The Comedians

by Kliph Nesteroff

  They received a suspended sentence of one year and one day and were fined fifteen thousand and ten thousand dollars, respectively. It was little more than a week’s salary for them, but reputations were hurt as newspaper editorials decried the “special treatment” allotted these celebrities.

  John Cahill was the U.S. district attorney grilling Benny during the case. Ten years later when Benny’s contract was up with NBC, it sent its legal team to renegotiate. One of the lawyers was Cahill, who had switched from public to private service. According to Benny the memory was so sore that rather than renegotiate with Cahill, he took his whole operation to CBS.

  The maid who squealed on Chaperau received an award of nine thousand dollars. She was an avowed Nazi, but the U.S. government was still a neutral observer of the German situation and had no problem handing a Nazi a generous check.

  Criticism of the Nazis was not allowed on American radio prior to 1941. Powerful radio sponsors frowned on anything that might offend German consumers. “One sponsor would own the whole show, so therefore he was very powerful,” said radio writer Sol Saks. “They were very tough. The radio writers were looked down upon. We were all young, we were all in our early twenties, most of us were Jewish.” The American Tobacco Company had been wary of its client Eddie Cantor ever since he raised eighteen thousand dollars to help five hundred Jewish children escape Nazism in 1935. When Cantor spoke out against Hitler in 1938, American Tobacco wanted to cancel his show. Fascist sympathizers harassed Cantor in his own studio audience. According to his April 1939 FBI file, “After the conclusion of a recent broadcast in Hollywood, Cantor made some remarks about Hitler and an individual in the rear of the studio arose and left and was followed by two persons, who are reported to have attacked him after engaging in a verbal dispute outside the studio. Apparently the incident, as well as Cantor’s remarks, were very disgusting to the broadcasting company officials and he is becoming increasingly unpopular in radio circles.”

  Booked by a women’s group for a speaking engagement, Cantor told his audience that Hitler was the “murderer, kidnapper, and number one gangster of the world.” The ad agency in charge of the Cantor account, Young & Rubicam, sent a memo to the network and sponsor: “We are all of the opinion that we should present Cantor to the public strictly as a funny man and try to avoid any publicity that would indicate that Cantor ever has a serious thought or is guilty of a serious deed.”

  While radio sponsors appeased fascist Germany, Hollywood’s ruling class appeased fascist Italy. Harry Cohn, head of Columbia Pictures, was an admirer of Benito Mussolini and in 1933 released Mussolini Speaks, a pro-fascist documentary. The New York Times said the film was so good “that even those in the audience who are not Italians cannot resist a surge of patriotic feeling.” In gratitude, Mussolini flew Cohn to Italy. Cohn was so impressed with the fascist headquarters that on his return to Hollywood he had his own office remodeled in its image.

  Hal Roach, the mogul who produced countless Laurel & Hardy films, entered a partnership with Mussolini and the fascist leader’s son Vittorio. Roach said, “He looked at all the good American movies and he looked at all the bad Italian movies and he went nuts. He said, ‘Why, with the great literature of Italy, the great paintings, the great music, are we so behind in motion pictures?’ The Cinecitta Studio was turned over to me, as well as eight million dollars in credit from the largest bank in Italy. I owned fifty percent of the company and the bank owned fifty percent. Young Vittorio Mussolini was to be my partner.” They formed RAM (Roach and Mussolini) Productions in October 1937. Roach said, “As our trademark we decided to use the head of a ram in the way MGM used the head of a lion.”

  It appalled many in the Hollywood community, who objected to the rise of European fascism and Vittorio’s recent hand in Ethiopian slaughter. Still, Roach hosted a lavish reception for him on the tennis court of his home. “I gave a large party for him. Some Jewish people who were in the motion picture business called other people and asked them not to come.” A Hawaiian orchestra played as the Mussolinis and Roaches entertained an audience that included Cary Grant, Ray Milland and Spencer Tracy. Bette Davis attended wearing a “red and gold metal cloth.” Roach said his collaboration with Mussolini would benefit Hollywood “from a business and diplomatic angle . . . [and] help Italy’s good will toward Hollywood.”

