Video On Demand a'la 1965

I marvel at technology, and sometimes cower from it. Does anybody really believe that instant gratification 24/7 is good for the human psyche? If I want to see a favorite show, movie or cartoon, like as not I need only pop in a DVD and -voila! - it's there. If I don't have it, odds are it's on YouTube. Last month, I converted and downloaded 14 Hootenanny episodes (8 complete & 6 partials) onto my Ipod. From the moment VHS entered my life in 1983, finding at least one Hoot was one of my two Holy Grails; now I almost take them for granted, seeing as how they're in my shirt pocket! (The second Grail was The Johnny Cash Show, and thanks to a friend I have all 58 of those.) Nearly all the great Warner Brothers cartoons are out, along with the best of Max Fleischer's Popeyes, all the Three Stooges shorts with Curly, the Little Rascals, Adventures of Superman, the Chaplin Mutuals... pretty much everything that made the best video memories of my childhood. Even, heaven help me, Diver Dan.

And yet... as Mr. Spock so aptly put it, "Having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true." And so most of what I own sits on a shelf gathering dust, and I find that I watch these shows about as often as I did when they were making the rounds of the local station schedules. And, truth be told, I don't enjoy any of them as much as I did the rinky-tinky little toy that I cherished from Day One: Kenner's Easy Show Projector.

This is me at 6 years old, opening and caressing that little blue darling on Christmas Day 1965. My cousins had Kenner's earlier Give-A-Show Projector, which was basically a slide show. The images were in color, but they didn't move, so who cared? Where were the sight gags? The action sequences? The Easy Show ran real movies projected on a wall! Yes, they were in black-and-white, but so was our TV set. Sure, if you wanted brightness, you were limited to a postage-stamp sized image. But then, I'm not getting much bigger on my Ipod now!

Three things made the Easy Show cool:

1) It was film. There's something about handling film, holding it up to light and seeing all those separate images that pass through a shutter and merge with your brain to make magic. I was always careful not to let it get tangled, although as time passed and Kenner used cheaper stock, that became more difficult. And threading the projector was a point of pride. My friends used to struggle, but I - the least coordinated kid on the block when it came to sports - handled it like a pro.

2) It was versatile. Being a hand-cranked projector, I could run the film as fast, or as slow, as I wanted. One of my favorites - I must've bought one annually for as long as it was available - was the Superman episode "Beware the Wrecker." I'd crank the takeoff s-l-o-w-l-y. . . then run it backward and do it again, over and over, until it snapped. (Which is why I bought one annually.)

3) It was affordable. Each new film cost about .79 cents, so whenever I got a dollar each from my grandfather and uncle, it was off to the store for a new cartridge or two.

So, yes: video on demand has been part of my life since age 6. In theory, I didn't ever have to wait until 3:30 pm when Bugs Bunny and Friends came on if I wanted to enjoy Bugs Bunny and friends. But the limitations of the Easy Show - small, silent, flickering b&w images - ensured that I would still be parked in front of the set at 3:30 pm. No need for that today thanks to DVD technology, which explains in part why Looney Tunes, Superman, etc., aren't on commercial TV anymore. No longer there for our heirs to discover on their own after school... we have to introduce the kids to our childhood favorites; always risky, and usually unsatisfying for all parties.

Have we gained or lost something in the last 45 years?

Martin vs. Lewis, T.K.O. (June-July 1956)

November 13, 1955: The day after Jerry Lewis unexpectedly played a benefit performance as a solo – one specially requested of the team by Paramount’s chief, Y. Frank Freeman (the man who’d rescued the pair from the ire of the IRS), and despite Dean Martin’s verbal assurances that he’d be there – Martin & Lewis made their final starring appearance on the Colgate Variety Hour. Again the pair trotted out a specialized tune meant to reassure viewers, this one based on “Two Lost Souls” from Damn Yankees:

Dean: It’s Jerry and Dean, and no one in between,
Jerry: Like let’s say Gallagher and let’s say Shean.
Dean: Of course we complain; we fuss and strain,
Jerry: But after the fussin’ there’s always us’n.

