Fred Allen

[Yhtapmys]

Fred Allen had some of the cleverest puns about Jack on radio. I'm listening to one now. "Tonight, in honour of Foot Health Week, I went on the Jack Benny Programme," Fred reveals to Kenny Delmar on one opening. "I spent 30 minutes with a heel."

The New York Journal-American ran a three-part biography of Fred Allen soon after his sudden death. I'll present it here in three posts.

“Fred Allen, Gold-Hearted Grouch”
Humorist Dies While On Stroll
(The sudden death in New York City Saturday night of Fred Allen took from life’s stage one of America’s best known humorists, possessor not only of the most famous “bagged eyes” in the world but also of a sure and ready with that carried him to fame and fortune. Here is the story of Fred Allen as the world knew him — and as only his closet intimates knew him. This is the first of three articles by the well-known International News Service columnist-writer, Phyllis Battelle.

By PHYLLIS BATTELLE
(Copyright, 1956. By INS)

* * *
Fred Allen had a one-word philosophy of life, which he often expounded with adenoidal ardor.
If ye would live fully, he advised — “loaf.”
Last Saturday, on a New York night too blustery for his wife Portland to join him on their habitual pre-midnight stroll, the philosopher and cantankerous comic collapsed. The trouble was he had never had time to follow his own sincere advice. He would have been 62 in May.
“It wasn’t that he didn’t want to take it easy,” said “Uncle Jim” Harkins, Allen’s friend and business companion for 22 years. “Fred worried plenty about his health. You should’ve seen him eat little slices of chicken and fruit while the rest of us were being pigs, just to keep his blood pressure down.”
* * *
“But when he was young, Fred was the hardest working man you’ve ever seen. And later,” Jim sighed, “Well, there were always people who depended on him.”
And Fred, who wrote as many as 300 letters a week to old friends throughout the world, had never been known to let a so-called “little guy” down.
When he died, dozens of these little guys — learning swiftly of the death of “the great dead pan” — swarmed the lobby of Allen’s apartment house on west 58th street, wanting to do something. Not knowing what.
Blonde Portland Hoffa, Allen’s inseparable wife and co-star in his two decades of radio fame, could not speak intelligibly even to the closest of these old friends. She could only cry “I can't believe it, I can't believe it!”
Harkins, who remained with her for four hours after the sudden tragedy, said, “She is lost. That couple was so lovely, so close, they made the rest of us married people look like deadly enemies. They were Romeo and Juliet, and the Siamese twins.”
Portland and Fred had been watching the presentation of the TV Emmy awards in their apartment, and afterward the comic went for his stroll without his wife, urging her to stay in from the ice-slick streets.
* * *
The professional grouch from Boston was apparently headed into the easy street he so long recommended when he suffered his second, and last fatal, heart attack.
Under orders to slow-down for the past ten years, he recently finished a book, “Treadmill to Oblivion,” in which he took free and funny potshots at what he considered the bane of good entertainment businessmen.
He had given, up regular appearance, except on the weekly Sunday night TV show, “What’s My Line?”, where for two years he was a droll, popular panelist.
Only last Friday, Allen had a cardiogram which revealed, ironically, that his heart was behaving healthily. He must have felt then that he could not refer to himself — as he had in a recent whimsically wry mood — as a “fugitive from rigor mortis.”
* * *
In his 45 years of trying to make the world laugh, about 25 of which he spent succeeding, the writer-comedian with the bellhop eye (“they carry up to four bags”) covered the country but never really settled down. He never owned a house or a car because “they make me nervous,” but he “dwelt” in many places.
He was born in Cambridge, Mass., but when Massachusetts internal revenuers tried to collect a tax from his income, he put his feelings this way: “The way you talk, if you were born in jail, you’d be a convict all your life.”
He spent years in Hollywood making pictures, but he spoke of California thus: “The climate is fine. If you’re an orange, it’s ideal.”
New York, where he died, was the only city he didn’t puncture with his inimitable barbs.

Next: How Fred Allen “educated” the public to his brand of humor.)

-transcribed by yhtapmys

[Yhtapmys]

‘Actor Fred Allen, Gold-Hearted Grouch’

(This is the second of three articles telling the story of Fred Allen, whose sudden death Saturday night took from the world of entertainment, a man regarded by his contemporaries as one of the most intelligent wits of his time.)

