Tag: Sidney Skolsky

Times Square Tintypes: W. C. Fields

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles star of vaudeville, Broadway and the silver screen, W. C. Fields.

“NEVER GIVE A SUCKER AN EVEN BREAK”

W. C. FIELDS. His real name is s.
Caricature of W. C. FieldsHe can’t rehearse his part in a play or picture without holding a cane in his hand.
His auto bears a California license plate merely because he likes the color of it.
Started his theatrical career as a juggler. At the enormous salary of $5 a week. Out of this he had to pay an agent a dollar and a half commission fee. His latest salary was $5,500 weekly as the star of the Earl Carroll Vanities. The agent’s making more also.
He wears snake-skin shoes. Never wears garters. Calls his socks, “droopies.”
Is an excellent caricaturist and could probably earn a living by drawing if he so desired.
Good comedy, he believes, is merely a matter of instinct.
He traveled around the world twice. Once making the westward passage. The other time the eastern passage. To him one of life’s little mysteries is why they lost or gained a day on the way around.
Wears silk underwear and sleeps in it. Sleeps lying flat on his belly with the pillow against his chest.
One of his first jobs in the theater was in a beer garden, the Fortesque Pavilion, Atlantic City. His task was to go in swimming and cry for help. Then two actors would rush to his aid, carry him back to the beer garden and revive him on the stage there. While this revival act was going on the waiters would sell beers to the crowd that had followed the drowning man to the pavilion.
Washes himself with black tar soap. Perfumes his bath with pine needles.
Is always juggling things by force of habit. Has six lemons on his bureau at home. When alone he amuses himself by juggling them.
Thinks the best French food is served in England. The best German food in America. And as far as American food is concerned he’d rather eat tall grass.
His nickname is “Pokey.”
He ran away from home at the age of eleven and became a hobo.
During his hobo career he was regarded as a Beau Brummell, because he washed once a day.
He made the longest jump on record. Jumped from Freemantle, Australia, traveling thirty-eight days and thirty-eight nights, to play a one-night stand in Syracuse, N. Y.
His two favorite expressions, which he made popular, are: “It ain’t a fit night for man nor beast” and “Never give a sucker an even break.”
He has a face that caricaturists love.
The thing that annoys him most in life is a radio. When entering a house that has one, he politely requests that it be turned off. He owns two radios. Has one in his dressing room. The other at home. They are to amuse his guests when he isn’t present.
He once passed the night in an Egyptian pyramid.
Recently he received a letter from the United States Government about his income tax. He had overpaid it at $1,250.
He eats only one meal a day. Never has breakfast or lunch. Only dinner. Occasionally, however, after the theater, he will have cheese, crackers and beer.
No matter how hard he tries he can’t raise a mustache. Has over a hundred false mustaches as part of his theatrical makeup. He wears the mustache, not on his lip, but on the tip of his nose. Thy have a trick clasp.
His favorite actor is Mussolini.
Among the things that burn him up and leave him cold are mustard, folks who get plastered on one highball, picnics, hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, chorus girls with curls, “Mammy” singers with Jewish accents and a pair of tight pants.
He played the stock market once. Then he bought five shares of stock on a tip. Almost went into a panic the next day when he couldn’t find the stock listed.
He once saved his life by juggling before a wild tribe in Africa.
He never smokes. Except when rehearsing a show or making a picture. Then he is an inveterate smoker, lighting one cigarette with the butt of another.
Like John Held, Jr., his library is in his bathroom.
While in Hollywood making pictures he received a broken neck. Today he can only turn his neck halfway to the left. He can, however, make a complete right turn.
He is the possessor of a Phi Beta Kappa key which he found.

 

Back from the brink

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We’d not intended to drop the ball on you this week, but we were fighting a losing battle with a nasty stomach bug earlier in the week and since then, we’ve been recuperating and catching up on tasks that faced us at work and at home.

Next week, we’ll be back up to speed, with the next chapter from Sidney Skolsky’s Times Square Tintypes going live on Monday and other surprises await you later in the week.

For now, just so you don’t feel forgotten, we encourage you to enjoy this brief snippet of a 1928 two-strip Technicolor short that features Hollywood starlets of the day, among them Laura La Plante and Raquel Torres, modeling the latest fashions of the day, accompanied by the tender warblings of Cladrite Sweetheart Annette Hanshaw.

A frame from the fashion clip depicting Raquel Torres

Times Square Tintypes: Paul Whiteman

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles rotund orchestra leader and the King of Jazz (or so he was once known), Paul Whiteman.
 

