Best Broadcasts of 1939-40 [• / SELECTED AND EDITED BY MAX WYLIE Director of Script and Continuity Columbia Broadcasting System; Editor, Best Broadcasts of 1938-39 rHis is the second anthology bring¬ ing together a year’s crop of he outstanding scripts in all fields if radio broadcasting. Like Best Broadcasts of 1938-39, this new vol- ime is not only valuable to everyone uofessionally interested in radio, but ilso contains a great deal of highly njoyable reading. As in the previous volume, the cripts this year have great interest ;nd variety of appeal. Emphasis s on comedy programs, news broad- :asts, and radio drama. Comedy cripts include outstanding programs rom Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Burns ind Allen, Bob Hope, and the Aldrich ramily. Among the news broadcasts ire the historic account by William ... Shirer of the signing of the irmistice in the old railroad car at Ympiegne, and the dramatic eye- continued on back flap ) eA o w Best Broadcasts of 1939-40 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from Media History Digital Library https://archive.org/details/bestbroadcastsofOOwhit Best Broadcasts of 1939-40 Selected and Edited by MAX WYLIE Director of Scripts and Continuity, Columbia Broadcasting System; Lecturer, New York University Radio Workshop JLSULOJLRJLOJLSULOJLtLfLSLSLfLOJLSULiLSLlLOJLOJULOJLtLOJLfLSLSL^ New York WHITTLESEY HOUSE London MCGRAW-HILL BOOK COMPANY, INC. Copyright, 1940, hy the McGraw-Hill Book Company, Inc. “My Client, Curley," copyright, 1940, by the Columbia Broadcasting System, Inc. “In the Fog,” copyright, 1939, by Milton E. M. Geiger. “The Dark Valley,” copyright, 1940, by the Columbia Broadcasting System, Inc. “For Richer — For Richer,” copyright, 1939, by True Board- man and reprinted by special arrangement with the International Silver Company. “This Lonely Heart,” based upon “Beloved Friend: The Story of Tschaikowsky and Nadejda von Meek,” by Catherine Drinker Bowen and Barbara von Meek, published and copyrighted, 1937, by Random House, Inc. “The Clinic,” copyright, 1940, by the National Broadcasting Company, Inc. Fred Allen material, copyright, 1940, by Fred Allen. Burns and Allen program, copyright, 1939, by George Burns. Bob Hope program, copyright, 1940, by Bob Hope and reprinted by special arrangement with the Pepsodent Company. The Aldrich Family, copyright, 1940, by Clifford Goldsmith. The Pursuit of Happiness, copyright, 1940, by the Columbia Broadcasting System, Inc. Meet Mr. Weeks, copyright, 1940, by the National Broadcast¬ ing Company, Inc. Ruth Gordon’s diary material included in program Meet Mr. Weeks, copyright, 1939, by the Atlantic Monthly. Excerpts from “The Journal of Arnold Bennett, 1896-1928” included in program Meet Mr. Weeks, copyright, 1932, 1933, by Viking Press, Inc., New York. “The Human Adventure,” copyright, 1940, by the Columbia Broadcasting Sys¬ tem, Inc., and reprinted by special arrangement with the University of Chicago. The Lone Ranger, copyright, 1940, by The Lone Ranger, Inc. Pepper Young’s Family, copyright, 1939, by the National Broadcasting Company, Inc. Material of Major George Fielding Eliot, Elmer Davis, Edward R. Murrow, and William L. Shirer, copyright, 1939, 1940, by the Columbia Broadcasting System, Inc. Material of Wythe Williams, copy¬ right, 1940, by Wythe Williams and reprinted by arrangement with Mutual Broadcasting System. Material of Raymond Gram Swing, copyright, 1940, by Raymond Gram Swing. “The Graf Spee,” copyright, 1939, by the National Broadcasting Company, Inc. Material on the Belmont Stakes, copyright, 1940, by the Columbia Broadcasting System, Inc. Notice: This book is copyrighted, and no part or section thereof may be reprinted, rebroadcast, or performed for any purpose whatever by any per¬ son without permission of the copyright owners. PUBLISHED BY WHITTLESEY HOUSE A Division of the McGraw-Hill Book Company, Inc. Printed in the United States of America hy the Maple Press Co., York, Pa. Preface JLOJLfiJLOJLSLSUUULOJLOJLOJLOJUULOJULJLOJ^^ his book is Volume II in a series of annual collections X of outstanding radio material. Some of the pieces re¬ printed in the following pages are very good from every standard, and some of them are very bad from every standard except radio’s. American, radio shares the standards of the public it serves. It does not, in contrast to British radio (before the war), decide what the public should have, put it on, leave it there for months, and ignore the fact that it brings small delight to few people. English friends have told me, for example, that you can learn how to flash the chimney of your smokehouse, how to tell the Douglas plaid from the Cameron plaid, and how to keep bees — all this over the wireless. American radio tries to teach, too; but we somehow act on the assumption that a man will be coming around to flash the chimney, that a good Cameron will know his own plaid. As to the bees, we, too, approve of them as the English do, and we believe in them; but we seem to feel that a bee knows his business. As a race we feel that bees have been around a long time and have done well. As a race we do not believe we can bring much to the bee. We do not see a commercial in it. Over here we don’t bother with bees; so radio doesn’t bother with them either. But Englishmen hear a great deal about one thing and another that has no possible affinity with their life. It is the difference between arbitrament and volition. Nor does American radio, in contrast to German radio, decide what the public should have, put it on, leave it there, and see to it that all Germans behave as if they were having a whale of a time listening to Goebbels’ romancing and Mr. Schicklgruber’s helminthic fiddle-faddle. English radio is a schoolmaster. German radio is a drill- master. American radio is the reciting pupil of its own 130 v PREFACE million tutors. In Germany you take your radio and like it. In England you take it or leave it. In America you get what you ask for; and if you don’t like what you get, it is taken off for you. In general, American radio gives out what it has taken in. This is healthy, this is sensible, and this is fair. It would seem logical to go on from here and point out that our great national genius for “squawking” is America’s best check and balance to keep radio doing the things Americans want it to do. But it is at this precise point that we encounter a severe, and in some ways inexplicable, breach in our logic. Radio hears much squawking, to be sure, and it considers each squawk according to its merit; but thus far its millions of listeners have not yielded a true critic of the industry. To me this is very strange. Nothing in this world has impinged upon the active consciousness of a whole people as radio has impinged upon Americans. I have heard many explanations as to why radio or the great body of its lis¬ teners has not supplied broadcasters with good critics. It is claimed that art produces critics and that radio is not an art and so does not deserve and does not need critics. It is said that critics are concerned with form and that radio is innocent of form. Another and far too popular answer to the whole thing is this: criticizing radio is as futile as criticizing the Atlantic Ocean. Here the reasoning seems to be that you can say all you want about the ocean without changing its temperature or moving it out of its bed. All these arguments make a lot of sense, and they have all been enunciated at one time or another by sensible people. But they do not make enough sense. They bring no direction of development to the world’s most overgrown baby, no dietary control, no educational toys, nothing but diapers. All of this is to be deprecated because it is all negative. The simple fact of the matter — with a few scattered exceptions that I wish presently to mention — is this : radio is its own critic and has been so ever since the busi¬ ness began. With much patience, many mistakes, and great trouble it has written millions of letters, called people on vi PREFACE the telephone, rung doorbells, and Q.S.T.’d entire networks to see what listeners were listening to and why, and to see what they were not listening to and why. It has spent millions of dollars and millions of