by Wes Gehring
For all Skelton’s artistic activity in the desert, 1960s America still knew him as its favorite television clown. What is more, for someone who had struggled so long to turn his ratings around in the 1950s, his Nielsen numbers from the 1960s are truly amazing. For most of the decade he was in the top ten, charting as high as the third-ranked show during the 1962–63 season (behind The Beverly Hillbillies and Candid Camera) and rising to number two in 1966–67 (behind Bonanza).44
Impressively, Skelton accomplished all this on essentially a hectic, two-day schedule. On Sunday the comedian would drive one of his Rolls Royces the hundred miles from Palm Springs to his Bel Air estate in Los Angeles. (For a short time after the move to the desert, a private plane flew him between the two cities.) Davis only joined him sporadically on these trips, though after the mid-1960s, it meant more time with Valentina, who had moved back to the Bel Air residence to attend college in Los Angeles and escape the reclusiveness of her parents’ desert lifestyle.
Mondays and Tuesdays represented multiple run-throughs and rehearsals, with the actual taping of the show on Tuesday night before a studio audience of two hundred for broadcast three weeks later. (For much of the decade Skelton’s time slot for his program was from 8:30 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. on Tuesday.) During Skelton’s intense two-day production period, he slept little and ate less. “Except for an occasional candy bar or 10-cent package of soda crackers, he would consume nothing except a large and explosively hot jar of peppers. (‘They’re the hottest obtainable,’ he was to explain later. [They] help kill the desire for food. No use to eat. I couldn’t keep it down,’)” TV Guide reported.45 After the taping, the magazine added, “Red is exhausted—a beat, trembling man. His clothes are wet enough to wring out.”46 Skelton then rehashed the program with his producer, had a bite to eat, cleaned up, and drove back to Palm Springs all that same night.
As the comedian’s “after-shows” became famous to radio insiders of the 1940s, Skelton’s blue television rehearsals had achieved notoriety among CBS employees by the 1960s. Often referred to as the Red Skelton Dirty Hour, the comedian’s producer, Seymour Berns, recalled of Skelton’s routines, “We let him do it because we really had to let him get it out of his system before we let the audience in.… While Red was doing a ‘snatch’ joke, we’d be in the control room trying to figure out what would go in that spot that would be clean.”47
The paradox here, of course, is that Skelton always prided himself on being a clean comic, but a provocative explanation comes from the comedian, no less, in a 1960s TV Guide article. Revisiting the split-personality approach noted earlier in this chapter (where the off-stage person is Red, and the performer is Victor Van Bernard), Skelton confessed, “I picture him [Bernard] as someone who is afraid to offend anyone. I am myself [blue comedy and all] at rehearsals but I’ll be Victor Van Bernard on the show.”48 It represents an odd defense, sort of like one is interviewing a comedic Sybil.
In Skelton’s defense, what constituted a “dirty hour” in the mid-1960s now plays as pretty tame in the post-Aristocrats (2005) twenty-first century. But even in the 1960s, when his blue rehearsals were discussed in mainstream publications, they were given inventive justifications. For example, here is another TV Guide article on the subject: “Frequently he [Skelton] will embroider a [rehearsal] joke with colorful phraseology not usually considered ideal for the living room. The idea is to lead the victim [that week’s costar] right up to air time, making her think he is actually going to say it, then cut off the remark in mid-flight, turning it into a mild reference to, say, the girth of her elbow.”49 The end result was often a certain comic tension in the taped program, as Skelton’s guest performer might entertainingly stumble and/or snicker through his/her exchanges with Skelton. The viewer either enjoyed the seemingly fun, partylike atmosphere, or was perturbed by missing out on some inside joke.
Regardless, there is a certain hypocrisy in Skelton’s double-standard on provocative humor, not to mention the strange split personality explanation. In contrast, I am reminded of stage and screen comedian Joe E. Brown. Brown was also famous for his clean comedy advocacy.50 There were no exceptions, however, for the older comedian, even if it was a nonpaying informal setting—the type of arena that brought out Skelton’s, to quote TV Guide, “randy character who tosses off unexpected blue lines and makes gestures never seen in polite company.”51 Indeed, during World War II, Brown received kudos from the parents of GIs whose sons had written home praising the veteran comic’s classy shows, despite settings that might have encouraged ribald riffs.