A LEADER AMONG MEN

PAUL WHITEMAN. Let the most important fact come first. He weighs 248 pounds.
Caricature of Paul WhitemanHe once studied to be a mechanical engineer.
He has a passion for striped ties and flashy autos.
Was born in Denver, March 28, 1890. His father and mother were both six feet tall. His father was director of musical education in the city schools. His mother sang in the choir.
Once he enlisted in the navy. Then he organized a naval jazz band.
His prize possession is a photograph of himself at the age of three. Here he is seen wearing green velvet pants and playing a toy violin.
He can lead an orchestra by merely shrugging his shoulders or moving his thumbs.
Was a viola player in the Denver Symphony Orchestra and drove a taxi on the side to make money.
Custard is his favorite dessert. He calls it “gap and swallow.”
The Prince of Wales is his pal.
He is married to Vanda Hoff, dancer. They have a son, Paul Whiteman, Junior.
One of his first jobs in a jazz band was in a honky-tonk in San Francisco. Here the folks threw coins in a barrel if they liked you. These coins were your salary.
He plays golf and has one friend he can beat.
Will pay any price for a musician he desires. Often takes men getting only $60 a week away from another band by paying them $250 a week.
Made his New York d&eacutebut at the Palais Royal.
The first place he heard jazz was at Capper’s Neptune Palace in Africa.
Has a remarkable memory, never forgetting the smallest detail. Commenting on this trait, a wisecracker gagged: “Oh, well, an elephant never forgets.”
Never passes a street musician without slipping him a bill.
Whenever he attends the opera he cries. His favorite opera is Parsifal.
For relaxation he will sit before a victrola listening to records of his band playing.
Eats very little for one of his size. Some of his choice dishes are chicken and cream served at the Claypool Hotel, Indianapolis; hot cakes, doughnuts and strawberry shortcake at his relatives’ in Denver; wienerwurst and sauerkraut at Joe’s in Minneapolis and antipasto at Sardi’s.
The first record he ever made was “Avalon.” It was spoiled in repeated trials by the audible soft oaths of players cursing their own mistakes.
The first of the Whitemans spelled it Wightman.
He wears pink nightgowns that fall to his ankles and a tassled night cap.

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Times Square Tintypes: John Golden

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles theatrical producer John Golden.
 

“PURE AS THE DRIVEN SNOW”

JOHN GOLDEN. He’s the only man who produces clean sex plays. Yet he always manages to give the public what it wants. A shrewd showman, he realizes the value of publicity. Started the “clean” gag because of its healthy box office appeal. It has “it.”
Caricature of John GoldenWas once a bricklayer and the vice president of a chemical company. From the experience gained at the latter he is proficient in making gin.
He wrote the song “Poor Butterfly,” with Raymond Hubbell and Charles B. Dillingham. In fact, his managerial career started on a song. His royalty check for “Goodbye, Girls, I’m Through,” was $40,000. Gave it to Mrs. Golden for a present. She loaned it back to him to produce Turn to the Right.
His favorite actor is Muni Weisenfrend. He never says this without adding: “And Otto Kahn agrees with me.”
Is very much interested in what makes an audience go to a play. Once distributed a circular during the run of Pigs inquiring, “What made you attend this show?” Seventy per cent of the answers were variations of “Because a friend told me about it.”
As a bricklayer he helped build the Garrick Theatre.
For the last thirty years the annual Lambs’ Washing has been held on his estate at Bayside.
He was a partner of Cohan and Harris in the production of Hawthorne of the U. S. A. His task was to pal about with Douglas Fairbanks, seeing that the young acrobat didn’t hurdle over taxicabs and climb up buildings.
He is superstitious. Likes to have a numeral in the title of his plays. Remember: The 1st Year, 2 Girls Wanted, 3 Wise Fools, 4 Walls and 7th Heaven. Considers 27 his lucky number. In roulette and other numerical games of chance he will bet huge amount on it.
He organized the Producing Managers Association. This led to the famous actors’ strike.
The man he quotes most is Ring Lardner.
Is not fussy about clothing. Never goes to a store to purchase wearing apparel. If he needs another tie, shirt or suit, he merely telephones for it.
Thinks Atlantic City and Miami are the only vacation spots worth knowing.
He is one of the few producers who treat the theater as if it were a business. Is in his office by nine every morning and leaves at five. Is in bed every night at ten. He never attends the theater in the evenings. Goes only to matinées. Misses every opening night. Even his own.
Owns the original Old Kentucky Home, having bought the Stephen Foster homestead in Federal Hill to save it from being torn down.
He realizes the value of flattery. Gets the most out of people he is associated with by using it.
His favorite tryout town is Elmira, N. Y. Believes it to be lucky and opens all his shows there.
Was the first to cover the front of a theatre with an electric sign. Did it with 3 Wise Fools at the Criterion. Then the movies took up the idea . . . And how!
He hates the word “clean.” Refrains from using it in his conversations. When it slips out accidentally, he looks embarrassed.
He has collaborated on songs with Irving Berlin, Douglas Fairbanks, Oscar Hammerstein, Victor Herbert and Woodrow Wilson.
Always puts on his glasses when he talks on the telephone.
His hobby is collecting “the key to the city.” He has framed in his office keys to twenty-seven of the most important cities in the United States.
He hates dogs and cringes when he sees one.
Has a barber shop in his office, fully equipped. Every day at twelve a barber appears and shaves him. Every other week he takes a haircut.
His home in Bayside has eight bedrooms. He sleeps in a different room each night, according to his mood.

