented by him at Xmas to his 302nd most intimate friend, Susan Fleming.”
I have copy number 728.
George S. Kaufman was someone who quickly became one of my favorites. He had the kind of humor I wanted. At a dinner, or lunch, or poker conversation, he was always quiet until the right moment and said his line right at the most opportune time. The fact that he was a famous playwright, arguably the most famous playwright of the twenties and thirties and even into the forties, made him instantly one of my idols.
I read every Kaufman play I could find, from early plays written with Marc Connelly, such as Dulcy, and plays written with the popular novelist of the time, Edna Ferber (Giant, Show Boat), such as Stage Door, Dinner at Eight and The Royal Family, to plays written with his most frequent collaborator Moss Hart, such as You Can’t Take It With You and Once in A Lifetime.
Kaufman was instrumental in further developing the Marx Brothers’ characters when he agreed to write, along with Morrie Ryskind, their second Broadway show, The Cocoanuts in 1925. While I’ll Say She! Is was more or less a revue with sketches and musical numbers, The Cocoanuts was structured in to a typical musical play that let the Marx Brothers veer off course with their brand of insane humor and let them come back to the story when they were ready.
Kaufman was always protective about the script and hated when the Marxes ad-libbed from the script. During one performance of The Cocoanuts, he was in the back of the house, pacing, when he suddenly became startled and stared right at the stage. “What’s wrong, George?” said his companion. “I may be wrong,” Kaufman said, “but I think I just heard one of the original lines.”
The Cocoanuts was a huge hit and became their first motion picture in 1929. Kaufman and Ryskind also wrote the Marx Brothers’ third and last Broadway show, Animal Crackers, which became their second motion picture in 1930. Kaufman and Ryskind also wrote the Pulitzer Prize winning musical, Of Thee I Sing, with music and lyrics by George and Ira Gershwin in 1931. Kaufman later won the Pulitzer Prize with Moss Hart in 1936 for You Can’t Take It With You.
Mr. Benchley, Mrs. Parker and Robert E. Sherwood
Dorothy Parker had a bleak view of life. Her short verse was either about love lost, suicide or some other pessimistic view of the world. She was the darling of the Round Table. Never wildly successful as Kaufman or Ferber, or really, any of her peers, she nonetheless worked steadily throughout the years, gaining more recognition with each passing year. The Dorothy Parker Reader, a collection of her best-known poems and short stories, has never been out of print in over seventy years. Ironically, despite at least two suicide attempts, she was one of the longest living members of the Round Table. Her closest friend during this time was Robert Benchley.
Mr. Benchley, Mrs. Parker and Robert E. Sherwood (who would go on to win four Pulitzer Prizes, an Academy Award, and become a speechwriter for FDR) all worked together at Vanity Fair magazine in the early twenties. When Mrs. Parker quit the magazine over an equal pay issue, Mr. Benchley and Mr. Sherwood quit too, in support of her. Benchley would go on to write for several magazines until a sketch he wrote for a Round Table revue called The Treasurer’s Report would hit big. Irving Berlin hired him to do the sketch on Broadway each night, which led to Benchley being hired by Fox to make short films, which he did until the end of his life, winning an Academy Award in the process. He once complained, “It took me fifteen years to discover that I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.”
Mank and Orson Welles
Perhaps one of the biggest debts I owe to Harpo is discovering Herman Mankiewicz, a brilliant writer from New York, who went to Hollywood in the early days. Mank produced the Marx Brothers films, Monkey Business and Horsefeathers — (He telegraphed writer Ben Hecht one time to come out to Hollywood and write for the studios by saying, “Millions are to be made out here and your only competition is idiots. Don’t let this get around.”) — and wrote, co-wrote, or doctored many of the classic comedy films on the late 1920’s and 30’s.
Mank was an alcoholic and by the late 1930’s had some trouble finding work. Orson Welles was an admirer of Mank’s and together they began work on Citizen Kane. Mank was a frequent visitor to William Randolph Hearst’s San Simeon and remembered many stories about Hearst when it came time to write the screenplay.
Undoubtedly, Mankiewicz’s contribution to Citizen Kane is immense, but it was truly Orson Welles’ film from top to bottom. I was in my late teens when I finally saw Kane at a party where a 16mm print was shown, but it led me to a great love and admiration of Orson Welles’ work that I have to this day.