man-hours in finding out as much about its own business as its public would let it know. Terrific energy has been put into this search by radio people. Little energy has been put into it by radio listeners. Broadcasters want to know where they are, and the public is not helping them as much as it should. Few discerning men within the industry itself would claim that broadcasting as a whole is an art or even that broadcasting as a whole has artistic form. Most of them know pretty exactly what radio is. Most of them know that it is the most fluid medium that we have for bringing some of the arts (and only some) to their largest audiences. That much is a good deal, but it can never reach its peak of self-realization without the assistance of intelligent and sympathetic public review. To lump radio with the Atlantic Ocean and say that one might as well criticize the one as the other is a very dan¬ gerous thing to do. The risk and the fallacy in this rugged analogy are at once apparent; several people have criti¬ cized the Atlantic Ocean with very good results. They have navigated her, fished her, flown her, scraped her bottom for oil, sucked her middle for gold, skimmed off her top for perfume and pipe bowls, backed up her tides for power, and browbeaten her generally into a docile and producing accessory for sixty-three separate nations. Critics did all this — Schoutens, Drakes, Magellans, Fitzroys, Darwins, Melvilles, Sarmientos, Columbuses, Dampiers, Shackletons, Ladrilleros, and Lindberghs — with fleets and astrolabes and microscopes, with whatever they had and whatever they knew. All these men were critics of the Atlantic Ocean. They all thought that they could improve it, and they all were right. It is a much better ocean than it was. Sooner or later adventuresome spirits will begin to per¬ ceive the challenge that the very immensity and hetero¬ geneity of radio offer to the restive and exploring mind. People will begin to dissect its social implications; to dis¬ cover ^why, when Stokowsky plays for it all the time, vii PREFACE Kreisler won’t play for it at all; to bring the right people together in order to bring the right program to the grave and grasping minds of small children; to find out how to move more merchandise without so many commercial plugs; to teach languages; to persuade adults to drop an old idea as soon as they have evidence enough to accept a better one. Some of this is being done. Within the business itself NBC has the most just, the most catholic and impartial appraiser of written show material in radio today. He is Lewis Titterton. NBC also has radio’s most experienced theatre man in John Royal, vice-president. His knowledge, his irresistible personality, and his chatoyant brilliance make it possible for him to meet and reach all types of people on their own ground, a capacity neatly demonstrated two years ago in London when, in the course of a single afternoon, he had tea with a cabinet member, a conference with Toscanini, and highballs with Mike Jacobs and got every¬ thing he wanted from all three. Mutual has its shrewdest analyst of popular values in Julius Seebach. Among execu¬ tives in the creative divisions, CBS has radio’ s boldest inno¬ vator, its most exciting experimenter, and its most inventive showman in W. B. Lewis, youngest and nimblest vice- president in American broadcasting. Two newspapermen stand out as the most astute and knowledgeable critics that have brought their offices to bear on radio from the field of journalism. They are Robert Landry of Variety and Leonard Carleton of the New York Post. They are widely read, and they should be. Their perceptions are accurate; their evaluations incisively gauged and arrived at ; their observations readable, search¬ ing, and fair. All these men are useful and productive, and radio today is better than it would have been without them. Another type of critic should be mentioned. They are the members of the “We Are Not Listening” societies. These groups have sprung up in the past two or three years, principally in the East, and are increasing slowly in numbers. Almost all their members are women. They are bad for radio. Anybody who doesn’t listen to radio is bad for radio. The forming of these groups of total abstainers viii PREFACE had its rise in an increasingly articulate protest against the fecundity of the daytime serial. It is much easier for me to understand their attitude than to find intelligent justification for their militance. The reason so many daytime serials are on the air is that so many millions of women want to hear them. There are millions of women in America who work much harder than the “We Are Not Listening” women, who live on less money, and who find in these tales of family life and typical or atypical romance their only exercise of reverie, their solace, and the sustaining, if imaginary, extension of their own lives, their own personalities, and their own best con¬ ception of themselves. The daytime serial makes life en¬ durable to many millions of women who never before have experienced the thrill of being told how wonderful, how resourceful, how valorous they were. Daytime serials don’t have heroes; they have heroines. A whole matriarchy has built itself up around these resilient, albeit fictional, females. The listeners identify themselves with the best types in all these endless stories. They do it in the same way that readers do with all fiction. The serial makes it possible for those to live a little in their own spirit who are domes¬ tically surrounded by dishes, money worries, empty lives, tired or unromantic husbands, ugly back yards, or flat feet. The serials are for these women. There are about twenty- five million of them. The serials are not for the “We Are Not Listening” women, were never intended for them, do not claim to interest them or to bring them anything experiential, social, or cultural that they can possibly enjoy. But for these very women (and it is interesting that there is rarely an underprivileged one among them) to rebel at the whole output of radio in order to press down on its (to them) most reprehensible feature is not only com¬ pletely selfish but completely indefensible. Shall we put on the Budapest Quartet for two hours every morning and three every afternoon for the two million who would like it, and shall we do so at the expense of the twenty or thirty million who listen all day long to what they are already getting ? Certainly not. tx PREFACE American radio is for all the people, and there is much for all the people. For any group to refuse to listen to any¬ thing and everything merely because there is much that they object to, merely because there is much that they consider blatantly stupid, is in itself blatantly stupid. It is like going through the whole of life and saying, “We found some ugly sights, and we are not looking.’’ It is like going through the whole of literature and saying, “We found some vulgar doggerel and we are not reading.” I do not know as much about radio as I should like to, but I know as much as my slender talents for absorption have made it possible for me to learn. I’ve taught radio in universities, written it, produced it, lectured about it, listened to it, defended it, attacked it, heard charges and acquittals from many sources. I have brought several people into it and urged a few out. Radio is not unlike any other great business in so far as its two basic needs are concerned; it needs people who know things, and it needs people who can do things. It goes to considerable expense to supply the relatively proper amounts of them both. For myself, if I may be permitted the slang, I think that radio is “the stuff,” but I would not think so if it were made up of people who were as myopic and unrealistic about radio as are the good ladies who will not listen. Creative criticism never has anything to do with groups or movements. Creative criticism is a peculiarly individual thing. It will be time to take the daytime serials off the air when the women who don’t like them now can persuade the women who do like them not to like them any more. I doubt if they can do this. Most of the women who do not listen have a boiled dinner on top of their head instead of a hat ; and in the