Dean: Ah, we’re two lost souls, each wedded to each,
Jerry: We go hand in hand, in all kinds of weather.
Dean: On the bottom or top,
Jerry: A hit or a flop,
Both: It’s both together.

But not for much longer. Eighteen months after Lewis had proclaimed “never in a million years” would the team split up, the only goal they shared was in desiring the swiftest, surest way to do just that.

The obstacles, however, were formidable. First, they owed producer Hal Wallis four more pictures, and after the Three-Ring Circus debacle, Wallis had a stipulation included in their contract: Martin and Lewis could only appear in films as a team, no matter who produced them. Second, the pair would net $4 million in 1955 (grosses were in the neighborhood of $20 million), and that kind of money was awfully hard to walk away from. Third, and most especially, neither man was 100% confident of his ability to go it alone.

Certainly Dean, if he’d put any stock into what critics had to say about his talents as an actor (“a competent straight man”) or singer (“he shouldn’t oughtta listen to any more Bing Crosby records”), would never have risked working outside the profitable confines of Martin & Lewis. But he’d just scored his second big smash, “Memories are Made of This,” which would sit comfortably at number one on the Hit Parade at the start of 1956. More importantly, he was being openly courted by two studios for solo roles: Warner Brothers offered him The Pajama Game with Doris Day, while MGM wanted him for an original story, Ten Thousand Bedrooms. With all this looming, the thought of cavorting alongside the human monkey was becoming unbearable.

For his part, Jerry shrewdly recognized how important their personal relationship was to their success. Without that undercurrent of love and admiration supporting their antics, it was only a matter of time until, as he put it, “we’d get knocked through the ropes like Joe Louis.” Believing the relationship could be salvaged, Jerry conceived the idea of doing a contemporary take on the Damon and Pythias story: two men whose friendship is tested when one lays his life on the line for the other. To drive the point home, Dean would play Mike Damon, sympathetic policeman and Jerry would be Sidney Pythias, juvenile delinquent. This would be their next York picture, after finishing their current assignment for Wallis, Hollywood or Bust.

Unfortunately, Lewis assigned the writing of “Damon and Pythias” to his pal Don McGuire, the man who wrote Three-Ring Circus. McGuire’s opinion of Martin didn’t bode well for the project: “Dean was a terrible actor. He could barely talk. Jerry was the guy who made him a hit, made him funny.” Still, McGuire strove to create a story that gave both men “a close relationship;” meanwhile, Lewis campaigned with Freeman for the opportunity to direct the film.

If Jerry harbored any hope that the script would touch Dean’s heart and possibly rekindle their friendship, it was dashed almost as soon as Martin got hold of his copy. The next day, he let his partner know that he would in no way play a uniformed cop, claiming it was “low class.” Realizing that Martin didn’t read the script beyond his costume requirement, Lewis blew his stack: “Then we’ll have to get somebody else.” “Start looking, boy,” Martin retorted and stormed off.

Not too long after this, the pair reported to work on Hollywood or Bust, only speaking to each other when cameras rolled. For the first few weeks, Lewis sabotaged the production, intentionally blowing lines and breaking character; partly to retaliate against Martin, but mostly with the intent to force Hal Wallis to renegotiate – or release them from – his restrictive contract. The gambit failed; director Frank Tashlin, no doubt with Wallis’ blessing, simply threw Lewis off the picture, forcing the comic’s hand.

Chastened, Lewis returned to Hollywood or Bust and, in his words, “tried for the miracle.” “You know, it’s a hell of a thing,” he suddenly said to Martin during a break. “All I can think of is that what we do is not very important. Any two guys could have done it. But even the best of them wouldn’t have had what made us as big as we are.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, I think it’s the love that we had – that we still have – for each other.”

Martin thought long and hard about what he had to say, then said it. “You can talk about love all you want. To me, you’re nothin’ but a (bleep)in’ dollar sign.”

And that was it. Both men knew: it was over. Jerry went straight to Y. Frank Freeman for permission to make “Damon and Pythias” (which would eventually be titled The Delicate Delinquent) with another costar. The news broke on June 18.