  Among the Hollywood figures who vocally objected were Charlie Chaplin, Joan Crawford and screenwriter Donald Ogden Stewart. They signed their names to an open letter of condemnation sponsored by the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League. Meanwhile, J. Edgar Hoover ordered FBI agents to protect the visiting fascist. Mussolini’s trip was cut short when the protest became too vocal, Roach accompanying Vittorio to his plane. They continued their partnership discreetly. RAM was rebranded Era Productions and Roach quietly sent a surrogate, Warren G. Doane, to Italy as his studio representative. However, when the United States officially entered World War II, RAM was officially aborted. Still, the man responsible for Laurel & Hardy and so much early film comedy defended Mussolini for the rest of his life, calling him “a good dictator.”

  Anti-Nazi film comedy became a mini-genre at the start of the 1940s. Hitler was apparently devastated when Chaplin parodied him in The Great Dictator. Elwood Ullman, a comedy writer at Columbia Pictures, said the Three Stooges were on Hitler’s “death list” because of their two-reelers You Nazty Spy and I’ll Never Heil Again. Jack Benny was apparently on the same death list for his part in Ernst Lubitsch’s anti-Nazi comedy To Be or Not to Be.

  World War II had a major impact on nightclub comedy. Top comedians were either in the military or busy performing on its bases. Future giants Sid Caesar, Don Knotts and Jack Paar were enlisted men and got their first taste of showbiz performing in camp shows, and Zeppo Marx of the Marx Brothers left showbiz for the lucrative world of war contracts. “I had a very large manufacturing company that employed five hundred people. We made the clamping devices that carried the atomic bombs over Japan.”

  War curfews were imposed on nightclubs and most joints were required to close by midnight. Comedians enlisted, and the domestic entertainment vacuum propelled some comics who would never other­wise have had headliner status. “Most of the American comedians were in the army,” said comedian Alan King. “So suddenly there was a lot of work for an underage hopeful.”

  Lenny Kent and Jackie Miles were two unlikely comics who became substitute stars. “Lenny Kent and Jackie Miles were the big New York comedians during the war,” says one of their contemporary comics, Stan Irwin. “They toured the circuit, although they were more concerned with the perks of show business than the business itself.” Comedian Bobby Ramsen explains, “They became names because they were the only ones around. Kent didn’t even have that much talent. Their popularity lasted until just after the war and then it was over.”

  World War II created a genre of army comedians: fellows who remained in uniform after the war, doling out punch lines about army life. There were a ton of them making the rounds in the 1940s. Army comics capitalized on the country’s goodwill toward soldiers, but as the 1950s approached, the adoration faded and people started asking these hacks, “Why are you still performing in uniform?”

  “Nobody was half as good as the G.I. audiences made him look,” said Harpo Marx. “For this reason a lot of young comics I knew became war casualties. They made it big doing camp shows. They made it too big. When the war was over they didn’t know, or had forgotten, how much hard work it took to win over a club full of drunks.”

  One of the most successful was Corporal Harvey Stone. After the armistice he played New York houses and Miami Beach nightclubs. “His whole act was borrowed from a guy named Johnny Burke—­Soldier Burke,” says Jack Carter. “He used to do all the old army jokes. We all did them. I used to kiss my discharge button. That was my running gag.” Stone succeeded on the coattails of Burke, but soon that karmic circle was complete. “Everybody that came out of
the army stole Harvey Stone’s act,” says comedian Van Harris. “There was one agent that had a performer named Sands. He had him change his name to Harvey Sands. People would call up saying, ‘We want what’s-his-name . . . that guy . . . that G.I. comic . . . Harvey . . . uh . . . Harvey . . . uh . . .’ This agent would say, ‘Oh, yes, you mean Harvey Sands!’ And they would say, ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s the guy.’ And he would get all the work that was meant for Harvey Stone.”

  “At that time the thought of becoming a motion picture personality was big in the mind of those in comedy,” says comic Stan Irwin. “Harvey had his nose done, and very bad, made it even worse. It put him in a state of depression. He considered suicide and barely got work as a stand-up comedian.” Stone and his botched nose job played out their days doing out-of-date army jokes on a cruise ship. Jack Carter says, “Harvey died at sea, and at the time he and his wife were estranged. The cruise ship called and said, ‘Your husband, Harvey, died. We have the body on ice. Should we hold it or should we fly it back to New York?’ Harvey’s wife wasn’t too thrilled and said, ‘Oh, well, few people knew this, but Harvey always wanted to be buried at sea.’ She got rid of him that way! Here’s a Jew from Detroit who never saw a boat in his life. They dumped him in the ocean. And that was the end of Harvey Stone.”

