Martin vs. Lewis, Round Two (June-August 1955)

June of 1955 was shaping up as a banner month for the money-making juggernaut that was Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis. On the 5th, they hosted the final Colgate Comedy Hour. Henceforth, the program would be known as the Colgate Variety Hour, and would be co-owned by NBC and the team’s own company, York Productions. Six days later, their newest film, "You’re Never Too Young" (co-owned by York Productions and Paramount Pictures), would have its gala premiere at Brown’s Hotel in the Catskills, where Lewis made his professional debut as a mere teen.

Since the accord reached in the spring of 1954, interaction between Martin and Lewis had been harmonious, if never quite as cozy as before. Arthur Penn, technical director for the latest season of Comedy Hours, could tell at least one of them was losing interest: "The only discomfort that was ever in evidence was when I would go into the dressing room, and I would see (Dean) drinking." Martin was nursing resentment along with libations, and it wasn’t long before all hell broke loose.

The team’s second, far more damaging feud began literally 48 hours after the completion of their Colgate segment, when Jerry, about to board a train that would take them to New York, was told by their press agent Jack Keller, "Your partner isn’t making the trip." There had been warning signs. When the Brown’s idea was first proposed, Martin rejected it on the grounds that the site played no part in his career. Keller recalled, "He didn't care if he owned a piece of the picture or not. He was being used, he felt, as the tail to wag the kite... being dragged in on Jerry's party." Since he wasn’t interested in suggesting an alternate venue, eventually Martin told his partner, "I don’t give a ---- where we hold it," and Lewis took this as a default approval to open the film at Brown’s.

Arriving in New York, Lewis (accompanied by his wife) rode by car to the hotel, brooding and weeping as he passed billboard after billboard advertising the team’s presence for the June 11 premiere. Meanwhile, Martin was talking to his agent about lining up a solo TV show “where I can sing more than two songs in an hour.” Then, after detailing the dispute with Jerry – along with his individual aspirations – to the press, Dean took off with his wife for a Hawaii vacation.

Lewis managed to get through the premiere, surrounded by over 100 newspaper reporters, with little more than a tearful "No comment" concerning his partner’s absence, and even narrated a Paramount newsreel of the event; but once home, he spent the next several days trying to get out of every contract to which Martin & Lewis were committed, tersely repeating "No comment" to any reporter that asked what was going on.

When Dean returned from his respite, and found that not only were there no offers for his own show but also Jerry was angling for the dissolution of the team, he went into damage control mode. First, he had his attorney fire off a letter to MCA, Hal Wallis, Paramount and NBC that categorized his earlier comments as hearsay: "Gentlemen: Notwithstanding any statements or rumors which you may have heard to the contrary, please be advised that I recognize the existence of an employment contract with you dated September 1, 1954, and that I am and will continue to be and hold myself ready, willing and able to render and perform my services pursuant thereto."

Then, every reporter to which Jerry refused to comment found Dean more than willing to talk: "I don’t want to break up the team. It’s a damn fine living and I want to hold on to it." Or, "What’s the difference if we don’t chum around? To me, this isn’t a love affair; this is big business." And in every case, Martin referred to his partner as "the kid" or "the boy," never failing to point out that he was "ten years older" (actually nine). What had once been a term of endearment from his “older brother” now sounded condescending… and Lewis fumed. Their previous feud had lasted eight days. This one would exceed eight weeks.

At the beginning of August, Lloyd Shearer called on Jerry on behalf of Parade magazine, and caught him at the right – or wrong - moment. After assuring Shearer that a split was "inevitable," the cork flew out of Lewis’ bottle: "Dean was the guy who told the newspapers he was ready to do a single. Don’t forget that. I didn’t open my mouth. Now I will, and I want you should know the truth. This mess is my fault…. I made the mistake of worshipping this man. I thought more of Dean than my own wife, my own family. I accepted everything we did on his terms, his standards, his values. Now I’ve grown up. I (sic) got values of my own.

"A theatre-owner in Detroit, a guy who took care of us when we were struggling – he calls up. Business is lousy. He’s going broke. For old time’s sake, won’t we play his house? I’m ready to fly to Detroit in the morning. But I gotta turn the guy down. Why? Can I tell him my partner wants to play golf? It’s the same way with benefits. Hospitals, orphanages, worthwhile charities. They phone; will we give them a few minutes, a few hours? I’m dying to say ‘Yes’ – but I can’t unless I show up without my partner."

By now, Lewis was thoroughly lathered up: "I can’t tell you how deeply I feel about these things. Twenty-eight years old, and I’ve got ulcers and I spit blood and I can’t sleep and I lose weight. Who needs this? I don’t care if Patti and me (sic) gotta go back to a one-room apartment in Newark. I gotta live with my conscience. You can’t run a partnership, you can’t run your life without principles. And if the only principle in this setup is to make money and to hell with everything else, I’m not buying it."

Needless to say, Shearer found Martin just as eager to talk, particularly about money. "I think the kid’s bein’ silly. We gotta company together (with) one of the greatest deals of all time. Each of us gets $4,000 a week from TV. Then after five years, or six pictures, Paramount gives us five or six million bucks to split. Jer is willin’ to throw this out the window because I don’t love him. Who says I gotta love him? Business is business. Does Abbott love Costello? Why can’t we have a business-like partnership?"

