It didn't help Merv's ego when Will Mahoney told him that at the peak of the Depression in the early 1930s, this vaudeville and musical comedy star was pulling in $5,500 a week, the highest paid variety star in the world.
As Woody Mahoney, Merv played the romantic lead in this play of whimsy, romance, and political satire. His big number was “Old Devil Moon,” Merv's rendition meeting with hostility from the orchestra conductor, Julius Rudel. “You sing like Sinatra in a recording studio. This is the stage, Griffin. Project your voice, dumbass.”
For reasons not known to Merv, the star of the show, Helen Gallagher, took an instant dislike to him. Reportedly, she was “seriously pissed” when Merv went to the director, William Hammerstein, and asked him if he—not Helen—could sing the show's hit song, “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?”
Multitalented, Helen was a singer, actress, and dancer, but was known on Broadway for her fiery temper. Before meeting Merv, she'd won the Tony in 1952 as Best Featured Actress in a Musical, appearing in a revival of Pal Joey. After their first day of rehearsal, she told Merv, “I've worked with some of the most talented people on Broadway. You're not one of them. It's a drag working with bad people.”
In the first week's run, she got the idea that Merv was upstaging her during one of her big numbers. She kicked him into the orchestra pit. Fortunately, he escaped without injury except for some bruises. He got even with her the following night by squeezing her so hard in one scene that she was breathless for her big number.
A Merv-hater:
Helen Gallagher
On opening night, critic Darlene Stafford wrote: “What can you say about Merv Griffin? His voice is better suited to a hotel lounge than Broadway. Miss Gallagher makes mince meat pie out of him whenever they appear together. The original 1947 cast of Ella Logan, Albert Sharpe, and David Wayne were far superior to the present cast except for the always superior Miss Gallagher and Will Mahoney. Again, I ask, what can you say about Merv Griffin? He was supposed to be romantic, although when he was with Miss Gallagher he looked more like Hitler calling on Churchill for tea than a romantic star of the stage.”
Another comparison to a World War II dictator was made when Merv told the director, “I'd rather be locked into an embrace with Josef Stalin than Miss Stage Hog.”
Will appeared on stage in Finian's Rainbow bedecked in a green felt hat, a plaid scarf, and a checkered vest, playing a bibulous rascal who makes off with a pot of gold. “How can I compete against Will?” Merv asked. “He steals every scene. What he doesn't steal, and what Gallagher doesn't hog, goes to a beloved leprechaun.” Merv was referring to the role of “Og,” as played by Donn Driver.
In 1968 Merv heard that Francis Ford Coppola was making a film version of Finian's Rainbow, starring Fred Astaire and Petula Clark. Rather facetiously, he sent a telegram to Francis. “If I couldn't make the damn thing work, nobody can. So don't even try. Besides, haven't you heard? The big movie musical is over.”
The public seemed to agree with Merv's own assessment, “a Broadway star I'm not. Nor will I ever be.”
***
A former bootblack, Anthony L. Aste, founded Griffin Shoe Polish to rival sales of Esquire, which had been the nation's bestselling shoe polish since World War II. Esquire had been founded in 1938 by two brothers, Albert and Sam Abrams, from Long Island. Their greatest success came when they hired Kate Smith, a robustly large entertainer from Virginia, to host The Kate Smith Hour on television.
She was dubbed “The Songbird of the South,” but she was more than that, of course. During the war, she became a true American icon, singing her inspiring rendition of Irving Berlin's classic “God Bless America.”
She had heard Merv's voice in Finian's Rainbow and asked him to appear on her show several times. He later recalled that she was a “plump, jolly, doublechinned fat lady with a great soul.” He remembered that one night, as he stood in the wings listening to Kate sing “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain,” he stepped on the foot of Tennessee Ernie Ford.
Over Kate's objection, Merv was fired from the show when the executives at Esquire finally took notice that his last name of Griffin was the trademark of their rival. But Kate, who'd objected to his firing, invited him to a cast party. At the party, the only remotely bitchy remark he ever recalled her making was when she said, “both Gene Autry and Bing Crosby tried to record ‘God Bless America,’ but they just didn't have the voices to pull it off. It takes a big gal like me to sing that song.”
