Media Days of yesteryear
By RAYMOND A. SCHROTH
Now listen to this!
This guy is telling this story. Hes 36 and saying goodbye to
his mother in Brooklyn because hes going to drive to California. She
warns him to be careful, but he can take care of himself.
Driving across the Brooklyn Bridge, an odd-looking hitchhiker --
dark suit with raindrops on his coat (though its not raining) -- almost
steps in front of his car. Then he sees the same guy on the Pulaski Skyway, and
again in Pennsylvania. And the stranger calls out to him,
Helllllooooooo, like he wants a ride. And he shows up in Ohio, and
the driver thinks hes losing his mind. Always those rain drops -- but no
rain! Then he sees him walking out of a field of cattle and at a railroad
crossing where the driver gets stuck on the tracks with a train coming. Weird!
He picks up a girl for companionship, to make sure hes not cracking up;
then he sees the stranger again and tries to run him down. The girl thinks
hes nuts and jumps out.
Finally in New Mexico he figures hes got to call his mother.
The operator takes forever. Deposit $3.50, puleeasse. Clunk, clunk. Ring. Ring.
A strange woman answers. His mothers in the hospital. She had a nervous
breakdown when her son died in a car accident on the Brooklyn Bridge. The
end.
Wow! The whole time hes been talking to us, hes been
dead! Who would have thought of that? So the hitchhiker is probably the Angel
of Death coming to collect him. Right?
That was The Mercury Summer Theater, starring Orson
Welles, 1946. When you could fill your gas tank for $1.29 but a long distance
three minutes cost $3.50. And the sponsors, Piels Beer, politely declined to
interrupt the show lest they break the suspense. Today on TV theyd break
in with four commercials every eight to 10 minutes.
The Hitchhiker was written by Lucille Fletcher, who
died in September 2000 at 88. Fletcher was known as the author of Sorry
Wrong Number (1943), a 22-minute monologue drama with Agnes Moorehead, as
an invalid who overhears a murder plot on the phone and struggles with
uncomprehending operators, police captains and others to get help for some
unknown person she believes is in danger -- only to discover the intended
victim when the killers, hired by her husband, arrive at her door.
If you liked that story, try this one.
All the top admirals of the world are gathered at a top-secret
meeting in Washington because all their ships are mysteriously disappearing in
the Pacific. A mysterious laughter interrupts. Who is it? Its the Shadow.
He has clouded their minds so they cannot see him. He agrees to fly with the
lovely Margo Lane, his faithful friend and companion, to the Pacific to
investigate. Their plane is grasped by a mysterious force and crashes in the
ocean. They swim to shore on a mysterious island and find that an American mad
scientist has transformed a volcano into a huge magnet that sucks in ships and
planes. The superstitious natives think hes a white god. How
can the Shadow get out of this one?
Or how about this?
Three of us are in the lighthouse on an island off the coast of
French Guyana where a ghost ship has been blown into the port and thousands of
flesh-eating rats pour off the boat and go after the lighthouse. They know
were in here. We barricade the doors. They climb the walls and so
completely cover the windows of the tower with their hideous, swarming bodies
that you cant see the sky. The only sound is that incessant squealing
chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp that flesh-eating rats always
make, and the noise is driving us mad, mad, mad, I tell you. How long can we
hold out?
Or, along the same lines, youre in a remote plantation in
the Amazon jungle and an army of man-eating ants has surrounded you and is
moving in for their meal. They make a sound somewhat like the rats.
Last summer I drove on pilgrimage from Jersey City to Sedgwick,
Maine, on the coast near Deer Isle, to see my cousin Tom and his wife, Pat. A
trip of about 16 hours on the road seemed to pass in a few minutes because I
had brought along my tapes, The 60 Greatest Old-Time Radio Shows of the
20th Century, selected by Walter Cronkite.
Then I headed south to see Jack and Mary Deedy on Cape Ann, Mass.,
with Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Eddie Cantor, Groucho Marx, George Burns and
Gracie Allen, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, with Dorothy Lamour, Nelson
Eddy, Don Ameche, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, and back to Jersey with Walter
Winchell, Edward G. Robinson as Steve Wilson of Big Town, and the
Great Gildersleeve all in the car.