What Else, Funny Boy?
So in my timeline, I’m putting everything in the 1968-69 basket. It seems to me that these events took place then, but I could be off by one or two, or even three years, either way.
I do know that I remember reading about Harpo’s death in 1964 in an edition of Current Biography, but that could have been as late as 1968. Chico had died in 1961. Groucho and Gummo both died in 1977. Zeppo died in 1979.
Since the 1960’s there has been a tremendous awareness of the Marx Brothers. Video tapes (first) and DVDs, as well as Turner Classic Movies, has allowed all the Marx Brothers films to be seen in all their glory. The first Marx Brothers film I bought was Duck Soup on an old format called DiscoVision. It was a huge disc, about the size of a record album with a plastic cover sleeve over it and you put the whole thing in the machine, where it would remove the disc and you pulled out the cover. It was very cumbersome.
When I was younger, I treasured two 8mm Marx Brothers films I ordered from a catalog. Each film was about 10 minutes in length. The first contained a scene from Horse Feathers. The second was from a television special they did called The Incredible Jewel Robbery from 1959. Both were silent.
One book that brought me closer to the movies was The Marx Brothers at the Movies by Paul Zimmerman and Burt Goldblatt. The book was an overview of the Marxes total movie output, with photos, summaries, how the movie did upon release and other facts about the films. It showed me what I was missing and I recall checking off the films I finally got to see, in the book, on the inevitable countdown to seeing them all (that would take me a while).
I was in high school when the book came out in 1968 and I worked at the library during study hall and lunch. The librarian was Miss Webster and she was almost the stereotypical vision of the librarian in everyone’s head. She was an older woman, a spinster, with glasses hanging from her neck, support hose and drab clothing. She always shushed everyone with her finger to her mouth and saying, “Shhhhhhh! This is the library!” But she loved me.
I was the best student library worker she ever had. She was the librarian at our junior high school when I was there and I worked for her then. So when she was promoted to high school librarian, and I was in high school, I went to work for her there. I was a student leader on her team when she decided to totally re-organize the library’s shelving arrangement.
I told her about The Marx Brothers at the Movies book I wanted and she looked it up on some microfiche database and found it for me. I asked her if she would order it for me and she said yes. I think it was about $8.00 then, but I had a job and gave her the money.
When the book arrived, she opened the box and gave it to me. But she had wrapped the dust jacket in a Brodart sleeve and presented it. I found that touching and thanked her for ordering it. I still have that book today.
And in the End
As I look at everything that has shaped my life, and knowing what still keeps my interest to this day, it all springs from that love of a very specific time and culture of the United States. The 1920’s through the 1940’s were the Golden Age of writing, including plays, newspaper columns, novels, and screenplays. The time of Hemingway, Faulkner and Fitzgerald. When newspapers and magazines were the carriers of information and public opinion.
Where the writers of the day were important and people paid attention. I can’t go back to that time, but through the works that have been preserved in books, films, or any other medium, and yes, including digitally, I can still participate. I can still feel their passion reading their written words and, through them, understand the time that fascinates me so.
While I may now profess to consider George S. Kaufman, Orson Welles, Ernie Kovacs, Robert Benchley and James Thurber as my personal gods (along with Lenny Bruce, John Lennon, Pete Townshend and Bob Dylan), I will never forget the comedian who played a mute, joyful, mischievous free spirit on the screen and found me just at the right time.
I will always be grateful to him and I will never forget what Harpo Marx means to me.
The Day the Sheriff Shot My Dog
by Greg Hatfield
From the earliest recorded annals of history, man and his best friend, the dog, have always been connected. In the great Greek poem Homer’s Odyssey, there was the story of Argos, the loyal dog of Odysseus, lies waiting to see his master once more, following a twenty-year separation. Once proud and frisky, the dog is now old and sick and hanging on by a thread. When Odysseus arrives, disguised to attack his enemies, Argos immediately recognizes him and it’s time for him to die. This was later made into a now lost 1929 silent movie, Argos of Olympia, by the great German director G.W. Pabst, starring Louise Brooks and a young strapping Huntz Hall, with no less than sixteen stunt dogs playing the part of Argos.. (They would copy the same formula a few years later, in 1943, for Lassie Come Home, where an incredible 248 stunt collies — all male –played Lassie.)
