From Those Were the Days:

1934 - The Federal Communications Commission, as mandated in the Communications Act of 1934, replaced the Federal Radio Commission as the regulator of broadcasting in the United States.
11:47:25 AM    comment []  trackback []  

Controversy...what controversy?

Unless you live in a cave or your newspaper is appropriated by thieves every morning, I’m sure you are well aware of the recent undies-in-a-bunch controversies surrounding films like Fahrenheit 9/11 and The Passion of the Christ. This article at earthtimes.org is a quick and interesting read, pointing out that controversial films are nothing new and mentioning classic movies like The Grapes of Wrath (1940) and Song of the South (1946) to boot.
11:46:37 AM    comment []  trackback []  

“…the famous and dreaded detective who frequently uses a disguise to track down a killer…”

At the beginning of last month, I discussed one of old-time radio’s most popular detective dramas—Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons—and commented that the show, while certainly entertaining, brings that entertainment to a modern day ear not because of its reputation as a serious detective show but by being unintentionally hilarious in typically camp fashion. Last night, however, I listened to a program that makes Mr. Keen the aural equivalent of Hill Street Blues—it’s Mr. Chameleon, a melodrama from the Frank and Anne Hummert radio factory that debuted over CBS Radio July 14, 1948.

Mr. Chameleon (who apparently had no first name, though I could speculate that it was “Karma”) operated out of “Central Police Headquarters” in New York City, and by swiping a page from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s master sleuth Sherlock Holmes, often made the pinch on murderous culprits by donning a succession of ingenuous disguises from week to week. (Future detectives would later adopt this gimmick; TV’s Tony Baretta is a good example.) Once assigned to a case, it would be referred to as “famous” by either the police commissioner or narrator-announcer.

What kept Mr. Chameleon from reaching the lofty heights attained by his radio detective brethren was due largely in part to its Hummert pedigree; the Hummerts—who produced a slew of shows covering a variety of genres—were best known for their voluminous output of soap operas, where simplistic dialogue, ponderous exposition and constant repetition of character names were generally the rule of thumb. In “The Perfect Maid Murder Case (12/21/49),” a domestic named Fanny Bilkins (subtle!) has matrimonial designs on “the mysteriously rich” Raymond Colby, much to his daughter Laura’s consternation:

LAURA: Are you completely and utterly mad? This is the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard in my life!

FANNY: Oh, it ‘tis, is it? Well, let me tell you—I’m as good as you are…

LAURA: Pack up your things and get out of this house as fast as you can…!

FANNY: I’m not packin’ and I’m not leavin’! I’m marryin’ into this ‘ouse…hah! Just put that into your pipe and smoke it!

LAURA: Get out instantly, I say!

FANNY: I’m not going any further than me own room…you’ll find me there if you want to be comin’ up later and tellin’ me you’re sorry… (SFX: footsteps) Ta-ta, dearie…

(SFX: door opens, closes)

LAURA: John…John, come here! John!!!

JOHN: Don’t shout, Laura! I heard it all…great Heavens, what a mess!

LAURA (teary) This is too dreadful!

JOHN: Listen, Laura…listen to me…

LAURA: Yes?

JOHN: You stay right here, Laura…and watch every door…be as loud as you can if anybody comes…

LAURA: You mean Father…or that horrible Fanny?

JOHN: Anybody…I’ve the combination to Father’s safe…

LAURA: His safe…? What are you going to do, John?

JOHN: I know he keeps his will there…that’s the first thing to do…he may have changed it in Fanny’s favor…if he did—I’ll burn it up!!!

(music sting)

So because Fanny entertained notions of marrying above her station, she is soon dispatched with an axe—but before you think that the Colby children are responsible, you’ll discover that the old man is a real piece of work, too:

COLBY: …last thing I ever expected in my house, murder…just one of the servants that probably got herself into trouble…queer lot, servants…queer lot, never know about them…

CHAMELEON: They’re still human, Mr. Colby…they sing and sigh, laugh and weep, feel happiness and sorrow just like you and me…only they probably suffer more…

COLBY: Hmm…quite right, quite right…I didn’t think policemen thought that way, though…well, what can I do for you?

CHAMELEON: Tell me any little thing you might know about the girl…who was so inconsiderate as to be murdered inside your quiet home…

Chameleon finally figures out who the murderer is, and dons the disguise of a police expert named Pierre Antoine in order to set a trap. The amusing thing is, the murderer sees right through the masquerade—and I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because Chameleon’s Gallic tones are about as convincing as Chico Marx’s Italian. (I kept expecting Chameleon to cry out: “Of course I am French! Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?!!”)

Playing the part of Mr. Chameleon during the series’ run was veteran radio actor Karl Swenson, who worked many a Hummert show; he played the titular heroic handyman on their comedic serial Lorenzo Jones, and was the veddy British Lord Henry Brinthrope in the successful soap Our Gal Sunday. In Radio Crime Fighters, Jim Cox relates an interesting anecdote about Swenson as mentioned by radio soundman Bob Mott in Mott’s book, Radio Sound Effects:

When I worked on Mr. Chameleon, I asked the star, Karl Swenson, why he did just about every show [on radio] that required a Scandinavian accent. He told me it wasn’t because he was that extraordinarily good (he lied; he was), it was because of his reputation: Directors were notoriously insecure about taking a chance with someone new. Besides, Swenson added, North Country voices were probably the trickiest to do. And if the directors put an ad in Daily Variety asking for auditions, there would be 10,000 actors knocking down the door, while probably only 50 would be acceptable. Here he paused and smiled, “What director has the time or inclination to find that fifty out of ten thousand?”

Swenson, in addition to his radio work, was a fixture in films (he’s the guy in The Birds who chants “It’s the end of the world!”) and television; his best known TV gig was that of Lars Hanson, the lumber mill boss of Charles Ingalls (Michael Landon) on Little House on the Prairie. Karl’s co-star on Mr. Chameleon was Frank Butler, who was assigned the role of Detective Dave Arnold, sidekick of the “dreaded detective.” Arnold’s function was essentially that of playing Dr. Watson to Chameleon’s Holmes, asking many of the same idiotic questions that Mike Clancy asked of his boss, kindly Mr. Keen. (There are an awful lot of similarities between these two shows—Chameleon even had a similar memorable theme song in Masquerade.)

OTR historian John Dunning describes Mr. Chameleon as “painfully contrived, employing dramatic clichés seldom heard after sundown.” He’s right, of course, but it’s still a lot of fun in a non-think fashion; besides, no one ever lost money underestimating the taste of the masses—Mr. Chameleon was a solid audience hit for CBS for five years, ending its run August 7, 1953. It was sponsored by Sterling Drugs (Bayer aspirin, Dr. Lyon’s tooth powder) for the first three seasons, and then was mostly sustained after that—with brief bill-paying from General Foods and Wrigley Gum. I’ve often lamented in past postings that time has often been a harsh mistress to many surviving OTR recordings; many outstanding programs have been lost and will never be heard again. But the fact that only three episodes of this series are extant today makes me think that sometimes justice does prevail—and that there may be a little more to my “karmic” joke about Chameleon than I originally thought.
11:45:27 AM    comment []  trackback []