She ended the party with a touch of selfmockery when she sang “Pickaninny's Heaven,” which she'd performed on live radio back in 1933. “I don't mean to be insensitive,” she said. “I sang that number just to show how far we've come since 1933.”
Merv always carried a fond memory of Kate and was instrumental in getting his friend, Ronald Reagan, to award her the Presidential Medal of Freedom Honor in 1982.
Later in life, he tried to get her to come on his show but found out that she was wheelchair bound and was suffering brain damage as the result of a diabetic coma.
One of Merv's young staff members had asked him, “Who is Kate Smith?”
“My God, kid, in 1942 she was the second most popular woman in America after Eleanor Roosevelt,” Merv said. “Now she's remembered only by grandmothers with first names that no longer are popular—Sadie, Viola, Mabel, Edna, Maude, and Gertrude.”
Upon her death in 1986, Merv told reporters that Kate Smith was the origin of the expression, “It's not over till the fat lady sings.”
From fat lady to fat man, Merv's next assignment was with “The Great One,” Jackie Gleason.
Although Merv had parted company with his agent, Bullets Durgom, they'd remained friends. Bullets asked his best client, Jackie Gleason, if Merv could sing on two or three of his shows, and “The Great One” agreed.
Merv was granted the rare honor of actually meeting Gleason in person before the show. Sometimes even his writers didn't get that chance and had to slip their manuscripts under the door of what Gleason called “my sablelined dump” on Fifth Avenue.
One night at around ten o'clock, Merv was ushered into Gleason's penthouse apartment by a bellhop who told him to wait in the living room. It was decorated with memorabilia, including framed photograph of Gleason as Gleason in a World War I outfit.
Off-camera, he was
anything but jolly:
Jackie Gleason
Gleason kept Merv waiting for about an hour until he finally emerged from his bedroom wearing baggy underwear and looking hung over even before the night had really begun. There were no introductions, no handshakes. His first words to Merv were, “Bullets told me Marlene Dietrich used to slip in and out of your house in Los Angeles. Were you fucking her?”
“Never had the privilege,” Merv said. “I fear Marlene's interests lay elsewhere.”
“Too bad,” he said. “I've always wanted to fuck Marlene. The closest I've come to that is insisting that Frank Sinatra share every detail with me. Hearing about his plugging the Kraut practically makes me cream in my pants.”
“The next time I see her, I'll tell her of your admiration,” he said.
Gleason looked skeptically at Merv. “Don't do me any favors, kiddo,” he said. “Around this joint I dispense the favors. In fact, as a favor to Bullets, I'm gonna let you sing on my show. You can even do my theme song, ‘Melancholy Serenade.’”
“Thanks, Mr. Gleason.”
At that point a scantily dressed blonde showgirl type emerged from the bedroom and headed for the kitchen, but Gleason didn't bother to introduce her.
After chatting briefly with Merv about the numbers he wanted him to sing on the show, Gleason got up and went over to the bar and poured himself a hefty whiskey. Looking over at Merv, he said, “Help yourself. I'm no God damn bartender.”
“I'm fine,” Merv said.
“What's the matter with you, boy?” Gleason asked. “I've never known an Irishman to turn down a drink.” After a big gulp of whis
key, his face lit up. “I've got a great idea. I'm taking you to my favorite saloon. There's this terrific onearmed trombone player you've got to hear.” He didn't ask Merv if he wanted to go, but merely assumed it. “I'll even take Blondie if she ever comes out of the fucking kitchen. You can call your boyfriend to join us. Bullets gave me the full scoop.”
“Thanks,” Merv said, “but I don't have a boyfriend. I date gals.”
“Sure, kid, whatever turns you on,” Gleason said. “But I'm from Missouri—actually Brooklyn—and I'll give you a chance to prove what a lady's man you are tonight.” He bounded up from the sofa to get dressed. “Don't believe all that shit you read about me in the papers. That I drink six quarts of Scotch a night, dine at a dozen different restaurants every evening, and fuck three dozen women before the rooster crows. The jerks in the press make one big mistake in writing about me. I fuck fiftyfive women before the rooster crows—and that's every night.”
In the elevator on the way down, Merv checked out Gleason's date, who looked like Alice Faye on a bad night. The hotel desk had ordered a limousine for them, and it was parked outside, a uniformed driver holding open the rear door for them.