Also lost to history is this tidbit. It seems when Homer was writing the Iliad, there was a lengthy chapter devoted to yet another dog, Fidox, who happened to be a big fan of the Trojan War, and even participated in scouting missions. This chapter was lost to the ages, after it was cut by Homer’s editor at the time, Maximus Perkins.
In 1999, well-noted archaeologist, Dr. William Clayborn Jackson Jr. III, has drummed up the financing needed for a dig in a little known area of Thebes, hoping to find the tomb of Fidox, who was buried with warrior honors and a bone made of gold the size of Rhode Island.
We’ve since learned the only thing standing in his way is a T.G.I. Friday’s, which was recently erected on the exact dig spot, and open to tourists, so the dig must be confined to when the restaurant is closed for the evening, and only dug by TGIF’s employees, making it difficult to gain any momentum.
Of course, Walt Disney has made a nice hunk of money capitalizing on dogs as characters. Pluto and the Tramp immediately come to mind. I think no one really knows what Goofy is. Jack London, whose estate keeps him active with a lively Facebook page, recently tweeted he liked dogs better than humans, and his characters White Fang and Buck will soon be appearing in Jack London on Ice.
Sappy dogs, like Winn-Dixie and Toto, too, and the worst offender of them all, Marley, also permeate the literary and cinematic landscape.
But my dog was different. Sure, everyone says their dog is different and unique. It’s inherent of every owner. But the dog that I owned as a kid was indeed different.
His name was Ruff, named after the dog in Dennis the Menace. He was a cur. I never really knew what that meant, but my mom always referred to him as “that ugly cur dog” and all of the many dogs we have throughout my childhood were curs. My Aunt Alice brought Ruff to us one day following a trip to the country. Our previous cur, Cindy, had died, and my aunt knew we needed a dog.
My Dad was always hoping that one of the dogs would be the great hunting dog he always wanted, but generally they were lacking in the skills that good hunting dogs needed, like tracking ability and a certain stealthiness. My mother really didn’t like dogs. She refused to have them in the house and made them sleep outside their entire lives. Of course, when she wasn’t home, I always let them in to warm up or play.
I was at the right age, probably ten years old, when Aunt Alice dropped off the puppy that I called Ruff immediately. I claimed him for my own and spent all my free time with him. He was a great playmate. He chased the stick, not really bringing it back, but I could wrestle it from his mouth and throw it again. We played in the woods that surrounded our neighborhood. The woods weren’t that extensive, just enough for a kid to get lost in them, build a secret camp, and wile away the hours.
In those days, our neighborhood was still serviced by milk trucks and vegetable and fruit trucks and other services that have gone by the wayside. Ruff’s weakness was that he chased cars. I yelled and yelled for him to stop, but to no avail. It was useless to protest, cause no matter what we were doing, Ruff’s ears would perk up and he would take off like a rocket whenever one of the trucks would rumble down the street, barking endlessly until the truck would get too far ahead. He could be in a deep sleep, snoring like dogs do, but instantly wake up when the roar of the truck approached and zoom to the curb to bark and chase the vehicle.
One day, Ruff got a little too close to the milk truck and the front bumper clipped him on the hind leg. It was fortunate that he wasn’t killed. I was there and saw the whole thing. The milk driver didn’t even stop. He just kept going as I screamed and shook my fist, “You hit my dog, you bastard!” We weren’t customers.
Ruff was howling from the pain. I could see he was limping. As I approached him, he took off and went into the woods. I chased him, calling his name and I could hear the rustling of the leaves as he made his way though the foliage. And then it stopped. I panicked. What if he was dead? I called him repeatedly, looking everywhere. I scoured the woods for what seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t find him. I went home, crying hysterically and waiting for my Dad to get home. My Dad took it in stride. “I told you something like this would happen if he continued to chase cars,” he said. Well, it wasn’t my fault. I had told Ruff, too, but short of an intervention, there seemed to be nothing that could be done.
The days went by. Each morning, I stood with the empty dog food can, calling his name, banging on the bowl, annoying the neighbors. When I got home from school, he was the first thing I looked for when I got off the bus, and I sacrificed my homework time (that really wasn’t too much of a sacrifice) to search the woods looking for what I assumed was his dead body. Days turned into weeks.