  Comedians died in weird ways—none more so than Harry Einstein, the father of comic actors Albert Brooks and Bob Einstein. Popular throughout the war years, his move into show business was like something out of a movie. Einstein insulted a star comedian to his face and it led to a network radio contract, a series of motion pictures and a permanent place at the Friars Club roasts.

  In the early 1930s Harry Einstein was making a good living in Boston. In charge of advertising for Kane Furniture, he was friendly with local radio stations. He appeared on regional airwaves promoting Kane Furniture, but ended up as a comic of sorts, using the platform to orate as a blustery know-it-all. Calling himself Nick Parkyakarkus and speaking with a bastardized Greek accent, Einstein mastered the art of the put-on. He spoke mangled English and got laughs with his malapropisms. For a few years Einstein did shows at civic gatherings posing as an expert in a given field, the put-on confusing the crowd until they eventually caught on—by which time they turned hysterical.

  Eddie Cantor came through Boston in February 1935 for a charity dinner. Einstein was booked to do his shtick at the function. After Cantor spoke and earned a good number of laughs, Parkyakarkus was introduced as an important Greek dignitary. Everyone but Cantor was familiar with the local put-on master, and they relished the look on his face as Parkyakarkus spoke: “You Americans are such children when it comes to humor. No sophistication. No subtlety. The simplest little things amuse you. I could hardly believe my ears when I heard you all laughing so heartily at this man Cantor just now. If you Americans pay this man a million dollars a year, as I have heard you do, all I can say is, you must be crazy.”

  Einstein looked at Cantor, but couldn’t sustain the deadpan; the look of terror in Cantor’s banjo eyes was too good. Einstein started laughing. It brought down the house. When Cantor got back to New York he sent a telegram asking Einstein to appear on his radio show. Einstein was astounded: “I never for a moment dreamed that such a part would ever be handed me on such a program.” He sent word back to Boston that as of February 1935 he was done with the furniture racket.

  Einstein became a program regular and Cantor introduced him to all the right people. He became a Hollywood staple. Cantor cast Einstein in his next motion picture for Samuel Goldwyn, Strike Me Pink. In July 1936 RKO signed Einstein to a long-term contract. The film studio had plans to make a comedy team out of Parkyakarkus and Joe “Wanna Buy a Duck?” Penner.

  Einstein was invincible with the powerful Eddie Cantor guiding his interests. Comedian George Givot did a dialect act in the dying days of vaudeville called the Greek Ambassador of Good Will. When he claimed Einstein was succeeding on his heels, Eddie Cantor reversed the accusation. Cantor said he would punish anyone emulating Parkyakarkus to the fullest extent of the law. In spring 1936 voice actor Bill Thompson started doing a comical Greek on the Fibber McGee and Molly radio sitcom, but the sponsor objected, fearing a lawsuit from Cantor.

  After two years of service, Harry Einstein asked for a raise. Cantor refused and Einstein left his benefactor. Al Jolson hired Einstein for the requested amount and Parkyakarkus joined The Rinso-Lifebuoy Program, starring Al Jolson and Martha Raye, in January 1937.

  RKO teamed Joe Penner and Parkyakarkus for the first time in The Life of the Party, a brisk motion picture written by Marx Brothers collaborators Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby. It featured Parkyakarkus dialogue indicative of the era:

  Boss: Parkyakarkus!

  Parkyakarkus: Oh, good morning!

  Boss: Good morning? This is afternoon. What do you mean sleeping on the job?

  Parkyakarkus: I can sleep on a dime. If you ain’t got a dime, I can sleep on two nickels.

  Boss: Someday you’ll sleep yourself out of a job.

  Parkyakarkus: I can sleep there too!

  Boss: Well, sleep at home!

  Parkyakarkus: My wife sleeps at home!

  Boss: I don’t care about your wife!

  Parkyakarkus: Me too!

  In reality, Einstein’s wife was the key to his legacy. Thelma Leeds was a radio songstress on a number of programs in the first half of the 1930s. RKO used her in the Ginger Rogers–Fred Astaire musical Follow the Fleet and in the latest Einstein-Penner pairing—New Faces of 1937. A romance blossomed on the set of New Faces and Einstein asked Leeds to marry him. Einstein fathered four sons, three with Leeds, and all had remarkable careers. Charles Einstein, his son from a previous marriage, was a reporter and Willie Mays’s biographer. Second son, Clifford Einstein, became a touted Beverly Hills art collector. Bob Einstein wrote for the Smothers Brothers and produced variety shows for Redd Foxx and Sonny & Cher, finding fame as characters Super Dave Osborne and Marty Funkhouser. The youngest child conquered stand-up, comedy LPs, short films and features under the name Albert Brooks.