When Gleason looked inside the limousine, he refused to get in. Turning to the driver, he said, “You're supposed to haul celebrities around town. Who in the fuck did you have in here last night?”
“Frank Sinatra and some of his girlfriends,” the chauffeur said.
“I think one of Frank's bimbos threw up in the backseat,” Gleason said. “Tell your company to send a vomit-free car.”
On the sidewalk, Merv waited with an increasingly agitated and impatient Gleason for nearly half an hour before another limousine pulled up to the curb. Merv still hadn't been introduced to Gleason's girlfriend, but she took advantage of the wait to file her nails.
When Gleason wasn't cursing the limo company, he shared vignettes from his life with Merv. “I've never fucked Marlene, but I once plowed Ann Sheridan when we made Navy Blues together. She complained that she couldn't find it beneath all my blubber. I told the bitch, ‘Shut your face. You've got no tits, so let's call it a Mexican stand-off.’”
When the new limousine came, Gleason, Merv, and the gumchewing bimbo piled into the backseat. Merv was astonished that the driver had to go only one hundred feet before letting them off at a seedy saloon.
Gleason must have been a regular, because the manager and the waiters hovered around him, treating his arrival like the big star that he was. Gleason was known as the biggest tipper in New York City. At the bar Gleason ordered a whiskey and placed five onehundred dollar bills on the bar.
He asked Merv for his wallet. Astonished at the request, Merv nonetheless handed his wallet to Gleason, who removed all his money right down to the last dollar. He threw Merv's meager cash on top of his and shouted to the other patrons, “Drinks on the house!” There was a mad rush to the bar.
After the round of drinks, Gleason, Merv, and the blonde sat at the head table, listening to a onearmed trombone player, Finger Lickin’ Bollweevil. “I have this thing for onearmed trombone players,” Gleason confided. It started back in 1943 when Sinatra and I discovered one, Wingy Manone. We used to go to this jazz joint every night and listen to the amputated fucker.”
“I wouldn't think that there would be a lot of onearmed trombone players around,” Merv said.
“There aren't,” Gleason admitted. “That's why we've got to respect them. That's why I'm so devoted to Finger Lickin’.”
Before midnight Gleason made a call to his hotel and sent Merv back to the desk to pick up another five onehundred dollar bills. By the time he came back into the bar, Gleason was already deep into his second bottle of Scotch. Three other blondes had joined their table. Again, Merv was not introduced.
As the night progressed, Gleason placed a hundred dollar bill in Finger Lickin's pocket. “Play ‘That's a Plenty’ for me,” he requested. The comedian did that five times, requesting the same song, until all the money was gone.
For his finale, Finger Lickin’ announced to Gleason and the audience, “my swan song for the night is dedicated to ‘The Great One’—and it's on the house.” The trombone player must have realized that Gleason had run out of hundreddollar bills.
Before the saloon closed, Gleason turned to Merv, after surveying each of the blondes at table. “All these dames have trained their vaginal muscles to suck a man dry. Take your pick. Any one of these gals will make you swear off cock sucking for life. Trust me on this one.”
“Thanks for the offer but no thanks,” Merv said, getting up. “I've had it for the night. I'm out of here.” For his departure, Merv did an impression of Gleason's famous exit line, “Away we go.”
Without looking back, he raced for the door.
***
The summer of 1955 brought Merv his longawaited emcee job but it wasn't what he'd been expecting. He was astonished when Marty told him he'd be hosting a Sunday morning religious program for CBS called Look Up and Live. The job paid only $120 a week, and the gig was for thirteen weeks. Having no other work, Merv, at Hadley's urging, accepted the gig. Although Merv was a Catholic, the show's producers thought he was a Protestant. The Catholics would get their thirteen weeks after the Protestants went off the air.
Even though the idea of hosting a religious program appalled Merv, he had vowed to Marty that he would “take any talk show host job.” He kept his word. On the show, the script was fed through a Tele-Promp-Ter. In those days of early television, the instrument often chewed up the rolls of paper feeding into it.
