Word: roome
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Jack hurries into the rear door of the Hudson Theater on West 44th Street and climbs upstairs to his dressing room. En route, he is cornered by Chris Carroll, an old Army buddy now serving as feature editor of the show (i.e., the procurer of oddball talent-pickpockets, performing chimpanzees, professional wrestlers). "You want Paul Anderson on the show?" Carroll aks hopefully. "Strongest man in the world. Hold you up over his head." Paar nods. Inside his dressing room, he sits down and studies a mimeographed "status report" of talent bookings; peremptorily he scrawls "O.K.," "No" or "Investigate" after each...
...Writer Walt Kempley comes into the dressing room with the news that he has found a gun that shoots soft bullets. How about a duel with Genevieve to see who can draw the fastest? Often such gimmicks are the bright spots of a show (a mechanical fish-eating fish was brought back for numerous encores, as was a pair of "binoculars" that were actually half liquor flask). But tonight Paar is not in the mood. "I need a show," he snaps...
...Onstage, Jack takes time to rehearse a skit, then wanders around asking questions, checking on props, apparently calm. Abruptly, he strides into his dressing room. On the dim, dusty stage of the Hudson Theater, technicians keep rummaging about the little world of cables, cameras, and dingy sets that will look sumptuous on the home screens. The band rehearses in shirtsleeves...
...found a way of being unobtrusive in the somnolent, night-time living room, of providing just enough surprises to keep the audience from falling asleep but not so many shocks as to jolt them really wide awake. He has developed a knack for picking good guest performers, has made his show one of the prized showcases for new talent. The program can be dull and pointless but, as Paar himself says, "there's nothing like it." He adds with a wry smile, "I'm so lovable, I have a love affair with this whole continent...
...when the phone rang in the Cannes hotel room of Jean Cerrone, company manager of Manhattan's touring American Ballet Theatre. The news: a twelve-ton truck carrying most of the company's gear had gone up in flames. Cerrone mumbled "Merci," went back to sleep, 15 minutes later woke up again in a horrified double take. By the time he got to the scene of the fire, all the company's wardrobe trunks had been destroyed, along with scenery and props for twelve ballets, plus orchestra scores for four. Total damage, mostly coveted by insurance: about...