Article II
By PHYLLIS BATTELLE
(Copyright, 1956. By INS)
* * *
Nobody ever had the gall to link the name, Fred Allen, to such adjectives as “lovable old —” or “scintillating new—”. Fred would have scorched them with a snort.
Behind his funereal countenance and bone-dry humor, Allen had a deep, probing mind. So he didn’t care for adulation.
All he asked of people was intelligent sincerity, and if his quips were sometimes more cynical than funny, it’s because he wasn’t getting it.
His mind, which could dig right to the heart of matters and usually bring out the humor in them, caused him confusion and headaches. For instance, though he left a legacy of 4,000 books on humor in his library, he never could figure out why people laughed.
* * *
“It’s mysterious,” he once said. “I know how to make people laugh — and I know approximately when they’ll laugh — but I haven’t the vaguest idea why they laugh.”
This uncertainty worried Allen.
But with the “hows” and “whens” of comedy in his pocket, he would work an average of 18 hours a day during the nearly 20 years when his name was as close to the U.S. household as its family doctor. He would lock himself up in a room each day and brew his laughs the hard way, compiling a 50-page script every week.
“He’s the only man I ever knew in all of literature—and that includes Mark Twain—who wrote so much genuinely thoughtful funny stuff. And he didn’t have to either. He could have just growled, and the audience would’ve collapsed,” recalls his long associate, Jim Harkins. “But Fred was a perfectionist.”
* * *
Allen hired writers, of course, but usually the just, in their own words, “sat around and consumed the gravy.” Sometimes he hired young, talented writers simply out of sympathy, so they'd have “credits” from the Allen show to get them another job.
One of the Allen show script boys from 1936 to ‘41 was Herman Wouk, best-selling author of “The Caine Mutiny”, and “Marjorie Morningstar.” After Fred’s death Saturday,
Wouk described his one-time boss as “the model man.”
“He was the greatest satirical wit in America in our time, and a superb writer,” Wouk said reverently. “He only needed us because of the tremendous volume of material needed on his show. All any of us did was to imitate him—but he was the best writer in the lot
“And he was fantastic, worked harder than any man I ever knew with all his time scheduled, seven days a week.” Wouk added softly, “But that took its toll.”
* * *
Like most self-educated men, Fred was more widely read than most of his associates—his first job was as stack boy in a Boston library—and more observant. The more he read and observed, the more he worried. The result was that his Scrooge-like demeanor, once a theatrical technique, reflected much of his outlook on certain phases of life.
He would speak dourly but cleverly of one thing and another and people would think it was funny. E.g. He complained of radio, “On radio, if you blow your nose often people will say, ‘Nobody can blow a nose like that guy.’ In six months you have a permanent audience for—nose blowing. Isn’t that great?” Allen was not “spoofing,” as the “lovable” comedian does, he was spearing.
He sometimes drew blood.
As a man who was smarter than most of his confreres, Allen was in almost constant clashes with the “business side” of the radio industry which made him a great name in the 1920’s and ‘30’s. He took a particular lance to vice-presidents of radio networks, labeling them V.P.’s “in charge of program ends.”
So sharp were his digs that his show, for 17 years one of the highest-rated on radio, was temporarily cut off the air. This caused him to suggest that “within the hierarchy of the little men there is no man who can outlittle the executive in a large corporation who treats his authority as he treats a tight suit.
“In a tight suit he is afraid to make a move. With his authority the minor executives takes the same precaution. We have men of his ilk on radio.”
Read it fast and it sounds funny. Like so many other things in Fred Allen’s life—his career, his 28-year devotion to Mrs. Portland Hoffa Allen, his waning health, even his
humor—it was serious business to him.
Also serious to Fred was his fellow man who needed help or companionship.
* * *
Born in Cambridge, Mass., with little more, than a sense of humor and an available diaper, in late May of 1894, John Florence Sullivan made hundreds of down-at-the-heel friends before he became known as Fred Allen, star. It is safe to say that he lost few of them, and certainly never lost the interest to write, encourage or finance them. Any hard-up friend who was not a proven parasite first class, could depend on help
From Broadway to Vine street it was legendary: Fred Allen was “the hard-headed soft touch.”

Next—Fred Allen’s start — and struggle. . .

[Yhtapmys]

“Fred Allen, Gold-Hearted Grouch”
This concludes a series of three articles telling the story of one of America’s great humorists, Fred Allen, who died Saturday night at the age of 61.