Still, Dean and Jerry faced a month of confirmed personal appearances, which they met through sheer force of will. There were some rough patches, one of them being a Today Show appearance on June 26 (“Dean and I [could] hardly bear to look at each other,” remembered Lewis fifty years later; the kinescope bears him out). Serendipitously, their nightclub engagements were due to conclude on July 24 – exactly one day shy of ten years since their official teaming at Atlantic City’s 500 Club.

Those with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo of Dean and Jerry Incorporated – Hal Wallis, NBC – were forcibly persuaded to renegotiate contracts. At the insistence of Freeman, Wallis permitted them one solo film each. Not until 1957 did he agree to let them meet the balance of their contract individually, thus getting six pictures for the price of three. NBC considered suing to keep the pair together, then discovered to their chagrin that their five-year deal was contractually with York Productions, with no stipulation that the company deliver Martin and Lewis as a team. The following year, Dean negotiated his own NBC deal and sold his share of York to Jerry, who in turn sold the company and their piece of the York films to Paramount.

Over the years, each man would take credit for initiating the split, which was in essence the truth: Dean’s refusal to do The Delicate Delinquent would spark Jerry’s behind-the-scenes machinations to get them released from Wallis’ iron grip. Each man reached his individual goals: Dean became “a real actor” in such fine films as The Young Lions, Some Came Running and Rio Bravo, while Jerry made so much money for Paramount that owner Barney Balaban famously said, “If he wants to burn down the studio, I’ll hand him the match.”

But it was live television that made Martin & Lewis superstars, so it was entirely fitting that their estrangement came to an end on live TV; in September 1976 during Lewis’ annual telethon for Muscular Dystrophy. The reunion, like the split, made headlines, and raised hopes that Dean and Jerry would again entertain together. It was not to be; Martin and Lewis would publicly reunite only once more, briefly on a Las Vegas stage in 1989 for Dean’s 72nd birthday. By then, life’s ebb and flow had washed away the pain and bitterness for both men, to where Dean could publicly assure Jerry, “I love you and I mean it.” Martin retired in 1991 and died four years later; Lewis continues to do what he loves: make others laugh, cry and cheer.
More than a half-century after their parting, how to sum up the appeal of Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis? Perhaps we should let them do it. Jerry: “Two guys who had more fun than the audience.” Dean: “With Jerry and me, it was mostly just doin’ what we felt. Those were great times.” Indeed they were.

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.

Martin vs. Lewis, Round One (March 1954)

Some 25 years ago, I was reading Phil Rosenthal, then the TV columnist for the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. He mentioned catching “Living it Up” (1954) on TV over the weekend, and was puzzled as to how Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis could have been so fantastically popular during the 1950’s. I could relate, thinking back to my teen years when I'd watched “Jumping Jacks” (1952) one weekday afternoon and made the same observation.

My mother set me straight: “You never got to see them on The Colgate Comedy Hour. It was a live variety show and they were hysterically funny on it.” Ignorant of such things as kinescopes, I assumed I would never have that pleasure. Leonard Maltin could only write about their films in his book “Movie Comedy Teams” (1970, in which he labeled “Living it Up,” “probably their best”), with The Colgate Comedy Hour limited to a paragraph not much more detailed than my mom’s recollection. As late as 1985, when Rosenthal dismissed them, the only Martin & Lewis to be had were their 16 theatrical features. Today, of course, it’s a different story: the Colgates are ubiquitous on bargain-basement DVDs and as accessible as a YouTube search.

As I've written elsewhere, what made Martin & Lewis so dazzling, so captivating, is that each man made the other look positively brilliant. To discover their TV and, to a lesser extent, radio shows from the early fifties is to behold two guys in love with each other and their work, and having the time of their lives. Dean and Jerry created a symphony of slapstick that left audiences helpless with laughter – yet no matter how mad the hijinks, there was an undercurrent of mutual affection that won them a fulsome adoration other teams would never know. The two were the very definition of what we now term a bromance (although a few 1950's scandal sheets alleged the relationship veered into the forbidden zone). Watching the Colgates, you marvel at how often they keep touching each other. Laurel & Hardy, bedded down together for the night, didn't come into as much intimate contact as these two did just standing in front of the orchestra. And America adored it all; at their height, Martin & Lewis were the highest paid, most successful act in show business. The Smoothie from Steubenville and the Nebbish from Newark transcended any stage, screen or TV star you'd care to name.