With that question, Dean had effectively thrown down a gauntlet toward his sentimental partner, before letting his own cork fly: "To hear some of the gossip you’d think I was a criminal ‘cause I don’t wanna work 365 days a year. I can’t help it if I’m not built like the kid. Jer’ll work 24 hours a day if you let him. He’ll put on a benefit for the kid who sells papers on the corner. I admire, respect him for it. But Jeez! He’s ten years younger’n me. I can’t take that routine. End of the day this guy jumpin’ up and down my back, I’m tired. I’m beat. I like to go home. I gotta wife, six kids. They’re entitled to my time, my companionship. I didn’t get married so that I could spend my life on the stage doin’ benefits for the campfire boys.

"I can’t change the way I’m built to suit Jerry. They talk about my golf and all that. I never missed a show or rehearsal yet. Work is work an’ play is play, an’ a man’s gotta have time for both… for his family, his kids. A guy should be allowed to step into a church for a few minutes without playin’ a benefit."

It was a blockbuster story, but before it saw print the situation had changed. Within days of Shearer’s questioning, Jerry contacted Paramount and NBC with assurances of fulfilling his end of the deal. This sudden reconciliation was driven by an urgent need – the team had an outstanding tax debt of $650,000 that had come due. Lewis borrowed the money from the head of Paramount studios, Y. Frank Freeman, fully aware he’d need to continue working with Martin in order to pay it back. The official announcement came from Paramount on August 9 – unlike their first reconciliation, neither Dean nor Jerry was present at the press conference – and questions about the personal relationship between the two principles were answered, once again, with "No comment."

Indeed, observers recognized that nothing much had been resolved between them. Preparing for the first Colgate Variety Hour of the season, Jerry continued to involve himself in every aspect of production, spending as little time rehearsing with Dean as he could get away with. At one point, Lewis ducked into the soundproof booth used in a sketch parodying CBS’s smash $64,000 Question to check the wiring on the floor. Martin was overheard muttering, "Maybe we’ll get a break; he’ll electrocute himself down there."

The sketch opened the show on September 18, their first appearance together since June’s Colgate program. Martin played the host of "The $64 Million Dollar Question," and Lewis the contestant, who correctly answers the 7-part, $32 million question about tobacco (in the booth that Martin fills with the smoke from six different cigarettes) by guessing. For the big money question, Lewis is forced into a huge tank of water, where he’s expected to remain submerged until ready to answer the question, which is on a scroll of paper about a half-mile long.

The sketch was well-written enough that the pair followed it almost to the letter... until Jerry got into the tank, and Dean proceeded to push him beneath the water while reading the question. After the third dunking, Martin attempts to force his partner under again, but Lewis grasps the side of the tank. "Let me catch a breath here," he calls out. Pushed down again, Lewis returns with the old code phrase, "You’re overacting!" Down he goes again, and re-emerges with, "A joke’s a joke, but I’m drowning!" Now laughing along with the audience, Dean sends him under again. Jerry immediately pops up: "READ A LITTLE FASTER, WILL YA?" After one more submerging, Lewis grabs the tank and eyes Martin with suspicion: "Haven’t you heard? The feud is over!" The line stopped the show.

Lewis’s ad-lib wasn’t the only comment on the recent situation. Sammy Cahn wrote the lyrics for a special rendition of “Side By Side” performed after the second sketch; lyrics that completely trivialized the cause and scope of the event:

Dean: Oh, the road gets a little bit bumpy.
Jerry: And our nerves get a little bit jumpy.
Dean: We beef and complain!
Jerry: But we remain...
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

Jerry: There are times when his smile ain’t so sunny.
Dean: Times when his fun isn’t funny.
Jerry: So we fuss and we pout,
Dean: But still we come out...
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

Dean: Life can be demandin’.
Jerry: Life isn’t always play.
Dean: We reached an understandin’:
Jerry: It’s gotta be HIS way!

Dean: There are some who had parted us neatly.
Jerry: But we have fooled them completely.
Dean: Had us both on the shelf!
Jerry: Look for yourself:
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

Dean: Like Topsy and like Eva, we’ll always roll along!
Jerry: We had our own Geneva: He admitted that I was wrong!

Dean: So, please allow us to sum up:
Jerry: If ever a problem should come up...
Dean: We’ll fight like before,
Jerry: But after the war,
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

The show received near-rave reviews, typical of which was Variety’s: "Except for the numerous commercials and one rock-n-roll number," wrote ‘Herm,’ "Martin & Lewis were on camera for the full hour and were socko all the way." All the critics made mention of the feud references and the special “Side by Side,” with TV Radio-Life’s noting, "As a matter of fact, the boys made it clear to viewers that their feud was a thing of the past." ‘Herm,’ on the other hand, hedged his bets on that score: "Whatever the realities in the case, the boys worked together with as much rapport as ever."