By PHYLLIS BATTELLE
(Copyright, 1956, By INS)
* * *
Fred Allen started his professional life as a juggler in a vaudeville troupe, pulling down oranges and ping pong balls and $25 a week.
Before that, he made his first buck (in 20-cent hourly payments) working as a stack boy in the Boston public library.
Since his mother had died when he was four and his father passed away 11 years later, Fred shared his negligible wealth with an aunt who had brought him up. He always seemed to feel an urge for sharing with somebody.
One night, as he finished flipping his oranges, a theatre manager asked Fred how he learned to juggle.
Dead of pan because he was shy of nature, Fred replied, “I took a correspondence course in baggage smashing.” The audience laughed and it sounded good to him. So Fred Allen decided to be a comedian.
* * *
His real name was John Florence Sullivan; his juggling names were “Paul Huckle, European entertainer,” or “Freddie James, world’s worst juggler.” When he became a comic, he named himself Fred Allen, after his agent whose name was Allen.
For awhile, it was hard getting started in the business because after his first embarassed and successful gag, Fred couldn’t seem to get a guffaw. His agent tried to talk him into telling some old jokes that were established sure-fire, but Allen replied grimly: “No. There must be some intelligent people somewhere.”
He found them in the audiences at his Broadway debut, in “The Passing Show of 1922.” They loved the sing-song voice that issued from what appeared, to be a monumental nasal obstruction. They giggled insanely at this new look: Funny lines from a stern face.
* * * .
He went on to other Broadway shows, “The Greenwich Village Follies,” “Vogues,” “The First Little Show” and George White’s “Three’s a Crowd.” In this last production, there was one person who began to love him more than the entire audience combined. She was the chorus girl named Portland Hoffa, who came not only Fred’s wife but his sub-star when he finally found his true forte, radio.
* * *
Close friends describe Portland as “the greatest influence in Fred’s life.”
Fred’s first audition in radio in 1928 was a flop, mainly because his nasal twang was thought to be unpleasant. Some called it an eastern accent. Some called it simply unholy.
By 1932, however, with his extremely sharp writing facility, Fred had come up with a show format—bitingly funny—that couldn't be resisted. He went on the air and was an immediate hit with national audiences.
* * *
His best ideas—the zany “Allen’s Alley” and “Town Hall Tonight” sections of his program—were the delight of families coast to coast. And when he started an imaginary feud with Jack Benny, joy was boundless.
During the height of his popularity, Allen lugged the bags under his eyes to Hollywood and made movies, “Thanks a Million” and “Sally, Irene and Mary.”
He soon came back to New York, despite big salary and success, saying that “there’s nothing in California but optimism and oranges. Destroy one or the other, you destroy the whole system.”
* * *
Yet radio, his bread and jam, frequently depressed him even more than movies. He loved to write, but he complained, “Radio comedy is the hardest type of material to prepare. For a one-hour show I had to turn out the equivalent of one act of a three-act play every week. When George Kaufman writes a play, he gets three or four months for an act.”
Television was worse. After Fred Allen made his debut on TV on a “Comedy Hour” sponsored by a toothpaste concern [Colgate], he was scarcely a good ad for the product. Severely ripped into by critics, he didn’t show his teeth for days, except to bare them in private.
Nevertheless, he decided to try it seriously in 1952 and accepted weekly half-iiour TV show called “Two for the Money.”
Before he could begin it, however, he suffered his first heart attack and was forced to go into semi-retirement. Herb Shriner took over the program. Then Fred found his TV groove on the panel of “What’s My Line.”
Fred Allen’s cynical brand of humor was a new form. He made people look at life sharply and humorously. His sometimes-scathing wit will be long remembered.

-transcribed by yhtapmys

[GrassReek]

I wonder just how much his battles with sponsors, game shows, and "vice presidents" effected his health. When you listen to his shows in order, you can detect subtle changes in his jokes, his delivery, his "tone". He did so much of the work for the shows himself, and that added even more stress. By the time he got to TV, he just didn't fit in. A shame... such a quick wit, a great ad-libber...

JD

[Moose Hatrack]

I haven't watched Letterman for ages, but back when he was at NBC he made hay by insulting the network brass. He called them "weasels" night after night. At CBS he beat up on network big cheese Les Moonves with clocklike regularity for as long as it got laughs. I could be mistaken, but I figured that the animosity was just part of the script for the day. Much like the Benny-Allen feud, the simmering tension and hyperbolic insults made for great ratings.
Of course, the Jack and Fred feud was immeasurably superior because you heard from both parties in the "conflict" gag.
Now, was Fred working a gag when he went off on the brass? Wasn't the famous infamous "fade" a comedy gold mine for Fred and most of the shows on the air at the time? Did Fred invent a gag that Letterman revived decades later?
Or was the vitriol real?

[GrassReek]

Reading both of Fred's books makes me feel he really did have contempt for sensors and "the brass".

[Moose Hatrack]

Unlikely that he would carry a running gag into a book! I guess some things comedians say are more than just show-biz. As a kid of about ten I learned from Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In that censors keep funny stuff off the air. Well, the censors are gone now and woo-hoo!

[imagrapenutflake]

It was pretty terrible to read the part of his tv debut. His sponsor was toothpaste and the critics ripped him so much he didn't show his teeth for awhile? Sad...

[Yhtapmys]

I wonder just how much his battles with sponsors, game shows, and "vice presidents" effected his health.

His health doesn't seem to have been good to begin with, JD. It gets mentioned in newspaper stories through the '40s into the '50s. As you know, he took a season off during the war years. It caused him to lose one TV show he was set to host. But the stress couldn't have helped.

I find it amazing Fred had a check-up just before his death and his doctor said he was fine.

Yhtapmys

[Jack Benny]

I was thinking... not good, I know... anyway... When Jack came to TV, I wish he would have brought Fred with him. By this I mean that if Jack was willing to share his writers, I believe that they and Fred could have alternated weeks with Jack throughout the fifties. I think this would have made Jack's show feel more consistent without increasing his work load. I also think that it doesn't take much to imagine Fred Allen doing a show that was similar in format to what Jack was doing on television, actually if you think about it Jack' TV format is probably closer to Allen's radio format than it is to Jack's radio format. With a steady job that wouldn't have been too stressful, maybe Allen would have lived longer as well.