And then one day, just like that, when I went outside, there he was. The reunion between dog and boy was as glorious as a returning soldier to his family. I hugged him and scolded him and was so thankful he was back to me. Then I saw it. His right leg was raised in the air. He was walking on three legs. When my Dad saw it, he explained that Ruff had let the leg heal on its own and he had learned how to walk and run on three legs. There was no need to take him to the vet, he explained, because Ruff had taken care of himself the only way he knew how. That’s why he was gone all this time.
It didn’t seem to bother him. He ran and played just like before. He still barked at the trucks barreling down the street, but didn’t seem to get as close to them as before. He was still social. He played with other dogs. There were a lot of beagles around the neighborhood and they had that tracking acumen that my Dad found elusive in his dogs. Coming out of the woods, the rabbits were plentiful, as rabbits are wont to be. The beagles would sniff them out and give them chase. Now Ruff’s skills as a sniffer weren’t that great, but he would let the beagles do all the work in that department, and then he would take off like a rocket, outrunning the short-legged beagles with his three good legs, and getting to the rabbits before any of the other dogs. They never actually caught one, though, just making the rabbit stop and cower before they lost interest and took a nap.
In those days, glass soft drink bottles could be redeemed for 2 cents and penny candy was plentiful. The place we went to cash in our bottles was Burt’s store. The name of the store was H&S Hillcrest, but I never heard anyone call it that in the years I went there. It was run by Burt, coincidentally enough. His sister and brother-in-law also worked there, but they weren’t as likely to give you an extra piece of candy like Burt frequently did.
Burt’s was just up the field through our backyard and just on the other side of the firehouse. You then had to cross a very busy two lane main street, the thoroughfare that went north/south where the speed limit was 45 mph. There was no cross walk or light or anything that indicated a crossing, but everyone who walked to the store took the same route through our backyard and across the street. You had to be careful and not be too impatient when waiting your turn. Your time would come and you could then dash across the street where the penny candy awaited.
Ruff and I had made the trip dozens of times. Each time, he sat patiently at my side while we waited for the zipping traffic to subside and we could cross the street. On this day, I had my hands full with bottles. The neighbor had just thrown them out with his trash and I was fortunate enough to retrieve them. (I’m thinking this is a skill that will come in handy later in life.) So with bottles clutched to my chest and one in each finger, Ruff and I made the trip to the store to cash in.
When we were at the street, it was busier than usual. Cars on either side were going back and forth at what seemed to be a high rate of speed and the bottles shifted against my body and I was fearful I would drop one of the precious.
Just then, a bird flew over our head and Ruff saw it and gave chase. As he did, he darted out into the traffic, where a Lincoln Continental slammed on his brakes, making a horrendous sound, but to no avail. The dog hit the front bumper and was dragged underneath, as the car scrambled to stop. I dropped all the bottles and screamed “RUFFFFFFFFFF!!!” But it was too late. Ruff, barely breathing drug himself to Burt’s parking lot. He didn’t whimper. There was no sound. His tongue was out of his mouth. He was panting and I was at his side, petting him, not knowing what to do, frantic and helpless all at once.
Burt had come out to see what all the commotion was about and quickly went back inside to call the police. Cars had stopped on the highway to see what was going on and there was getting to be quite a back-up.
I heard the police car in the distance getting closer and closer and Chief of Police Lindo Foster pulled into Burt’s parking lot, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Chief Foster was a big Irish man, easily 6’6”, 250 pounds. He had bright red hair and a ruddy complexion. A perfect Chief of Police for a just developing suburb.
He came over and assessed the situation. He began clearing the traffic and when that was cleared, he came back to me in the parking lot.
“It looks bad, son,” he said. I looked up at him and nodded. Burt came back out.
What do you think, Lindo?” he asked. Lindo scratched his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do for him.” The Chief leaned down to me, pulling me away from Ruff.
“He’s pretty much tore up inside, son,” he said to me. “I think the best thing for him is to quickly put him out of his misery. Do you understand?” I looked up, tears spilling out of my eyes, falling on the parking lot.
Burt looked at the Chief. “Whatcha gonna do, Lindo?” Lindo went to his police car and got a rifle. I panicked.
“Wait!” I yelled.
I reached down, took off Ruff’s collar and kissed the top of his head.
“Goodbye, partner,” I said softly to him. “No boy ever had a better dog.”
I moved back. Chief of Police Lindo Foster pulled back the bolt and fired the bullet into Ruff.