From the start of the team’s career, Lewis had touted the strength of their relationship as the key to their mass adulation. The undercurrent of mutual affection that drove their antics was such a keystone of the act, the public had no trouble carrying it over to their private lives. Seeing them on television making light of their "misunderstanding" with a special song convinced the audience that all was well again. But in truth the love affair had ended and "a business-like partnership" was exactly what Martin & Lewis would have for the next eleven months, until neither man could bear it any longer.

NEXT: T.K.O.

The Restless Ballad of Pernell Roberts

You only live once, and I’m about half way through it. Well, you find yourself compromising and compromising, and that’s admitting failure in a way. What I want is my freedom. Some people value security more, but I’m the other way. Pernell Roberts, 1962

Back in high school, I’d read a book written in 1967 by a New York man who set up six TV sets in his apartment and watched all the commercial channels (CBS, NBC, ABC and three local stations) for a week. Although I’ve since forgotten both title and author (enlightenment from any knowledgeable reader is gratefully encouraged), one passage concerning Sunday evening at 9:00 pm has stayed with me:

“Bonanza on channel 4. Little Joe, Hoss and Pa. God, I miss Adam. He was the glue in this particular horse factory, and his evil, saturnine way was a pleasant contrast to the Ponderosa good guys. But they wrote ol’ Adam out of the show many moons ago, and we will have to do with Little Joe and Hoss for the action.”

The exit of Pernell Roberts (Adam Cartwright) from Bonanza after its sixth season remains one of the most misunderstood actions in television land. Each year since 1961, TV columnists reported that Roberts was trying to leave; each September for four subsequent seasons, Roberts returned. Everyone assumed it was simply a money issue; either that, or Roberts’ gripes were the sniping of a TV actor with a massive ego problem. Clouding the issue was the fact that his departure wasn’t mentioned on the show. The others would make occasional references to Adam, but where he’d gone and why was never discussed.

Bonanza began 50 years ago come September; NBC’s big, color western intended to sell parent company RCA’s big color TVs. Producer David Dortort assembled a cast of unknowns in the belief that “television makes its own stars.” An indisputable point, but NBC was taking no chances, and filled up the early episodes with important stars: Yvonne DeCarlo, Howard Duff, Ida Lupino, Jack Carson. Consequently, the four Cartwrights bound together as tightly off-screen as on.

“(We) found ourselves fighting the star system because of all the outside names being brought in,” Roberts recalled three years later. “We found ourselves, at first, like supporting players. And the producer didn’t have the authority to change that.” At one point in early 1960, Lorne Greene walked into Dortort’s office and announced, in terms more earthy than the following, that the scripts written to date weren’t suitable as toilet paper. Luckily, the ratings also indicated that changes were needed. The main characters became more important, big name actors were forgotten, and by the end of its second season, Bonanza moved into the top 20. Chevrolet was interested in sponsoring the third year in Dinah Shore’s old timeslot: Sunday at 9. Even then, rumors flew that Roberts wasn’t interested in continuing. The rumors were true.

“When NBC turned down my request for a contract release,” said Roberts at the time, “I understood their point of view. They were trying to deliver a neat package to a new sponsor, and I felt some responsibility.” Complicating matters, all four stars were offered a hefty raise, provided they extended their five-year contracts to six. “I had to sign for a sixth year to get a raise, but now I would prefer to be out entirely,” he moaned in early 1962. But in its Sunday slot, Bonanza thrived, becoming the network’s highest-rated series. NBC was loath to risk that success, especially since the show was all theirs.

What, exactly, was Roberts’ beef? “I wasn’t keen to do a series, but I was told there would be some honest writing and that the people producing it had integrity,” he told columnist Hal Humphrey. “What good is integrity if you don’t use it? Bonanza for the most part is bad literature and I’m tired of trying to hide in it.” To Bob Thomas, he added, “They told me the four characters would be sharply defined and the scripts carefully prepared. None of this was put on paper. None of it ever happened.”

Personal appearances at fairs and rodeos also stuck in his craw: “First, there were the petty intrigues of the producers who thought they owned you and threw parties so I could meet all the grandmothers, nephews and cousins. (Then) they have you ride into the ring and titillate the crowds by touching their outstretched hands along the fence. Then the joke telling time in the center, after wading through ankle-deep manure, followed by several hours of autographs. Afterwards, the cowboys, who really resented me for the money and popularity, would make cracks about actors.” Even though it paid “five and six thousand dollars a day,” Roberts made only four such appearances during his six years, refusing to do more. “I am an actor, not a carnival freak on exhibition.”

Concluded the Georgia-born actor who took an early public stand against segregation and the Vietnam war: “Bonanza has touched on some interesting problems, but handled them conservatively.... There has been an obvious effort to play it safe, to make Bonanza a good family show that would offend no one and hit a consistent level of mediocrity.”

Word got out in the middle of season three that Roberts was prepared to jump ship and go on suspension. But NBC played hardball: “(The network) said, ‘Sure, go ahead - if you never want to work again as an actor anywhere.” So Roberts – whose chief complaint about his employers was their lack of integrity – decided to retaliate with an egregious display of unprofessionalism: “I went to the producer and said I guessed I’d stay, but that, to preserve my sanity, I would continue walking through my part.”

NEXT: Consequences