During his second show, the machine broke down, forcing Merv to ad lib his way through the rest of the broadcast. “I'm not a pastor or minister,” he later said. “But I'd read books by my good friend, Fulton J. Sheen, so I just borrowed material from my memory of his writings until we went off the air.”
Merv had to introduce a string of boring pastors but he also met gospel singers. His favorite, of course, was the greatest gospel singer of them all, Mahalia Jackson. He was without racial prejudice, and in later years Merv would do more than any other TV talk show host in introducing black performers to audiences numbering into the millions.
“Getting to know Mahalia Jackson was one of the highlights of all the jobs I held down in the 50s,” Merv later said. Born in the Black Pearl section of New Orleans, Mahalia grew up in a threeroom dwelling that housed thirteen people.
Merv listened in fascination as Mahalia told him stories of her early life, especially how her aunt used to beat her with a “catonine tails” for the smallest infraction when she went about performing her sunup to sundown household chores.
Backstage, Mahalia talked music with Merv, uttering such startling remarks as “Elvis Presley stole rock ‘n’ roll from the black churches.”
On Merv's show, Mahalia in her grainy, fullthroated soprano sang her signature recording, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.” The artist seemed to save all her love for the Lord, as she had little use for men. She'd married Isaac Hockenhull in 1936 but had finally divorced him. “All during my marriage to him, he kept pressuring me to grant him that divorce,” she told Merv. “The devil finally got his wish. Frankly, I don't think most men are worth messing up your mouth with.”
One morning Merv asked her to sing the William Herbert Brewster song, “Move On Up a Little Higher.” That recording had sold eight million copies. She also sang Merv's favorite, “Go Tell It On the Mountain,” her big 1950 hit.
In 1961, Merv watched with pride as Mahalia sang at the presidential inauguration of John F. Kennedy. Before 250,000 African-Americans, she also went to Washington again in 1963 to sing “I've Been ‘Buked, and I've Been Scorned.” Martin Luther King Jr. listened intently before he too appeared before that rally to deliver his famous “I Have a Dream” speech.
Mahalia died on January 27, 1972, suffering from heart failure and diabetes complications. She was only sixty years old. Merv sent flowers to her funeral at Providence Memorial Park in Metairie, L
ouisiana.
Harry Belafonte had been Merv's roommate at one time in New York. On the Look Up and Live show, Merv also got to meet Sidney Poitier, another black performer on his way to great fame and achievement. At the time, Sidney ran a drama school in Harlem.
Like Mahalia, Sidney told Merv fascinating stories of his early life. Although born in Miami, he grew up on Cat Island in The Bahamas, where his father had been a tomato grower. When Sidney came to New York to try to make it as an actor, he was so poor that he often had to sleep in the bus terminal. He finally found a job as a dishwasher in Harlem.
(Left to right) The Defiant One, The Queen of Gospel, and Yellowbird:
Sidney Poitier, Mahalia Jackson, and Merv's roommate, Harry Belafonte
Even though appearing on a Christian TV show, Sidney privately told Merv that he'd been “involved” in local voodoo traditions on Cat Island where he was also a juvenile delinquent. “I was once arrested for vagrancy in New York,” Sidney confessed.
Merv had not seen Sidney's major film debut in the antiracist No Way Out in 1950. Sidney told him that it was deemed too explosive to be shown in its entirety by the colonial government of The Bahamas. The butchering of this explosive film for its presentation before a Bahamian audience caused such a protest that it gave birth to the political party that eventually overturned British rule.
Hadley was in the studio on the day that Sidney first appeared. He later told Merv, “I don't give a damn about all his racial politics. I'd be satisfied if he'd throw me one good black dick fuck. I think Sidney Poitier is the best reason for integration that I can think of.”
***
In 1955, Merv joined a parade of gay New Yorkers attending the premiere of the Broadway play, The Desperate Hours, starring a young Paul Newman. The word “gay,” as it relates to male homosexuality, had just come into vogue.
Those gay men who had seen the preview of the play made a collective pronouncement: You couldn't call yourself a gay man if you hadn't seen the film Sunset Blvd, starring Gloria Swanson, or the new play, The Desperate Hours, starring Paul Newman. Paul's stunning appearance on the New York stage made him, almost overnight, the poster boy of gay New York.
Merv Griffin- A Life in the Closet Page 41