case of some, I fear, a boiled dinner inside their head instead of the machinery of thought. There are differences in this year’s book from the one that appeared last fall. I have not put individual properties into so many separate classifications. Six or seven pieces appear under the general heading “Best Scripts,” five or six under “Best Comedy,” some under “Best News Re¬ porting.” A few still get their necessary independent biffing, x PREFACE but on the whole I have tried to simplify the reader’s prob¬ lem by setting before him the broad field of radio activity in its entirety and not confusing him with discrete snatches of this and that. Last year’s book was more instructive than entertaining, and I deliberately put it together that way. This year I hope the reverse is true. It is a hard year for everyone, and it is going to be worse. Empires have subsided overnight; friends have betrayed one another and themselves; every¬ body is telling lies. There is not much to cling to in the world. In these moments and in these months our own country, of all those still remaining afloat, is blessed and sustained by the truth that we may read every day in our press and hear every hour on our radios. Moreover, these two great forces of public information in America are reflecting another side of our vast and incorporated life together — the American sense of humor. It is robust and joyous, occa¬ sionally vulgar, but always full-throated — qualities that in themselves describe us as well as any others I can think of. No race is lost that can still laugh together at itself. Max Wylie. xi Contents jljulslsuislslzjisljulsljuljijulsjlslslsl^^ PREFACE . v BEST SCRIPTS . i “My Client, Curley,” by Norman Corwin and Lucille Fletcher . . 3 “In the Fog,” by Milton Geiger . 23 “The Dark Valley,” by W. H. Auden . 33 “For Richer — For Richer,” by True Boardman . 44 “This Lonely Heart,” by Arch Oboler . 69 “The Clinic,” by Ted Key . 86 BEST COMEDIES . 109 Jack Benny . ill Fred Allen . 131 Burns and Allen . 167 Bob Hope . 185 The Aldrich Family . 203 BEST VARIETY SHOW . 231 The Pursuit of Happiness . 231 BEST EDUCATIONAL BROADCASTS . 249 Meet Mr. Weeks . 249 “The Human Adventure” . 262 BEST WESTERN . 279 The Lone Ranger . 279 BEST DAYTIME SERIAL . 300 Pepper Young’s Family . 300 BEST TALK . 31 1 President’s Address to Science Congress . 311 BEST MUSICAL CONTINUITIES . 316 The Chamber Music Society of Lower Basin Street . 316 The John Kirby Show . 323 xiii CONTENTS BEST NEWS REPORTING . 327 Major George Fielding Eliot . 333 Elmer Davis . 335 Edward R. Murrow . 338 William L. Shirer . 340 Wythe Williams . 346 Raymond Gram Swing . 349 BEST SPOT NEWS REPORTING . 354 “The Graf Spee,” by James Bowen . 354 BEST SPORTS REPORT . 360 “The Belmont Stakes,” by Ted Husing . 360 XIV BEST SCRIPTS My Client, Curley by Lucille Fletcher Herrmann and Norman Corwin BJLOJLOJLOJLOJLOJLOJlJLgJlJLOJLgJLOJlJLOJJLQJLOJLfiJULBJLfiJ Iucille Fletcher is responsible for the basic idea and u the original story on which “My Client, Curley” is based. Miss Fletcher for many years was one of the most valuable members of the CBS publicity staff. She is a free¬ lance writer today and the wife of Bernard Herrmann, CBS composer-conductor. Miss Fletcher has an immense gift of fantastic invention, and it is all lively and amiable. She has done little professional writing as yet, aside from her staff work in radio, but two or three of her pieces have appeared in The New Yorker, and the Columbia Workshop has produced another of her half hour radio shows— a story about a man who wanted to be a locomotive. It was called “The Man with the One-track Mind.” Norman Corwin, radio’s most unspoiled prodigy, in a brilliant and intensive collaboration with Miss Fletcher, expanded the basic idea of the caterpillar story to the pro¬ portions it has achieved in the script which follows. In two weeks of work Miss Fletcher conceived and outlined the career of her very implausible bug, and in two more weeks Mr. Corwin, by dialoguing the whole and replotting many of the amiable excursions of the principal, converted a fine piece of architectural blueprinting into last year’s most irresistible fantasy. The program was first produced by the Columbia Workshop on the evening of March 7, 1940. An immediate public response required a repeat per¬ formance four weeks later. Here is Miss Fletcher and Mr. Corwin’s caterpillar. 3 My Client, Curley Announcer. — Ladies and gentlemen, in the following play, any similarity to caterpillars, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Music. — Symphonic treatment of “Yes, Sir, That's My Baby.'' Announcer. — The Columbia Workshop presents “My Client, Curley,” a new radio play by Norman Corwin, based upon a short story by Lucille Fletcher Herrmann. Music. — Up and out under. Agent. — There are some things a man doesn’t like to talk about because they’re . . . ( breaks off). Well, I’ll just tell this story about my client, Curley, and then I’ll go back to the agent business and try to forget it. But if I should get a lump in my throat while I’m telling it, I hope you’ll understand, because this whole thing was so recent, I still feel pretty upset about it. To make a long story short, I’m out walking one day in the suburbs where I live, when my attention is attracted by two kids sitting on the side of the road ( harmonica in, well off- mike), and one of them is playing a harmonica. They’re bent over watching something on the ground, and I, being curious, go over to see what it is. Sound. — Fade in harmonica playing “ Yes, Sir, That's My Baby.’’ Agent. — Hiya, boys, what you got there? Sound. — Harmonica stops abruptly. Fatso. — We got a trained caterpillar. Agent.1 — What’s trained about it ? Stinky. — He dances. Agent. — ( Laughing ) I don’t believe it. Stinky. — He sure does. 4 MY CLIENT, CURLEY Fatso. — ( The business brains) Give us a nickel, and we’ll show you. Agent. — (Good-naturedly) Oh, a racket, eh? All right, I’m a sucker. Here’s two nickels. Fatso. — Thanks, mister. Okay, play, Stinky. Sound. — Harmonica begins tune. Agent. — (Fascinated . . . after a moment) Well, what do you know! (To Stinky) Now stop. (Harmonica out) I’ll be darned. Stops right when you do. Fatso. — (Proudly) Sure. That’s the way Stinky trained him, didn’t ya, Stinky ? Stinky. — Aw, it was nothin’. Agent. — (Still incredulous) Play some more, Stinky. Sound. — Harmonica starts and plays through briefly to finish. Agent. — (Laughing with delight) Lies right down when you’re finished ! Stinky. — Sure, he’s talented, ain’t he? (To Curley, affectionately) Come on up on my finger, Curley. That’s a boy! Agent. — Does Curley dance to any kind of music? Fatso. — Nope. Only “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby.” Agent. — You mean to tell me he dances to only one tune ? Stinky. — That’s right. I tried lots more, but I guess he only likes that one. Agent. — Well, why is that, do you suppose ? Stinky. — Feller I know says he got a real musical ear. Fatso. — I guess that’s what those two branches are on his head, huh ? Musical ears. Agent. — No, that’s his antenna. Stinky. — Antenna? (Laughs) He ain’t no radio set! (Vastly amused by his own joke, he laughs again, Fatso joining him.) Agent. — Say! Fatso. — What! 5 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Agent. — I wonder if he’s got any snake blood in him ? You know there are some snakes who dance. Fatso. — No kiddin’ ? Agent. — Here, let me take your harmonica a minute. Curley may be related to one of them Asiatic snakes or something. Lemme play it a minute. Sound. — Plays “Hootchie Kootchie” { Danse de Ventre ). Agent. — {Stopping) Nope. Won’t budge. I guess it’s an American caterpillar, all right. Stinky. — Oh, sure. Agent. — {All business) Look, fellers, I’ll make you a proposition. How would you like to sell Curley ? Fatso. — {Commercial minded) How much ? Stinky. — {Sustaining minded) Wait a minute. I own Curley, and I don’t wanna sell him. Agent. — Why not, Stinky? Stinky. — {Ashamed to confess that he loves the bug) Well, because I — well — just because. Fatso. — {Interpreting) Know why he don’t wanna sell ? Agent. — Why ? Fatso. — On account of he’s stuck on him. Stinky. — Aw, shut up, Fatso. Agent. — You mean you like Curley