Three generations have come along since Martin & Lewis went their separate ways. While a vociferous contingent of Dino fans would be horrified if their epitome of cool and suave had never parted from the screechy "Hey, La-a-a-d-y-y" guy, at the time it seemed unthinkable. The nation so loved Dean and Jerry that, even though they worked solo for 35 years, neither would ever be permitted to forget the other. During their first twenty years apart, when mutual animosity was at full strength, nothing brought a crowd to life faster than when one would mention his ex-partner.

So how and why did this partnership, seemingly beloved on all sides, self-destruct? It's a question that has spurred interest for over a half-century. Even Lewis' heartfelt account of the team, "Dean & Me: A Love Story," doesn't tell the whole story. With this entry, we'll look at the first full-blown argument between Dean and Jerry, which took place 56 years ago this month.

As late as 1952, both men were assuring Louella Parsons' readers that they'd never so much as raised their voices to one another. But apparently things had changed a short year later. Tension had been brewing between the two for several months, and by early '54, it spilled out into the open.

To begin with, when "That's Amore" became Dean's first big smash near the end of 1953, it created a strain. Martin was justifiably proud of his accomplishment; it was something for which he'd been striving since before the team was born. Unfortunately, the insecurity within Lewis's psyche that had remained relatively under control during the glory years began to flare. Maybe Dean would decide that he didn't need Jerry anymore. Maybe Dean was beginning to listen to those hangers-on who enjoyed telling each one that he'd be an even bigger star without the other. This time, rather than talk out his feelings, Lewis began to brood - and to assert his presence in their act.

Near the start of the Colgate hour of January 10, 1954, Jerry presented Dean with a gold record for "That's Amore" with his warm congratulations. The conclusion of the show was something else again. The pair staged what appeared to be a mock argument, at which point Martin ordered his partner off the stage. Dean began singing "Amore," but Jerry returned, bribing the cameramen to move in and force Dean into a corner, whereupon Jerry climbed upon the singer's back, smacked Dean's ears and pulled his hair while laughing manically. Dean tried to take it in stride, at one point calling out, "You're over-acting, Jerry," which was something of a code phrase used when one or the other was getting too rough. This time, Lewis didn't let up, and it's clear just before the fade-out that Martin was genuinely steamed.

In truth, Dean was growing weary of Jerry’s antics overshadowing the act, not to mention their hectic schedule, which left him little time to enjoy the fruits of success. He also couldn’t have been pleased when, in a fit of pique, Lewis dismissed their head writers, Ed Simmons and Norman Lear, shortly before the January 10 show; these were the guys who made sure he was funny, too. Additionally, Martin didn't understand Lewis' overt desire to bring pathos into their act, telling him, "Why don't you cut out this sad stuff and just be funny?" But his real bone of contention was their movies, the one element of their work destined for posterity. To the end of his days, Martin resented that most were cut from the same cloth: Jerry the innocent simpleton hero who carried the picture, and Dean the smooth sharpie who never seemed deserving of his partner's friendship, until the final reel when he suddenly became, in his words, "a right guy."

Upon conclusion of the Colgate segment, the team went to New York for a two-week stint at the Copacabana. On opening night, Hal Wallis and his partner Joe Hazen, along with their wives, enjoyed the performance from a ringside table. After the show, Wallis and Hazen met briefly with the team, setting up a luncheon meeting for the following day to discuss their next picture: "Big Top." The film had been in the planning stages for several weeks; the script written by Don McGuire, a friend and collaborator of Jerry’s since 1951.

When Wallis asked Martin if he’d be attending, Lewis kiddingly advised his partner: "You’d better let me go with him alone. I can get more out of him." Given his growing disenchantment with the status quo, perhaps that should have thrown up a red flag for Dino. Up to now, Martin had grudgingly accepted their scripts as the nature of the business, believing neither he nor Lewis were in a position to tempt the fate of the box office. But with a friend of Jerry’s as the lead writer, and with Jerry himself overseeing the results, perhaps he could expect something better this time. So Dean left the business to Jerry, who went over the script with Wallis and made several suggestions... for his own character.

