Man & Moppet

Last week the Chase and Sanborn troupe broadcast
from Manhattan’s Radio City—the first time the program had originated from
anywhere but Hollywood in nearly two years on the air. When the plan to do this
was announced to the press, 60,000 Charlie McCarthy fans besieged NBC and the
agency producing the show for admission to Radio City’s I,3I8-seat Studio 8-H.
A crowd of 5,000 was at the station when the troupe arrived, but Charlie was
nowhere to be seen. Photographers grouped Master of Ceremonies Don Ameche,
darkling Sarongstress Dorothy Lamour and Baritone Donald Dickson for a picture.
As they were sighting the group, a pressagent brought another man over, a
middling, fair, baldish chap with delicate, expressive lips. For one
photographer up front, this man crowded the picture, blocked the view of the lissome
Lamour. “Hey,” he growled, “get that lug out of there.”
That lug was Edgar Bergen, who 20
years ago, at 16, sketched Charlie’s features after those of a ragamuffin
Chicago newsboy, paid $35 to have them whittled in wood by a wood-carving
barkeep named Mack, and since then has made a tidy fortune speaking his nimble
mind through Charlie’s lip. Bergen himself is professionally shy, so that the
fresh guy, Charlie, seems a distinct personality.

The great W. C. Fields, whom
Charlie (Bergen) consistently outgagged, whether Fields stuck to the script or
not during their five and a half months together on the program, really wanted
to demolish Charlie (not Bergen). There was a genuine, jealous glint in the old
fellow’s eye when he once threatened: “I’ll carve you into a Venetian blind.” “Oh
Mr. Fields,” mince Charlie, “you make me shudder.”
Charlie got in Shirley Temple’s
curls once, too. “McCarthy,” said Bergen, “I want you to meet the sweetest
little girl on the screen.” Charlie looked down archly from his perch on Bergen’s
knee. “Not Jane Withers!” he chuckled.

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