To paraphrase New York Times critic Manohla Dargis, a strong whiff of piety is not a bad smell, but there’s often more to it than that.52 Applied to Skelton, this means his often extremely Rabelaisian nature in private life seemed to push him into overly sanctimonious statements about public humor. But as the line from Hamlet instructs, always be wary of those who “doth protest too much.” What follows is a classic case of Skelton’s bawdy private wit. The setup is that Davis’s promiscuous tendencies, coupled with questions of infidelity, often meant Skelton gave his wife bitingly comic paybacks. The Skeltons were at a large Beverly Hills party hosted by John Wayne. The comedian and his wife were with Humphrey Bogart when an extremely sexy foreign actress sauntered by, attracting the attention of every man in the room. When Skelton asked Bogart who she was, he answered, “I don’t know her name but Ty[rone] Power says she’s the best cocksucker in town.” With that, Skelton patted his wife’s head and told Bogart, “Aw, now you’ve gone and hurt Georgia’s feelings.”53
Skelton as the henpecked antihero George Appleby, caught in a compromising situation by his wife, Virginia Grey (left). (Wes D. Gehring Stills Collection)
Part of the comedy conundrum that was Skelton went beyond basic contradictions such as clean humor versus the Red Skelton Dirty Hour. Sometimes Skelton was bothered by comedy elements of rivals that were more than a little present in his own work. For example, he was a big fan of the Jackie Gleason Show, the rotund comedian’s comeback variety hour, which ran from 1962 to 1970. “Dad would even imitate some of Gleason’s pet lines around their house, like ‘And away we go,’” according to Valentina.54 But Skelton had problems with Gleason’s Joe the bartender sketches, because they featured Frank Fontaine’s nonsense ramblings as the less-than-bright lush Crazy Guggenheim. Skelton felt the character bordered too much on being mentally deficient. Now granted, Skelton was always proud of his comedy sensitivity, forever noting how even as a child he was bothered by the films of cross-eyed silent film comedian Ben Turpin. Still, Crazy Guggenheim came from the same humor gene pool as Skelton’s Clem Kadiddlehopper and Cauliflower McPugg. Plus, as Valentina insightfully added, when I shared this story with her, part of Guggenheim’s comic problems were also brought on by drink, “and Dad was famous for his ‘Guzzler’s Gin’ routine”—another comic victim of drink.55
In fact, when one does the comedy genealogy on Guggenheim, a composite of an early Gleason friend and a punch-drunk figure from Fontaine’s act, the background is reminiscent of Kadiddlehopper’s origins—drawn from a Skelton childhood buddy. Moreover, since part of Guggenheim’s eccentricity can be blamed on drink, one could argue that Kadiddlehopper and McPugg are the more disturbing duo. I am reminded of the scene in It’s a Gift (1934) when W. C. Fields’s character is called a drunk and he responds, “Yeah, and you’re crazy. I’ll be sober tomorrow and you’ll be crazy for the rest of your life!”
Though Skelton’s sensitivity issue with Fontaine’s Guggenheim character merely had Skelton changing the channel when the Joe the bartender sketches came on, the liberal political humor of the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour (1967–69) put Skelton on a soapbox, “I watched the Smothers Brothers a time or two,” he said. “That’s not humor. It’s not even satire. Anytime you have to shock people into a laugh or to get their attention, you’re wrong. It’s not advanced humor at all. If they lived in the Middle Ages, they’d get their heads chopped off.”56
For
the time, the Smothers Brothers’ program was a very irreverent variety hour that attacked the Vietnam War, right-wing politicians, and a host of youth-orientated bugaboos. Though Skelton’s comments sound reactionary today, they would have resonated with a number of people in 1969 who also found the show too controversial. This conservative coalition included Skelton’s own network (CBS), which canceled the program after two-and-a-half seasons. So where is the inconsistency with Skelton, whose politics always leaned right, anyway? Over a decade earlier, in a San Francisco Chronicle article titled, “Skelton Razzes Network Ban on Political Jokes,” the comedian sang a different song: “According to Red, when a nation loses its ability to laugh at its leaders it gives up an important element of democracy.” Then, quoted directly, Skelton added, “But they [political leaders] aren’t the only sacred cows. There are hundreds of other things you could laugh about ten years ago that are taboo today. [It’s] getting so you step on some toes or hurt somebody’s feelings these days any place you turn.”57
While Skelton’s politics had usually been conservative, there had also often been a liberalness of spirit, as demonstrated by those San Francisco Chronicle comments. By the late 1960s, however, a certain rigidity had formed about what constituted entertainment for Skelton. He might have been forewarned by one of his own file jokes on aging: “You know how to tell when you’re getting old? When your broad mind changes places with your narrow waist.”58 Although the Smothers Brothers show did not last long, it was a harbinger of things to come.
