June 26, 1949—The final episode of
Fred Allen’s radio show did more than bring to an end 17 years of the career of one of the broadcast medium’s most popular—and, among his peers, most admired—figures. It also served as an object lesson in how fickle the American public can be when a new technology replaces an old one.
Only 26 months before, Allen had reached the height of his career by landing on the cover of
Time Magazine, which celebrated the nasal-voiced comedian’s achievement in producing a remarkably literate entertainment that had captured the allegiance of hundreds of thousands. Only a year later, his show had fallen to only 28th place—and, with television no longer an upstart technology, but an increasingly established one, the possibility loomed that there would be no end to his fall.
Allen’s last show featured the comic who figured in a fake feud that fueled the ratings of both men—
Jack Benny. Unlike his good friend, Benny would go on to forge a new career for himself on television that would equal and even surpass what he had achieved on radio.
Last year, I commented briefly on Allen in the context of
his quip about Ed Sullivan. I think he warrants far more extended treatment than that, however. In a short space such as this, I still can’t do him justice, so for now I think I’ll just confine myself to aspects of his life and career that appeal to me:
*
His first major job growing up was working in a library—the Boston Free Library, as a matter of fact. His father, a bookbinder, had gotten him the position. It served as a launching-pad in his show business career for two reasons: a) he had access to all the books this highly intelligent, studious, and curious mind could want, and b) one of those books, on juggling, enabled him to enter the library’s amateur night show, and start his career in the entertainment industry.
* A talented performer, he was far less staff-dependent than other stars, before or since. True, Allen did hire people like future novelist Herman Wouk to work for him. But they functioned more as sources of raw material than as people who did most of the work. Ninety percent of the show’s writing derived from Allen himself, either writing or rewriting.
* He took on the censors from the beginning. Few performers have fought them week after week with his tenacity. They dogged him virtually from the moment he stepped in front of the microphone, objecting even to innocuous routines such as this: “My sister married an Irishman”—“Oh, really?”—“No, O’Reilly.” In turn, he skewered the advertising and network suits every chance he could.
* He was a truly decent human being, with a kindness to match his intelligence. After his death, Wouk hailed him in this manner: “His generosity to the needy, his extraordinary loyalty to his associates (in a field not noted for long loyalties) showed the warmth of heart that made his satire sound and important.”
* He was devoted to his wife. Like Benny, Allen put his wife, Portland, on the show. When advertisers claimed that their testing of audiences showed that the show would be better off without her, he refused to budge, saying that he would only stay on if she did. It was said that the two things he lived for were the show and her. He never drove, so one of the more common entertainer sightings in Manhattan was of Allen and his wife walking arm-in-arm from their hotel suite. On one of the few times he didn’t do so, on St. Patrick’s Day in 1956, he suffered a heart attack and died. If he’d had the chance to comment on it before he died, I’m sure he would have noted that it served him right. A product of a broken home himself, he made sure that he would break that pattern in his own adulthood.