I had spent three days in Hollywood, where all the big stars are
friends with one another and drop in unexpectedly on one anothers
shows.
Danny Kaye! What are you doing here? cries the
astonished Benny. Dont worry, Jack, says Danny,
Im not going to charge you [laughter]. I just brought Groucho,
Frank Sinatra and George Burns by so we could sing the song you wrote,
When You Say I Beg Your Pardon, Then Ill Come Back to You.
Thats the one with the line, When the swallows of
Serano/Come back to Capistrano.
The Politically Correct Police had not yet cleaned house and
Italians, Jews, fat people (Don Wilson) and Southerners (Phil Harris and
Senator Claghorn) had human characteristics that we were allowed to laugh at,
and a black man, Jack Bennys Rochester, was the wily servant who was
smarter than his master.
These were the World War II years, when the entertainment
industry, particularly Norman Corwin of CBS, could create stirring
pageant-dramas to commemorate historic moments like On A Note of
Triumph, for the end of the war in Europe, and Fourteen
August on the dropping of the atomic bomb. God was a powerful reality in
his scripts, and his texts were laced with patriotic prayers: Lord God of
test-tube and blueprint/Who joined molecules of dust and shook them till their
name was Adam,/Who taught worms and stars how they could live together,/Appear
now among the parliaments of conquerors and give instruction to their schemes
Post proofs that brotherhood is not so wild a dream.
I was pleasantly shocked to hear Arch Oblers 1940
dramatization of Dalton Trumbos bitter, pacifist novel, Johnny Got His
Gun, with James Cagney as the permanently hospitalized World War I soldier
who had lost his arms, legs and sight in battle and had nothing but scorn for
words like patriotism and duty. A year later Cagney would make Yankee
Doodle Dandy and wrap himself in the American flag. Trumbo was
blacklisted and the novel disappeared -- to be reprinted during the Vietnam
War.
I was almost sorry to be home. On the road my mind was alive. I
saw the planet Krypton explode just minutes after Supermans parents put
their infant child in a homemade rocket and sent it to Earth. In Isaac
Asimovs Nightfall, on X-Minus One, I saw the six
suns of a faraway planet burn out as its inhabitants went crazy in fear of the
dark, and religious fanatics who had predicted the end fought the scientists
who sought to explain what was not meant to be understood.
On Lights Out, I saw Boris Karloffs wife turn
into a huge cat.
I saw Jack Benny borrow Ronald Colemans Oscar statue so he
could show it off in his house, when this robber comes up behind and says,
OK, buddy. Your money or your life! Everybody remembers Jacks
response; few remember the context -- the thief steals the Oscar, and Jack has
to invent a story that will keep Coleman from skinning him alive.
Late that night on TV I flicked through the dial, lingering for
four-second glimpses: Letterman and Leno babbling trivia with stars and
starlets plugging their nightclub acts and films; Bill Maher on
Politically Incorrect scraping the barrel for one more way to sound
cool by denigrating religion; the same tired old flicks on American Movie
Classics; teenagers on MTV taking off their clothes for either dorm sex or
beach party contests (four girls licking whipped cream off some guys
chest); or -- surely the most disgusting thing on TV -- Celebrity Death
Match, where claymation puppets of celebrities fight in a ring, tearing
off one anothers heads, arms and legs, as blood gushes into the air and
organs hang out and the crowd cheers.
I wanted to get into my car and drive into the night, through the
squeaking door of Inner Sanctum, where Richard Widmark
has a problem. Whenever he dreams about someone, that person dies. In fact, he
or she always dies shortly after Richard has come to call.
But above all, I wanted to hear, Out of the paths of
yesteryear come the fiery hoof beats of the great horse Silver
Jesuit Fr. Raymond A. Schroth is the Jesuit Community Professor
of Humanities at St. Peters College in Jersey City, N.J. His email is
raymondschroth @aol.com
National Catholic Reporter, February 2,
2001
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