On February 8, the scheduled first day of shooting, Wallis had the Clyde Beatty Circus, a fifteen-car train and eighty-five cast and crew members standing by on location in Phoenix, Arizona. All that was missing were the two stars, who refused to show up. The team’s agent, Herman Citron, told Wallis bluntly that Dean refused to do the script as written – this despite the fact that it contained several of Jerry’s suggestions - and Jerry wouldn’t do the film against Dean’s wishes.

McGuire and the team’s Colgate writers, Arthur Phillips and Harry Crane, sat down and hammered out further revisions, while Martin, Lewis and Citron met with Wallis. Lewis confessed, "I am enough of a ham that when you told me this business with the elephants and the other sequences, that I could only see what wonderful things I could do..." to the point where he completely overlooked his partner’s role, the conniving, slimy manager of the circus. It’s not recorded whether Dean opined on how well his partner was looking out for him, but he did make his objections known about the script. Wallis later wrote, "He said that he doesn’t want to play a cheat and doesn’t know what he is doing in the picture." The story had Dean singing only two songs: one to caged animals, the other to Jerry.

Lewis, Phillips and Crane spent one more long night penning revisions, with Martin once again deferring to his partner. The end result wasn’t much different, and Dean realized that it was endgame: with Jerry and their writers having turned in a final script, he’d have to go to work. But that didn’t mean he’d have to like it.

Shooting for the film, eventually titled "Three-Ring Circus," began in Phoenix on February 17. Two weeks went by before Martin was even needed for a scene, at which point some of the extras began wondering aloud about the size of his part and if he was still Jerry’s partner. (Note the attached page from TV and Movie Screen, a fan mag: a large shot of Lewis in character, a small inset of Martin waiting between takes.) Young children hired for an orphanage scene would gather around Jerry; some of them didn’t even know who Dean was. Lewis would later write, "It got pretty hairy. There were days when I thought Dean would ditch the whole package."

On March 3, Dean walked in on Jerry having his picture taken and being interviewed... alone. The easy-going Italian finally boiled over: "Hey, Jerry, what am I around here, a fifth wheel? If I’m not important to the act anymore, just let me know!" Reporters around the set got more from Martin: "I’m sick and tired of playing stooge to that crazy, mixed-up character!" Lewis retaliated with, "I’m fed up with my partner’s sensitivity. Everything I do is wrong. Anything happens he don’t (sic) like, he blames it on me. He hates me." The two stopped speaking and production nearly ground to a halt.

This particular feud, the first to be reported, lasted nine days. On March 12, in a meeting at MCA, the pair were forcibly reminded of their various commitments and coerced into a cordial reconciliation. But four days later, when Dean didn’t appear at Jerry’s birthday party – because he hadn’t been invited – the gossip columns again speculated on Martin and Lewis’s rapidly diminishing future together. The two issued a press release on the 18th, in which Lewis stated, "We had a disagreement. Well, it wasn’t exactly a disagreement, it was a fight. It started when Dean called me a dope. I got mad and told him to prove it, and that’s what we fought about. He did." Martin asserted that the team would split "on July 25, 1996 – our Golden Anniversary."

Needless to say, this lighthearted approach didn't keep reporters at bay, to the point where, on April 5, no less an authority than Groucho Marx felt compelled to write: "I've been reading in columns that there is ill feeling between you boys and that there's even a likelihood that you might go your separate ways. I hope this isn't true for you are awfully good together, and show business needs you.... If there is any ill feeling or bitterness between you, it will eventually affect your work. If that feeling does exist, sit down calmly together, alone - when I say alone, I mean no agents, no family, no one but you two - sit down alone, and talk it out."

Reportedly Marx sent the letter to both partners, but only Jerry replied, thanking Groucho profusely, noting "the sagacity of your words" and assuring him, "(I) have every intention of following your advice." And in fact Dean and Jerry did meet privately shortly thereafter, and things settled down.