In a move to attract a younger urban audience, CBS dropped Skelton’s show at the end of the 1969–70 season, despite the program coming in at number seven in the Nielson ratings.59 It was an unprecedented action by a network, making Skelton a victim of demographics. His audience numbers, though high, skewered too small town/rural and old. The comedian was not alone in his victimization. CBS executed what might be called a purge of its populist programming. Petticoat Junction (1963–70), which had been a Tuesday night staple with Skelton, was canceled the same year. The following season, CBS dropped its two other high-profile rural situation comedies, The Beverly Hillbillies (1962–71) and Green Acres (1965–71).
Skelton’s sacking was a shock, especially since it had largely been a decade of television achievements for him, beyond the ratings. What follows is a brief look at the most memorable episodes of his program during this period. Easily the most acclaimed 1960s show was his “Concert in Pantomime,” which costarred internationally acclaimed mime Marcel Marceau and was broadcast on February 2, 1965. Hosted by Maurice Chevalier, the program included Skelton and Marceau performing before a black-tie studio audience of prominent guests. The two men each alternated with four solo sketches, before combining for a mimed version of Pinocchio. This was the first time most of America had seen the French mime. Appearing as his clown-tramp character Bip, with white face and pants and striped tight shirt, Marceau performed the signature routines, “The Tug of War,” “Bip the Dice Player,” “Bip the Skater,” and his pièce de résistance, “Bip as a Mask Maker.” The New York Daily News observed, “It’s as the mask maker that his great genius is best displayed”—where once the hideous mask is removed, the true person is revealed.60
In contrast, Skelton’s broader pictorial style was applied to “A Girl Dressing in the Morning,” “Mixing the Salad,” “The Drunken Doctor in Surgery,” and “The Old Man Watching the Parade.” With the exception of the latter sketch, Skelton often managed to transform gross elements into comedy, such as sneezing into the salad. While reviewers tended to give Marceau the higher artistic marks, Skelton seemed to play more effectively for homegrown viewers. Thus, the Hollywood Reporter said, Skelton’s segments, “at least for U.S. audiences, seemed far the most enjoyable.”61
Skelton silence was golden in the 1960s for several other reasons, too. For many fans, the highlight of the comedian’s show was the “Silent Spot,” which he fittingly saved for last. In this pantomime he tended to play an everyman, such as the “Old Man Watching the Parade,” and his entertaining attention to detail was a continuation of the slice-of-life routines Edna Stillwell had penned for him back in the 1930s. There were also some additional 1960s Skelton shows where much or all of the program was keyed to silence, starting with Harpo Marx’s guest appearance on September 25, 1962. The mad mute played the guardian angel to Skelton’s henpecked antiheroic character, George Appleby. Skelton also did another all-pantomime show on February 27, 1968. Called “Laughter, the Universal Language,” Skelton traveled from Los Angeles to New York to perform at the United Nations. Vice President Hubert Humphrey opened the program with a special taped introduction.