so much you don’t want to part with him ? Stinky. — I just don’t want to sell him, that’s all. Not even for a dollar. {Afterthought) Not even for two dollars! Agent. — Well, of course I don’t think anybody ’d ever offer you that much money. Stinky. — I don’t care. He’s my pet, and I want to keep him. I trained him from a pup. Agent. — Now look, kiddo. I think you’re a very bright and sensitive boy, and because of that, I’m going to make you an immediate cash payment of five dollars for Curley ! d MY CLIENT , CURLEY Fatso. — Hey! Five bucks! Holy smackerels! Whadda ya say, Stinky ? Huh ? Stinky. — (. Almost in tears ) Well, gosh, I dunno. Fatso. — Take it, I’m tellin’ ya! Now you can buy a bike! Stinky. — ( Deserted by Fatso and now a martyr to his affection for Curley ) Well, that sure is a lot of money, but y’see, I like Curley, and I guess Curley likes me, too; and when we’re alone I talk to him, and he understands me. ( Warming up, finding reasons to support his refusal to sell ) Curley likes me around. He’s very intelligent, even though he don’t look so smart. Agent. — Oh, he looks smart, all right. Stinky. — Fatso or my old man or nobody else can’t never get him to move. He won’t do nothin' when they ask him. He lays down, just like on spite, almost. ( Deadly serious ) You know, if somebody took him away from me, Curley would die. Agent. — Think so ? Stinky. — Sure. He’s only human, ain’t he ? He would absolutely die. Agent. — Listen to me, Stinky. I’m going to talk to you man to man. This caterpillar you’ve got is very valuable. He’s worth a lot of money, way more than five dollars, maybe. Fatso. — No kiddin’ ? Agent. — Now this is what we’re gonna do, Stinky. You’re gonna stay with Curley, and I’m gonna manage both of you. Curley will be my client! Fatso. — What’s that mean ? Stinky. — What’s a client ? Agent. — Well, you wouldn’t understand very well. That’s some¬ thing I’ll have to explain to your parents, because I’ve got to get their signatures on a long-term contract. You’re a minor under the law, you see. Stinky. — {Apprehensive of the terminology) I didn’t do anything wrong, did I ? 7 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Music. — Harmonica with orchestra in transitional treatment of “Yes, Sir.” Agent. — That was how it began. I get Curley under my manage¬ ment and take him and Stinky with me. The first thing I do is start out after some publicity. And boy, do those reporters eat it up. Front page, with pictures. Pictures of Curley and pictures of Stinky and pictures of me. Pictures of my client dancing on a leaf, curling around the mayor’s finger, climbing up a pretty model’s leg, sitting in a tiny box at the opera. And headlines! Headlines, like in the Times: Times. — Swing Caterpillar Sways to Strains of “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby”; Fred Astaire of Insect World Demonstrates Almost Human Sense of Rhythm. Music. — Motif . . . Phrase from “Yes, Sir” builds progressively each time it is repeated after. Agent. — The Post. Post. — Curley in Custody of Stinky, Young Svengali of Cater¬ pillars. Music. — Motif. Agent. — The Herald Tribune: Herald Tribune. — Insect Phenomenon Learned to Truck in Truck Garden, Manager Avers. Music. — Motif. Agent. — The World-Telegram. World-Telegram. — The Curley Crawl Becomes New National Dance Sensation. Music. — Motif. Agent. — The Daily News: News. — Bug Cuts Rug! Story on Page 2. Music. — Finale treatment of motif. Agent. — And sure enough, with all that publicity, things really begin happening. First, Bill Robinson introduces the Curley Capers at the Cotton Club! Music. — Effect of solo tap-dancing. 8 MY CLIENT, CURLEY Robinson. — Copasetic ! Agent. — Then Raymond Scott writes a song called the “Cater¬ pillar Creep.” Music. — Fragment from “ Caterpillar Creep." Agent. — Then, half a dozen agencies bid for the rights to syndicate a comic strip. Bidder. — Four hundred and twenty-nine papers, 5 days a week, making a grand total of . . . Agent. — Other companies pay me royalties for Curley balloons and spaghetti and dolls and toys and picture books and decorations on the outside of drinking glasses. Child. — Maw, buy me the glass with Curley’s picture on it! Agent. — And, to make a long story short, I get a vaudeville offer. The money begins to roll in. I hire an expensive suite and a secretary. Girl. — Curley Enterprises, good afternoon! Agent. — I buy Stinky a bike and a new suit of clothes. Stinky. — Gee, thanks! Agent. — The publicity begins to pile up, and at the height of the excitement, I get a wire from Hollywood ! Disney. — (On filter) Offer ten thousand for Curley appearance in feature-length cartoon Stop Propose using live character for first time among cartoon characters Stop Appreciate immediate answer would like to rush story and production cordially Walt Disney. Agent. — Mmm. Oh, er, Miss Neilson! Girl. — Yes? Agent. — Take a wire to Walt Disney, Hollywood, California. Girl. — Yes, sir. Agent. — Curley price one hundred thousand. Girl. — Is that all ? Agent. — Do you think I should ask for more ? 9 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Girl. — No. I mean, is there any more to the wire ? Sound. — Telephone rings . . . receiver off. Girl. — Curley Enterprises. Just a moment, please. (To agent ) Time magazine on the line. Will you take it on the table phone ? Agent. — (Going off) All right. (Sound of telephone receiver off .. . following conversation is background all the way through to end of scene ) Hello? Yes, this is him. Yes. Well, you see. Yuh. Uhuh. No, I discovered him in the boy’s possession. That’s right. Sound Second telephone rings . . . perspective with the girl. Girl Curley Enterprises. Well, he’s busy on another line. Who? Oh, yes ... he wanted me to tell you to order a special air-mail daily shipment of willow leaves from Florida. (Third telephone rings) Wait a minute, will you? (Fourth telephone rings . . . alter¬ nates with third . . . finally the flustered girl can stand it no longer, and she shouts to agent) You better hire some more secretaries! . . No . . . No . . . Yes, sure . . . No, he hasn’t yet . . . Right ... I keep him right here . . . Stinky looks after him most of the time . . . Yes . . . What? . . . No . . . Oh, no ... I beg your par¬ don . . . Oh, by all means . . . From the very first, yes . . . that’s right . . . that’s right . . . Hm? . . . Not yet . . . Probably not for another week or two . . . Absolutely ... Well, we tried all kinds of tunes . . . no, sir . . . which . . . which are you referring to . . . No ... I don’t . . . Hm . . . Yes. Music. — “Yes, Sir ” . . . transitional cue “ B ” rides over ringing telephones and conversation. Agent. — Well, things are going in great shape, and Curley is making us a bundle of dough, when all of a sudden I get three visitors I didn’t figure on. Doctor i. — We have been reading about your wonderful speci¬ men in the papers, and we have come to ask permission to examine it. Agent. — Examine it ? What for ? 10 MY CLIENT, CURLEY Doctor 2. — We are lepidopterists. Agent. — Lepidopterists? But Curley’s a caterpillar, not a leopard. Doctor 3. — Ah, no, my dear man, lepidoptery is a branch of entomology dealing with the insect order of which your, er, shall we say, client is a member. Agent. — Well, I’m sure Curley doesn’t want to be examined by nobody. Doctor i. — Oh, come, come. If this caterpillar is as remarkable as the newspapers say, then you certainly owe science the courtesy of permitting an examination. Doctor 2. — Exactly. Doctor 3. — It would be nothing short of criminal to withhold such knowledge from science. Agent. — ( Grudgingly ) Well, if you want to put it that way. Doctor i. — It will take no more than 2 minutes. Agent. — Oh, I suppose it’s all right. Come with me, please. Sound. — Steps ... as of group passing from one room to another . . . door opens . . . closes. Agent. — Hello, Stinky. Stinky. — Hello. Agent. — This is Master Stinky, gentlemen, discoverer and trainer of my client. He guards Curley all the time. All. — Ad lib greetings. Agent. — Well, there he is, in that box. Please be careful how you handle him. Doctor 2. — Aaahhh, here you are! Doctor 3. — My! Muscular little fellow, isn’t he? Doctor i. — Mmm hmm. ( Examining ) Normal mandible . . . unusually conspicuous first maxillae. Doctor 2. — I say, watch out there, Doctor, he’s trying to bite you! II BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Doctor 3. — Ha! Never been attacked by a caterpillar before! Astounding. Doctor x. — See here, Doctor, just notice this remarkable elongation of the abdominal feet. Doctor 2. — Yes, quite. And doesn’t this feature make you think of the aglais antiopa? Doctor 3. — Incredible! Doctor i. — Look here! Isn’t this remarkable! I’ve never seen such ocelli except in the melanargia galathea. And the chitinization ! Agent. — No kidding? Doctor 2. — (To agent ) Well, sir! Congratulations! This is a remarkable specimen, even before we test its reactions to musical stimuli. Agent. — Gosh, thanks. Doctor 3. — It is of the ordinary genus papilio rutulus, mind you, but it has the most extraordinary features. Agent. — Thanks very much. Doctor i. — But we feel that the specimen would be much more valuable to society, if you, instead of exhibiting it for com¬ mercial purposes, were to, uh, loan or donate it to the Museum of Natural History, where it could be further studied by the leading entomologists of the world. Agent. — But I . . . Doctor 2. — Yes, and when it dies, we can dissect it, and . . . Stinky. — No! No! They’re not gonna take him away! ( Crying ) Don’t let them take Curley! (Keeps protesting and crying under) Doctor 3. — Don’t cry, my boy, we’re not going to hurt him. Doctor i. — (Ignoring the commotion) An insect like this occurs probably once in a million years; and surely, for the sake of a few dollars, you’re not going to risk injuring him by overwork ! 12 MY CLIENT , CURLEY Agent. — ( Rising above mercenary motives) Are you accusing me of sacrificing Curley’s health for profits ? ( Scornfully ) Why, that’s ridiculous! Curley is . . . Sound. — Knocking on door . . . all noise stops, including Stinky's protestation. Agent. — Yes, come in. Sound. — Door opens. Girl. — Just got another wire from the coast. Disney’s raised his offer to twenty thousand. Agent. — ( Heatedly ) Twenty! Tell him one hundred thousand or nothing ! Music. — Sock cue . . . down behind. Agent. — Well, the papers get hold of the lepidopterists’ story, and there’s another pile of publicity. It gets to be a moral issue, with preachers delivering sermons, and all like that. I’m attacked editorially for exploiting caterpillar labor. But, on the other hand, I am defended as an individualist who refuses to submit to regimentation. Defender. — A man owns a clever bug. He has the right to manage that bug. There is no question about his status as manager of that bug. Yet he is asked to release his client for scientific purposes. He refuses. He has a right to refuse. Nobody denies that right. Yet, in certain quarters, he is attacked merely because he insists upon his constitutional guarantees. We say it is consoling to find a man, in this day of reckless encroachment upon the individual, who will stand up and fight for his rights. We wish him well. We stand behind him, foursquare, our feet firmly implanted in the soil from which his bug has sprung, to support his defiance of those who would turn back the progress of man. Agent. — The American Legion and the Daughters of the American Revolution send Curley an engraved silver-plated twig and a miniature flag to put on top of his box. The foreign correspondents get busy and cable long stories to their papers. In Madrid, the Spanish Graficano comes out with a dirty dig. Graficano. — Mas los norte-americanos no deben olvidar que la danza espanola es la mejor de todas y que si la oruga del 13 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Senor Stinky tuviese un poquitin de buenoidopara la musica, reconoceria los irresistibles ritmos de la jota, y no se limitaria a tocar “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby.” Es un insulto a los paises latinos que esse insecto . . . Agent. — How do you like that for nerve? But get this. The Curley motif is reflected, as they say, in the latest Paris fashions. Caterpillar doodads on hats and scarfs and all like that. Le T emps — that’s a newspaper in Paris — comes out with a swell plug. Le Temps. — Tous se rejouiront avec notre republique soeur, les Etats-Unis, de la decouverte faite rdcemment par un petit gargon qui s’appelle Stinky, la decouverte d’une chenille dansante que le monde connait affectueusement sous le nom de Curley. Et c’est remarquable de constater que cet insecte ne consent a danser que si l’on joue l’air justement cdlebre, “Oui, monsieur, c’est mon bebd!” Agent. — Not only that, but my clipping service sends me another pat on the back from Shanghai, China, which I get my laundryman to translate. Chinese. — *3 v Agent. — The Maharajah of Lahore sends Curley some willow leaves from the sacred willow trees of the Temple. 14 MY CLIENT, CURLEY Stinky. — Gee, look, a package from a place named Lakeshore with a lot of funny-lookin’ stamps. Agent. — Lahore, not Lakeshore. Stinky. — C’n I have the stamps? Agent. — Yeah, here y’are. I sign Curley up for a superspecial movie short, and it sweeps the box office of the country in spite of terrible weather, including blizzards and rainstorms. Variety reports: Variety. — Bliz and Driz Fail to Fizzle Biz as Bug Wows B.O. from N.Y. to L.A. Agent. — Life magazine runs a Margaret Bourke-White picture of Curley on the cover, with the caption . . . Life. — Curley. Agent. — CBS does a pickup direct from Curley’s box, bringing the sound of Curley eating dinner. Knell. — This is Jack Knell speaking to you from the head¬ quarters of Curley Enterprises, where we have a microphone buried among willow leaves to pick up the sound of the world’s leading insect danseuse, busy eating dinner after a hard day’s work of exhibiting his talents to the press. Agent. — The New Yorker comes out with a cartoon showing Martha Graham nibbling willow leaves . . . Man. — ( Laughter ) Did you see this cartoon in The New Yorker? Woman. — Lemme see. ( Silence ) Well, what’s funny about that? Man. — For heaven’s sake, don’t you get the point ? Woman. — No. Man. — Well, don’t you know who Martha Graham is? Woman. — Yes. Man.— -And you know who Curley is, of course ? Woman.— -The caterpillar. Man. — Yes. Well, now, you see, Curley lives on willow leaves, and . . . 15 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Agent. — Walt Disney raises his bid to fifty thousand but I still hold out for one hundred thousand. Grover Whalen invites Curley to do an English country dance on the cover of the Magna Charta at the World’s Fair. Well, to make a long story short, everything’s going along hunky-dory until one day some more public-spirited guys get ahold of Curley. Only this time they’re not scientists but musicians. Spokesman. — ( Fading on) And therefore, in the interests of music, we of the committee feel that you would be rendering an invaluable service to musical knowledge if you would permit us to test the effect of classical music on your client. Agent. — But what good will that do anybody ? Spokesman. — Why, it may open up an entirely new field of psychology in relation to music. The world knows very little about the musical instincts of animals and nothing at all about insects. Now . . . Agent. — But you’re wasting your time. Curley dances to only one tune. Spokesman.— Have you tried other tunes? Agent. — Why, sure. Tell him what you’ve played, Stinky. Stinky. — I played “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No More,” “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” “ The Beer Barrel Polka,” “ Shine on, Harvest Moon,” “The Music Goes Round and ...” Spokesman. — Ah, but no classical music! Agent. — Sure we did. I myself played “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life,” by Victor Herbert. Spokesman. — But you haven’t tried any symphonies, have you ? Agent. — ( Straight ) Disney’s trying to get us for a “Silly Sym¬ phony” right now. His latest offer . . . Spokesman. — No, I’m afraid you don’t understand. Let me explain what we propose to do. {Fading) We get Curley in a studio with an orchestra and go through a careful series of tests, using selected symphonic music of dancelike tempi. Now, by the choice of representative works, we can quickly establish . . . 