Near the conclusion of shooting for "Three-Ring Circus," the two men spoke with Maurice Zolotow, Hollywood correspondent for The American Weekly, a Sunday newspaper supplement. Dean instructed Zolotow to "write down this part word-for-word just like I say it. I know that individually, going it alone, we would not be as great as we are together." Martin added, "When we shook hands on our partnership, I said in my heart, this is forever, ‘til death do us part. It still goes! Sometimes he makes mistakes. Sometimes I make mistakes. But as long as people let us alone, the team of Martin & Lewis will go on."

For his part, Lewis told Zolotow, "The closer you are to a person, the deeper the feelings. If the feelings are hard feelings, then they’re twice as hard. And if you’re emotional, like Dean and I are emotional, well, you can’t help flipping your lid sometimes. We yell at each other… and it gets in the papers. So from this they build up a story that we’re going to bust up. Never in a million years! Get this: we’re a partnership, a real partnership.

"This idea that I’m the funny guy and Dean is just a straight man is wrong. People may not notice it, but he’s got as many joke lines as straight lines. I feed him as many straight lines on our television show as he feeds me. Both of us have a different style of playing comedy, but we’re both essential to each other’s success. Anyway," continued Lewis, "Dino means more to me than a partner in a two-act. Outside of my wonderful wife, Dean is the person I’ve been closest to in my whole life. We’re so close that our minds think like one mind. There’s a very deep and profound love between Dean and me, and our act is good only because of this feeling of closeness."

A bullet had been dodged and the partnership was again on an even keel, so far as the public knew. Their next Colgate appearance, on May 3, attempted to seal it via a celebration of the team's eighth anniversary, with a highly fictionalized depiction of how the two paired up that concluded with them singing a ditty entitled "We Belong Together." But intimates knew that nothing much had changed: Lewis still controlled the act, which saw more and more "sad stuff" for Jerry, while Dean's part in their next picture, "You're Never Too Young," was no improvement over "Three Ring Circus." Another confrontation was inevitable.

When it came, things really did change... but not for the better.

NEXT: Round Two  

Yabba-Dabba-Dad! Happy Birthday, Pebbles Flintstone!

One of my favorite blogs is "Yowp," described by its owner as "stuff about early Hanna-Barbera cartoons." Today’s entry covers the arrival of Fred and Wilma Flintstone's blessed event.

Yes, Pebbles Flintstone was "born" 47 years ago this evening! Don't you feel old?

"Yowp" goes into much detail about the merchandising of Pebbles Flintstone (and reaction to it) that is only hinted at in the above article.

To be honest, I was never a big "Flintstones" fan when growing up. I watched the show from time-to-time, but if I laughed at all, it was more due to individual gags than to plot or characterization. Mostly I found the show as distasteful as its inspiration, "The Honeymooners." ("Scandalous," I heard someone say.) Yes, Jackie Gleason's masterpiece usually just annoys me. Despite posterity's apparent verdict, Norton and Kramden are not Laurel & Hardy: "Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into" is a whole lot more clever and charming than, "One of these days, Alice... POW! Right in the kisser!" Comedies about dumb male heads of household, whether they're named Chester Reilly, Ralph Kramden, Archie Bunker or Homer Simpson just turn me off. Maybe it's because my role models were mainly strong men: Superman, Joe Friday... even Bugs Bunny was sly, not stupid. Maybe I have too much respect for the role of husband and father to enjoy seeing them portrayed as obnoxious (and bigoted) boors.

Anyway, the anniversary of Pebbles' debut seemed like a good excuse to post that TV Guide article from the February 16, 1963 issue... and, for that matter, this article from the December 30, 1959 issue of Variety:

If the headline is confusing, you should know that "The Flintstones" began life as "The Flagstones." King Features, who syndicated the "Hi and Lois" comic strip, claimed ownership of the name "Flagstone," thus the change. By the end of the 1950's Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera were the undisputed kings of television animation, enabling them to sell ABC-TV on a prime-time animated show (a 26-episode commitment, no less) with nothing more than a 5-minute demo reel and a handful of storyboards. I'm not sure anyone, even Matt Groening, has that kind of cache today.