  In 1945, ten years after he first appeared on network radio, Parkyakarkus got his own radio show—Meet Me at Parky’s. Originally a summer replacement for the Harold Lloyd Comedy Theater, it lasted on NBC for a year and a half, moving to the Mutual Broadcasting System in October 1947. It featured fine comic actors Elliott Lewis, Frank Nelson and Sheldon Leonard. Billboard assessed it positively: “It’s funny. Not inspired humor, nor delicate. Still it’s funny in a purely low comedy vein that, regardless of whether one likes aural pratfalls, pays off in laughs.”

  In the summer of 1947 Einstein was plagued with serious back pain. He checked in to Cedars of Lebanon on August 27, 1947. Doctors conducted a routine procedure on his spine to alleviate pain—but it went horribly wrong. “I’m sure my doctor had no expectation of any such serious consequences,” said Einstein. “All he intended to do was cut away an overgrowth of bone on my upper vertebrae that had caused me considerable pain during the previous five years. ‘Don’t worry,’ was my last admonition to my wife, Thelma. Well, I was mistaken. Something went wrong during the operation.” Einstein was now confined to a wheelchair.

  More aware of his mortality, Einstein started investing. He sunk money into the Hollywood Palladium, the major Hollywood big-band venue for the likes of Tommy Dorsey and Artie Shaw. He invested in the Boston Braves, a major league team. He incorporated an independent production company with plans for Meet Me at Parky’s film shorts. He partnered with New York philanthropist Charles Hendrickson to produce educational films for grade school students called Parky Talks. He planned a record of children’s novelty songs and announced publishing schemes: one a history of mimicry, the other a collection of jokes he had amassed over twenty years.

  Albert Brooks recalled his father’s cumbersome days. “He was so sick . . . He couldn’t walk. And so he gained weight. Nothing about him was healthy.
Every time we were alone and he called me, I thought he was dying.” His condition worsened in 1949 and most of his planned projects were abandoned. Inactive, he took up coin collecting and sat helplessly by as another comedian stole his act. “George Givot went on the air once when we were watching a telethon locally,” says Bob Einstein. “I’m watching with my father, and the guy says, ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen . . . Parkyakarkus!’ And George Givot came out. He used my dad’s act and name. My dad was furious.”

  As he lost mobility in the last ten years of his life, Einstein rele­gated his show business appearances to the Friars Club roasts. The roast format was ideal for Einstein’s condition, as he could remain seated at the dais for the duration and lean on a podium during his set. Confined to the Friars, he honed a new persona as a roaster. Throughout the 1950s, he roasted Sammy Cahn, Eddie Cantor, Nat King Cole, Eddie Fisher, Jackie Gleason, Tony Martin,George Raft, Phil Silvers and Glenn Wallichs of Capitol Records. On November 23, 1958, he was asked to join the Friars roast of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz at the Beverly Hilton. It was a fund-raiser for a Burmese leper colony and the tenth anniversary of the Friars Club of California. The ballroom was packed with twelve hundred people, the largest crowd in Friars roast history. It was the final time Parkyakarkus would ever perform.

  Art Linkletter was the roastmaster. Actor-turned-senator George Murphy went first. Next, Tony Martin sang a song about the Desilu cash cow. Milton Berle followed with a rapid succession of old gags. The crowd was cooking. Dean Martin had the unenviable position of following Berle and cracked, “I wouldn’t give this spot to a leper.” George Burns went up and killed. Linkletter then set the stage for Parkyakarkus: “With his Greek dialect [he] has done for the Greeks what Desi has done for the Cubans—set back the United States’ relations with them about a century. I want you to meet a great guy and a fine Friar: Harry Einstein—Parkyakarkus.” Einstein went up and destroyed the crowd with a routine that lasted around eight minutes. (It must be heard to be appreciated—and luckily you can find the audio on the Classic Television Showbiz website.) Parkyakarkus finished to a loud ovation. Linkletter returned to the podium and said, “I’ve seen Harry at a dozen of these Friars benefits and affairs and every time he finishes I always ask myself, ‘Why isn’t he on the air in prime time?’” The audience applauded again.