16 MY CLIENT, CURLEY Sound. — Rap of baton. Conductor. — All right, I know you’re tired, gentlemen, we’ve now been through 67 pieces already — but let’s try a few more and then we’ll quit until tomorrow. Voice. — {Off) Has the caterpillar moved at all? Conductor. — So far he hasn’t budged once, but maybe we’ll get him with the “ Habanera” from “ Carmen.” Sound.— Baton rapping for attention. Music. — “ Habanera” for about 12 measures . . . then . . . Conductor. — {Perfunctorily . . . this is the sixty-eighth time he’s had to stop at the beginning ) Stop ! Stop ! {Music out) All right, try No. 69, “Rosamunde” ballet. Music. — Same as above. Conductor. — Stop. {Music out) Next, No. 70, Strauss’s “Per- petuum Mobile.” Music. — Same as above . . . fade under. Agent. — For two and a half days this went on, and, finally, after the two hundred and second try, something happened that really made the papers sit up and take notice all over again. The Amalgamated Press next day carried this story . . . Sound. — Fade in printer . . . Establish and down for Amalgamated. — Curley, the terpsichorean caterpillar, today staggered scientists and musicians when he suddenly went into a stately dance upon hearing the second movement of Beethoven’s ‘‘Eighth Symphony.” The movement, marked allegretto scherzando, was the two hundred and third musical sampling performed in an effort to determine whether the supercaterpillar could, or would, dance to anything besides the song “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby.” The insect further astonished observers by dancing in a contrapuntal manner to an arrangement of melodies from both the song and the movement. Scientists are unable {fade in music) to explain the phenomenon. The management of the caterpillar an¬ nounced meanwhile that Curley will appear as the lead in a ballet entitled “Extravaganza for Insects Only,” by William Saroyan and that Curley will also be seen soon in a dance recital at Carnegie Hall. 17 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Music. — Up full and down under. Agent. — Well, then things really begin to break for us. Mrs. Roosevelt writes about it in her column “ My Day.” Eleanor. — It is not often that a creature smaller than one’s little finger can completely captivate the imagination of millions. Yet such is the remarkable truth about the cater¬ pillar named Curley, and only today I was telling the President that it has been many years since the country has become so interested in . . . Agent. — There’s talk among stamp collectors of issuing a special Curley stamp. Philatelist. — And, since the Curley stamp would be the only insect subject in existence, its value to philately would naturally assume prodigious proportions, and . . . Agent. — Scientific societies offer to investigate Curley’s genius. And would you believe that the annual convention of the American Lepidoptological and Entomological Academy even invites Stinky to lecture before it. Stinky. — ( Echo . . . hesitantly . . . scared . . . obviously no speechmaker ) Er, so I says to my mother, “ Ma, can I have a penny, I want to buy a piece of candy.” So my mother says yes, so she gives me the penny, er, so on my way to the store, I see a caterpillar, uh, crossing the road, er, um, so I stopped to watch it, see ? So then I picked it up, and then I started to . . . Agent.— And all this time the money keeps coming in. We’re getting along fine, although it costs a lot to keep up my expensive offices and staff of secretaries. But I’m figuring on getting the big dough, the hundred thousand from Disney, and then retiring. Well, to make a long story short, there are a couple of exchanges of telegrams and phone calls, with me holding out for my price, and then one night Disney wires. Disney. — ( Filter ) Will meet your price of hundred thousand please fly out with Curley next plane. Agent. — Wow! Am I excited! I rush into the next room, where Stinky and Curley are sleeping. Sound. — Door. 18 MY CLIENT, CURLEY Agent. — Stinky! Wake up! We’re rich! We’re practically millionaires ! Stinky. — ( Sleepily ) What’s the matter? Agent. — Come on, kid, get your clothes on! Hurry! You’re gonna take a long airplane ride with me and Curley! And boy, I’m gonna buy Curley the juiciest willow leaf he ever ate in his life. Now lemme tell the news to Curley. (As if opening Curley’s box ) Here you are, little fella, here you . . . (Freezes . . . then panicky ) Where is he? Why isn’t he in his box? Where’s Curley? Curley! Stinky. — (Refusing to believe ) I put him to bed all right. Ain't he in his box ? Agent. — Quick! Look all around the room. Under the carpet, under the bed, on the walls, everywhere. And be careful where you walk! Stinky. — (Half-calling, half -crying ) Curley! Come back! Curley! Where are you, Curley! Agent. — Curley! Curley, listen. (Sings “Yes, Sir” in a croaking, terror-stricken voice) Stinky. — Joins in the general desultory singing, interspersed with cries for Curley. Agent. — Curley ! I love you ! Where are you ? Stinky. — Curley, don’t leave us ! Agent. — A hundred thousand bucks, Curley! (Sings vehemently . . . breaks off when he gets the idea ) Here, Stinky! Take this flashlight and look for him along the corridor and ask the manager to let you look at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Meanwhile I’ll phone the police. Stinky. — Goes off half singing, half crying. Sound. — Telephone receiver jiggles. Agent. — Operator! Operator! Get me police headquarters! Operator ! Sound. — Siren. Police radio. — (Filter) Calling all cars. Calling all cars. Be on the lookout for a dancing caterpillar. Be on the lookout for a BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 dancing caterpillar. C-A-T-E-R-P-I-L-L-A-R. Caterpillar. That is all ! Sound. — Code. Winchell. — Flash! The Federal Bureau of Investigation will neither deny nor confirm rumors that Curley, the hundred- thousand-dollar caterpillar, was kidnaped. G-men are investigating closely. Sound. — Single chime. Announcer. — Ladies and gentlemen, we have been requested by the civic authorities to make the following announcement. Whenever you hear the song “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby’’ will you please watch very carefully wherever you may be, for a dancing caterpillar in your vicinity. This announcement is in (fading) reference to Curley, the famous caterpillar whose recent career has . . . Agent. — The whole country searches in vain. Nobody’s seen Curley. The police throw out a dragnet. Posses are formed. Radio stations play “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby” at intervals throughout the day and ask all listeners to be on the lookout for a dancing caterpillar. Curley fans from all over send in money for a “Find Curley Fund.” Spindlerift. — (Grating . . . slight echo) And I am privileged, as president of the “Find Curley Club,” to announce to the members that the “Find Curley Fund” has reached the impressive and staggering total of $12,385.14, with the entire South yet to be heard from! Sound. — Great applause. Spindlerift. — And I am positive that every mother’s son of you, yes, and every father’s daughter will pledge his or her heart and hand to the one main and permanent objective — that Curley may be found! Sound. — Even greater applause. Agent. — But nobody finds Curley. And now that he’s gone, I begin to realize how much I love that bug. I begin to under¬ stand why it was Stinky couldn’t bear to sell him to me, way back in those happy days. I can’t bear thinking of willow leaves. I find myself hating all birds and looking suspiciously at cats. And I take to drinking. 