Though Skelton’s Freddie the Freeloader character is often mistakenly now remembered as silent, he was entertainingly verbal by the 1960s. Regardless, he was Skelton’s most universal figure and deserves special recognition. If one Freddie episode from the decade were featured, pivotal Skelton writer Larry Rhine would nominate the December 22, 1964, Christmas show that costarred Oscar winning actress Greer Garson. In correspondence with the author, Rhine was eloquent in his celebration of Skelton’s tramp: “Freddie was our [the writers’] favorite. There was depth to this lovable rogue. Chaplinesque. A have-not but in his mind a have-everything. A soul in a discarded tin can. Whereas Clem is one joke, a bonehead; Appleby a henpecked spouse … [and so on]; Freddie is a poet, philosopher, make-doer.”62
Skelton appears as his greatest character, Freddie the Freeloader (circa 1965). (Wes D. Gehring Stills Collection)
Another unique Skelton show that decade was his “Pledge of Allegiance” broadcast of January 14, 1969. Dropping his monologue that week, the comedian did a narrative on what the pledge meant—an insight inspired by one of Skelton’s childhood educators. As television historian Wesley Hyatt later noted, Skelton’s timing was perfect: “Following a year filled with assassinations [Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy], public protests gone violent and the endless unproductive military campaign in Vietnam, Red’s ‘Pledge of Allegiance’ struck a chord with … [viewers] about patriotism and what’s right with America despite what had gone on previously.”63 The “Pledge” became a résumé item for Skelton, from spawning a minor hit spoken record, to sometimes being included in his concert material. As a conservative having trouble coping with an emerging liberal movement, the popular support generated by his interpretation of the “Pledge” meant a great deal to the comedian.
One of Skelton’s unique special guests during the decade was American icon John Wayne (October 28, 1969). The distinctiveness of his appearance went beyond just a perennial box office champ/movie star—Wayne was the face of America’s defining genre, the Western. Consequently, he gave remarkable comic resonance to Skelton’s Deadeye spoof of sagebrush land. Plus, Wayne allowed himself to be an affectionately targeted extension of the genre. For example, one of the Skelton sketch’s best lines that night asked the ultimate cowboy, “Hey, where’d you get that walk?” Compounding the comedy was the fact that Wayne rarely appeared on television, let alone variety programs.
These were some notable Skelton small-screen appearances during yet another volatile decade for Skelton. Though the comedian later questioned his 1962 move to the desert, his multifaceted artistry in assorted media seemed to negate that verdict. Gauging the Palm Springs relocation on Davis is more problematic. While she was on record as praising the move, her mid-1960s shooting “accident” (which was really a suicide attempt), and the Skeltons’ early 1970s divorce, seemed to put that all in question. The next and final chapter will further flesh out these wheels-off-the-bus events. And Skelton’s last act plays just as enigmatically as the journey leading him there.
Chapter 13 Notes
1. Gene Handsaker, “The Many Faces and Moods of Red Skelton,” Denver Rocky Mountain News, October 29, 1967.
2. Ibid.
3. David McCullough, “The Unexpected Harry Truman,” in Extraordinary Lives: The Art and Craft of American Biography, William Zinss
er, ed. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1986), 57.
4. Hal Bodley, “Dreams Come True for Duo,” USA Today, August 1, 2005.
5. Red Skelton, rough draft letter to Georgia Skelton, undated [1960s], in Little Red and Miscellaneous Writing folder, Red Skelton Collection, Special Collections Library, Western Illinois University, Macomb, Illinois.
6. Ibid.
7. Red Skelton, conversations with the author, Ball State University, Muncie, Indiana, during the 1980s.
8. Arthur Marx, Red Skelton (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1979), 242.
9. See Red Skelton Collection, Vincennes University, Vincennes, Indiana.
10. Percy Shain, “Skelton Also Composer, Patriot, Loving Husband,” Boston Globe, April 8, 1969.
11. Ibid.
12. “Money Can’t Buy a Daughter’s Happiness,” Modern Screen (September 1970): 88.
13. Ibid.
14. Valentina Skelton Alonso, telephone interview with the author, February 27, 2007.
15. Zinsser, ed., Extraordinary Lives, 13.
16. Red Skelton, rough draft letter to Georgia Skelton, December 27, 1968, Little Red and Miscellaneous Writing folder, Skelton Collection, Western Illinois University.
17. Aljean Harmetz, “Skelton: How He Simplified His Life,” New York Times, March 9, 1977.
18. Claire Tomalin, quoted in Thomas Mallon’s review, “Thomas Hardy’s English Lessons,” New York Times, January 28, 2007.