Times Square Tintypes: Irving Berlin

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles perhaps the greatest of American songwriters, Irving Berlin.
 

THE BIRTH OF THE BLUES

HE has a name that will live forever and he bought it for a song. IRIVING BERLIN.
Came to this country at the age of four, the youngest of eight children. In Russia his father was a cantor. Here a kosher butcher.
He has yet to find a hat to fit him.
He eats a lot for one of his size.
Plays the piano by ear. And only in F sharp. Has a specially constructed piano with a sliding keyboard. When the music calls for another key he merely moves the lever.
He is not a one finger player. Uses all his fingers badly.
Has a scar on his forehead. It was received on a Washington’s Birthday in Cherry Street, trying to start a bonfire.
Thinks he is a good stud poker player. His friends say he’s lucky.
His pet aversions are riveters and second verses.
Ran away from home at the age of fourteen. His first stop was Callahan’s saloon. Here he sang “The Mansion of Aching Hearts” until enough coins were tossed at him to pay for a night’s lodging. Later became a singing waiter at Nigger Mike’s place, 12 Pell Street. The barker on the trip to Chinatown bus now points out the place.
He wrote “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” credited with starting the jazz vogue, at the age of twenty-three.
Crowds frighten him. So do certain individuals.
His idea of a great achievement is writing a song that reaches the million copy mark.
Maintains a home in West Forty-sixth Street. But lives elsewhere. The first of every month generally finds him moving.
His square moniker is Israel Baline. For a time, he went under the name of Cooney. Became Berlin because that was the way the Bowery pronounced Baline.
As a singing waiter he kicked a hoofer named George White out of the place for being a pest, and he served Al Smith.
Is always chewing gum. This can be observed by merely watching the funny way his hat moves on his head.
His favorite biographer is Alexander Woollcott.
He composes in this fashion: First playing the song on the piano. Then singing it to Arthur Johnson, his right and left hand man, who records upon paper what he hears. Then Johnson plays the written manuscript. This is the first draft. From this Berlin works on to the final version. Often after a song has been published he changes it.
His bill for flowers for the Mrs. is $1,000 a month.
His patent leather dinner shoes have more cracks than his hair has waves.
Of all the songs he has written, a figure exceeding four hundred, his favorite is “The Song Is Ended But the Melody Lingers On.”
Is very restless. Can’t sit or stand still. Always paces the floor. He walks miles in any room he is in. It is the only exercise he gets.
As far as playwrights go, his taste begins and ends with George S. Kaufman. As for music, he’ll whistle anything by Jerome Kern. For lyrics he hands first prize to B. G. De Sylva. And if asked to name the swellest guy in the theatrical game, he’d shout Sam Harris.
He has had to change his entire working schedule since he became a father.
He has never worn a diamond. The only jewelry he wears is, occasionally, a pearl tie pin.
Never eats the crust of bread or rolls. Always plucks the filling. This can be seen circled about his plate.
After finishing a song he sings it to the first person he meets. A bell boy at Palm Beach was the first person to hear “Lazy.” A Broadway taxi driver was the first to hear “All Alone.” A bewildered stranger, occupation unknown, was the first to hear “Say It With Music.”
He never writes anything in longhand but his signature on a check. Everything else he prints.
The one thing in life he is looking forward to is walking into a restaurant with his daughter, Mary Ellen.
Of all the songs ever written the one he’d love to be the author of is “The Rosary.”
On the fly leaf of a book containing every song he wrote there is this ditty which he believes sums up everything:

Let Me Be a Troubadour,
And I Will For Nothing More
Than One Short Hour Or So
To Sing My Song And Go.

He has a form-fitting couch which was especially designed for him.