20 MY CLIENT, CURLEY Sound. — Light background. Waiter. — What will it be for you, sir? Agent. — A triple Zombie. Waiter. — Are you sure you . . . Agent. — A triple Zombie! Waiter. — Yes, sir. Sound. — Background out. Agent. — And even Stinky tries to drink his way out of his grief. Sound. — Background in. Waiter. — And what will it be for you, young man ? Stinky. — A cup of coffee — and make it black! Waiter. — Are you sure you want . . . Stinky. — Black coffee! Waiter. — Yes, sir. Sound. — Background out. Agent. — Meanwhile, sympathizers from all over the world, in¬ cluding Scandinavian countries, send me caterpillars, hoping maybe they have found Curley and are eligible for a reward offered by the “Find Curley Fund” ! Shipper. — Mister, here’s another barrel of caterpillars from Australia. Where shall I put it ? Agent. — Give it to the zoo. Shipper. — Which zoo, mister ? Agent. — Any zoo, any zoo, so long as you get it out of here ! Shipper. — Okay, mister. Sound. — Door closes. Agent. — Days go by. Weeks go by. I send Stinky home. Stinky. — ( Tearfully ) Good-by. Agent. — Good-by, Stinky. Well, at least you got a nice suit of clothes on you and a fine automobile and a chauffeur to drive you home in. 21 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Stinky. — I would rather have Curley back again. Agent. — Yes, I know. Well, good-by. Stinky. — G’by. Agent. — G’by. Stinky. — G’by. {Pause) Agent. — And then one day I’m sitting in my place, playing sadly on the piano with one finger, as is my wont. Music. — One-finger plunking of “Yes, Sir.” Agent. — All of a sudden, out from under the music rack creeps Curley! ( Piano stops) Only, he’s changed. He’s different. He’s not dancing any more. He — he’s a — a butterfly! Music. — Orchestra sneaks in with Beethoven movement, softly and very slowly. Agent. — (To Curley, tenderly) Curley! Hello, Curley. You’re a big boy now, ain’t you? (Low . . . narrating) He flutters his wings a little when I say that, and I stroke his antennae, which are now very long and beautiful. I see he’s getting restless for the outdoors, where he no doubt hears the call of his mate, so I sing a farewell to him. (Orchestra stops, and agent sings softly, “Yes, Sir”) He flutters around my head and then flies over to a picture of Stinky on the bureau and then flutters back to me, and after one long look at me he flies out of the window, never more to come back again. Music. — Sneaks in lamentation arrangement of “ Yes, Sir.” Agent. — To make a long story short, I sit down, and I feel like crying. In fact, I do cry. (Pause) Yes, who would ever think that a grown man would ever cry about a caterpillar ? But I did, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Music. — Up briefly, then down again. Agent. — Well, that’s the story of my client, Curley. Music. — Up to finish. Announcer. — You have been listening to Norman Corwin’s adaptation and production of “My Client, Curley,” based on the original short story by Lucille Fletcher Herrmann. 22 In the Fog by Milton Geiger OJULOJULOJLOJLfiJUUULgJlJLSJLOJLOJLOJlJLOJLOJLililiLOJLg-g I have written before of Milton Geiger, radio’s most ver¬ satile workman. He is still delivering many of the best short sketches in commercial broadcasting. Here is a piece he did for the Kellogg Circle Show. Ronald Colman was heard as the doctor and gave one of the most effective readings in the entire series. ^5 In the Fog tLSUULSUlJLaJLSLSLSLSLSLSLSL&JLSlSLSLSL^^ Music. — Down behind narration. Narrator. — It is a dense, foggy night somewhere in Pennsyl¬ vania. An automobile feels its way slowly over the misty hills. Suddenly, a blur of swaying light swims before the driver’s straining eyes. Dimly, the figures of two men materialize out of the darkness. Each carries a rifle under his arm. One wears a canteen slung over his shoulder. The other wears a tattered jacket that looks as if it once belonged to some kind of uniform. The men set themselves squarely in the path of the oncoming automobile; one lifts his lantern, while the other levels his rifle menacingly at the man behind the wheel. Music. — Out. Sound. — Drone of automobile at low speed. Eben. — {Off . . . strangely) Stop! In the name of mercy, stop Zeke. — Stop, or we’ll shoot! Sound. — Grind of brakes . . . engine idles. Doctor. — {More angry than afraid) What — what do you men want? Zeke. — {Coming on) You don’t have to be afraid, mister. Eben. — We don’t aim to hurt you. Doctor. — {Indignantly) That’s very reassuring! I’d like to know what you mean by stopping me this way ! Zeke. — What’s yer trade, mister? Doctor. — I — I'm a doctor. Why ? Zeke. — A doctor, hey? Eben. — Then you’re the man we want. Zeke. — He’ll do proper, I’m thinkin’. 24 IN THE FOG Eben. — So you’d better come out o’ that thing, mister. Doctor. — You understand, don’t you, that I’m not afraid of your guns. You may take anything of mine you like, but don’t imagine for one moment that I’ll be quiet about this to the authorities. Zeke. — All right. But we’re needin’ a doctor right now. Doctor. — Oh, has anyone been hurt ? Eben. — It’s for you to say if he’s been hurt nigh to the finish. Zeke. — So we’re askin’ ye to come along, doctor. Doctor. — Very well. If you’ll let me get out of here. Sound. — Door opens . . . slams metallically. Doctor. — ( Interrogatively ) Well. Take me to your man. Where is he? Eben. — Yonder. Zeke. — Under the tree, where he fell. He’s bad wounded, we’re a-fearin’. Doctor. — I don’t know you men, you know. Do you suppose I could have a better look at you ? Zeke. — Why not? {Pause) Raise yer lantern, Eben. Eben. — Aye. {Pause) Doctor. — {Appalled . . . gasps) Good Lord ! Zeke. — {Impassively) That’s Eben. I’m Zeke. Doctor. — But great heavens, man, what’s happened!? Has — has there been an accident or — or — or what? Your faces, streaked with dried blood. It’s in your hair, in your beards! What's happened ? Zeke. — Mischief’s happened, stranger. Eben. — Mischief enough. Doctor. — But . . . Zeke. — So if ye’ll be cornin’ along, we’d be ever so much obliged, that we would. Doctor. — {Still shocked . . . low) Yes, yes, of course. 25 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Eben. — (Off a little) This way, doctor. Follow the lantern. Zeke. — ( Ruminatingly ) Mischief’s happened, that’s what. Enough to last these parts a good long while and a day. Doctor. — I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all ! Zeke. — Can’t say we like it better’n you do. What must be, must. There’s no changin’ or goin’ back, and all’s left is the wishin’ things were different. Doctor. — There’s been gunplay! Zeke. — (Mildly bitter ) Ye’r tellin’ us they’s been gunplay. Doctor.— And I’m telling you that I’m not at all frightened. It’s my duty to report this. And report it I will! Zeke. — (Casually sardonic ) Aye, mister. You do that. Doctor. — You’re arrogant about it now, yes! You don’t think you’ll be caught and dealt with. But people are losing patience with you men, you— you — moonshiners! Running wild, shooting up the countryside! Zeke. — (Up) Hear what he says, Eben, moonshiners! Eben. — (Off) Here we are. (Pause . . . on) And there’s yer man, doctor. Zeke.— (Anxiously) He ain’t stirred since we left ’im. Doctor. — All right, let’s have that light, will you? (Pause) Closer. So. Eben. — Like this? Doctor.— Yes. That’s good. Now help me with his shirt. No, no, don’t take it off; just tear it. Yes . . . Sound. — Ripping of cloth, close on-mike. Doctor. — That’s good. Now bring that lantern still closer and . . . (Deep breath . . . low) Dreadful, dreadful! Zeke. — Reckon it’s bad in the chest like that, heh? Doctor. — His pulse is positively racing! How long has he been like this? Zeke. — A long time, mister. A long time. 26 IN THE FOG Doctor. — Well (With decision ) You! Hand me that bag! Hurry! Zeke. — ( Tensely ) Aye, captain. Sound. — Rattle of bag. Doctor. — Open it ! Sound. — Rattle of instruments as bag is opened and rummaged through. Doctor. — All right, now lend me a hand with these retractors. Draw back on them when I tell you to. Hold it ! Sound. — Deep breathing, tensely . . . on-mike. Eben. — How is he, mister ? Doctor. — More retraction; pull back a bit more. Hold it! Eben. — Bad, ain’t he? Doctor. — Bad enough. But the bullet didn’t touch any lung tissue so far as I can see right now. All I can do is plug the wound. I’ve never seen anything like it! Eben. — Y’er young. Lot’s o’ things you never seen. Doctor. — Pass me that cotton, please. Eben. — ( Humbly ) Aye, doctor. Doctor. — (Pause . . . deep breath) There. So much for that. Now, then, give me a hand here. Zeke. — (Suspiciously) What fer? Doctor. — We’ve got to move this man! We’ve got to get him to a hospital for treatment, a thorough cleansing of that wound, irrigation. I’ve done all I can for him here. Zeke. — I reckon he’ll be all right, ’thout no hospital. Doctor. — Do you realize how badly this man is hurt ? Eben. — He won’t bleed to death, will he ? Doctor. — I don’t think so. Not with that plug in there. But . . . Zeke. — All right then. (A dismissal) We’re much obliged to ye. Doctor. — But I tell you that man is dangerously wounded ! Zeke. — Reckon he’ll pull through, now, thanks be to you. 27 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 Doctor. — {Angrily) Well, I’m glad you feel that way about it! But I’m going to report this to the Pennsylvania state police at the first telephone station I come to ! Zeke. — We ain’t stoppin’ you, mister. Eben. — The fog is liftin’, Zeke. Better be done with this, say I. Zeke. — {Slowly . . . sadly) You can go now, mister, and thanks. We never meant a mite o’ harm, I can tell ye. If we killed, it was no wish of ours. What’s done is done, though. Eben. — (As sadly) Aye. What’s done is done. Zeke. — Ye can go now, stranger. On your way. We don’t want no more trouble. There’s been trouble enough and grievin’ enough, an’ we’ve had our share. Aye. Our share and more. We’ve killed, and we’ve been hurt fer it. We’re not alone, either. We ain’t the only ones. {Pause . . . sighs) Ye can go, now, doctor. Eben. — Aye. An’ our thanks to ye. You can go now, an’ thanks. Thanks, mister, in the name o’ mercy. {Fading . . . hollow) In the name o’ mercy we thank you, we thank you, we thank you . . . Music. — Bridge briefly. Sound. — Fade-in drone of automobile engine . . . fast . . . car grinds to stop . . . door opens and shuts metallically. Attendant. — {Coming on) Good evening, sir. Fill ’er up? Doctor. — {Impatiently) No, please. Where’s your telephone? I’ve just been held up! Attendant.— No ! Doctor. — Do you have a telephone ? Attendant. — Find one inside, pay station. Doctor. — Thank you! Attendant. — {Stopping him) Er . . . Doctor. — Well? You were going to say something? Attendant. — Sort of looking fellers were they ? Doctor.— Oh. Two big ruffians, with rifles. They won’t be hard to identify. Bearded, both of them, faces and heads bandaged 28 IN THE FOG and covered with dirt and blood. Friend of theirs with a gaping chest wound. I’m a doctor, so they forced me to attend him. Attendant. — Oh. ( Oddly knowing) Those fellers. Doctor. — Did you know about them ? Attendant. — Yeah, I guess so. Doctor. — They’re desperate, I tell you, and they’re armed ! Attendant. — That was about 2 miles back, would you say ? Doctor. — Yes, just about that. Now if you’ll show me where your phone is and tell me the name of that town I just went through ( Pauses on questioning note ... no answer ) I say . . . ( Annoyed ) What town was that back there ? Attendant. — ( Oddly . . . quietly) That was Gettysburg, mister Doctor. — {Struck) Gettysburg! Music. — In very softly, poignantly, background, “ John Brown’s Body.” Attendant. — {Quiet and solemn) Gettysburg, and Gettysburg battlefield. {Pause . . . for effect) When it’s light and the fog is gone, you can see the gravestones. Meade’s men and Pickett’s men and Robert E. Lee’s. Doctor. — Then, those — those men . . . Attendant. — On nights like this, well, you’re not the first they’ve stopped in the fog, nor the last. Doctor. — {Softly . . . distantly) Gettysburg, and the dead that never die ! Attendant. — That’s right, I guess. {Pause . . . deep breath) Fill ’er up, mister? Doctor. — {Distantly) Yes, fill ’er up . . . fill ’er up. Music. — “ John Brown’s Body” up strong . . . cascade of distant trumpets fading away into “ Taps” and orchestra in then . . . full and out. 29 The Dark Valley by W. H. Auden !LOJLOJLOJLQJUlJLOJLSLOJLOJLflJLOJLSULOJLOJLOJULOJL8_fl_SLS IN the spring of 1940, the Columbia Workshop invited the young English poet W. H. Auden to write an original piece for American radio. He wrote a half hour monologue. I believe it is the first ever broadcast in this country. It was an astonishing piece of work, sinister, mordant, upsetting, gravid with symbolism, luminous in its fears and revel¬ ations. It “squeaked and gibbered.” Its falsetto exultations shimmered like heat lightning, and its passages of psycho¬ pathic uncertainty and frustration pounded like a wreck in the surf. To give any actress the responsibility of carrying the power and the meaning of this monologue to an audience for thirty uninterrupted minutes was to hand out the hard¬ est assignment ever seen in broadcasting. Brewster Morgan, who directed the show, gave the job to Dame May Whitty. The English actress was appearing at the time in Laurence Olivier’s production of “Romeo and Juliet.” In rehearsal, Mr. Morgan, who is one of radio’s most sensitive and resourceful directors, had an interesting time with the problem that Mr. Auden had given him and that he must now give to Dame May Whitty. His comments about this are worth reading. Here is what he said : In writing “The Dark Valley” for radio, Mr. Auden presented the actress and the director with a terrifying challenge. Here, in a Gothic landscape of crags and crevices and waterfalls and abandoned mining shafts, lives a lonely woman and her goose. The twisted old soul is about to take the final step across the threshold of solitude. She is going to kill the goose. As she goes about the task, all the circumstances that have thrust her toward solitude buzz about in her mind. Here lies the poetic and dramatic action with which the actress must sway and bend and, at the same time, move forward to an inevitable conclusion. But this is only half the problem. The old woman looks down 3° THE DARK VALLEY upon the world with the unclouded vision of bitter solitude. She tells the goose what she sees, and it is not pleasant. Here the actress becomes a kind of oracle, discoursing philosophically on the fate of this world — a fate which fuses in the alchemy of poetry with the fate of the goose. The actress is thus soul and mind — and neither must lose direction or force. In the playing of “The Dark Valley” we were not always successful in ringing all the changes demanded by Mr. Auden’s magnificent music. There were times when even an artist like Dame May Whitty could not ride with the furies of deep feeling and at the same time pause to make footnotes on the state of the world. The author, whose talent is equaled only by his con¬ sideration for the practical difficulties of a young dramatic medium, corrected and modified as many of these playing difficulties as seemed compatible with the integrity of the piece. To Dame May Whitty goes the palm for reaching the heights of poetic expression and remaining always believable, as the old woman who lived in a “Dark Valley.” The original title of the Auden piece, when it first arrived, read something like this, as nearly as I can remem¬ ber : ‘ ‘ The Psychological Experiences and Sensations of the Woman Who Killed the Goose That Laid the Golden Egg.” You can’t get a thing like this into the newspaper listings of radio schedules. Editors look at it, blink, and just write “Drama.” The Columbia Workshop changed the title to “The Dark Valley.” It was heard on the evening of June 2, 1940. Here is a brief record of W. H. Auden’s life. He was born in York, England, on February 21, 1907, the son of a physician. He was educated at private schools and gradu¬ ated from Christ Church, Oxford, in 1928. From 1930 to 1935 he taught English in a boys’ boarding school and then worked for a time with the General Post Office Documen¬ tary Film Unit, under John Grierson. At the beginning of 1939 he came to the United States with the intention of becoming an American citizen and now lives in Brooklyn, N. Y. He is the author of three volumes of poetry: “Poems,” “On The Island,” and “Another Time”; part author (in collaboration with the novelist Christopher Isherwood) 31 BEST BROADCASTS OF 1939-40 of three plays: “The Dog Beneath the Skin,” “The Ascent of F6,” “On the Frontier,” and of two travel books, “Letters from Iceland” (with Mr. Louis MacNeice) and “Journey to a War” (with Mr. I sherwood). He has also edited two anthologies: “The Poet’s Tongue" and “The Oxford Book of Light Verse.” He has written and arranged several programs for the British Broadcasting Company, but “The Dark Valley,” commissioned by CBS for their Workshop hour, is his first radio play. 32 The Dark Valley