REQUIEM FOR A FUNNYMAN: The Sadness of Bob Hope
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. No one gets into this business (comedy) because everything in their life worked out great, so we’re built for rough roads.”
— Stephen Colbert
By Gregory N. Joseph
COMEDIANS are among the most complex of performers, making us laugh through a very personal lens shaped by experiences audiences actually know little or nothing about. Those experiences as often as not stem from deep-seated pain and anger, and the humor is a catharsis, a release shared in vivid, colorfully expressed, often hyperbolic terms. It’s a kind of communal therapy. As comedians go, no one size fits all. There are as many types of comedians as there are types of angst, and the more idiosyncratically feelings are presented, the better.
Leslie Townes “Bob” Hope pioneered stand-up comedy as we know it, but went well beyond that to become one of the most distinctive performers and cultural fixtures of the 20th century, quite literally living through practically all of it (May 29, 1903-July 27, 2003). Without question, he was one of most unique and influential performers in American history (although, ironically, he was born in England), and, at his passing, also one of the most polarizing.
By the time he died at age 100 in his palatial home in the Toluca Lake neighborhood of Los Angeles, he had been in vaudeville, on Broadway, in radio, on television and in movies. He acted in more than 70 short and feature films, starring in 54 of the latter, including seven “Road to” musical comedies with legendary singer-actor Bing Crosby that were seismic box office successes. Between 1941 and 1991, he made 57 USO (United Service Organizations) tours entertaining active-duty U.S. military personnel throughout the world, including in combat zones. On top of all of that, he hosted the Academy Awards 19 times, more than anyone else, and wrote 14 books (although how many of those were ghost-written is not fully known).
Known for his rapid-fire one-liners, split-second timing, and self-deprecating humor (including remarks about his narrow “ski” nose and his exaggerated gliding, sideways walk), it’s said he had one of the most voluminous joke libraries in the world, truth be told courtesy of a huge staff of writers (he was also among the first to use cue cards).
He received numerous awards from various governments and the entertainment industry (however — and this is important — not a Best Actor Oscar for his performing). He has four stars on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.
Talk to any military veterans for whom he performed, or for that matter their grateful families back home, or to those who watched the television specials he built around some of those appearances, many during the Christmas season, and you will hear nothing but adulation. In their eyes, Bob Hope could do no wrong.
Not that there wasn’t criticism.
He was attacked for being “hawkish” about the Vietnam War, even as the war became less and less popular. Some critics (and fellow entertainers) thought he was exploiting the military with his TV specials, using them as props to bolster his popularity (and ratings). He also had been criticized for huckstering for an oil company and a savings and loan. And in recent years, despite Hope’s flag-waving, all-American image, many reports have surfaced that he was, as one former talk-show host who knew him put it, “a philanderer of Olympian proportions” (Hope was briefly married to vaudeville partner Grace Louis Troxell in the early 1930s, a union that ended in divorce, and soon married singer Dolores Reade, who had been one of his co-stars in “Roberta” on Broadway — their nearly 70-year marriage lasted until his death; she died in 2011 at the age of 102).
But for many, criticize him at your peril, even now.
Still, as I was to learn firsthand, even this iconic performer was not exempt from utilizing pain and anger as the fuel for his humor.
The first time I spoke with him was in 1974 upon the publication of his book, “The Last Christmas Show” (described as being by Hope “as told to Pete Martin”).
Given a news release about Hope and the book by my editor, I telephoned Hope’s publicist to arrange some sort of interview. The publicist informed me that Hope would be signing copies of the tome at the Robinson’s department store in Pasadena. Would I mind coming to the store and waiting until he finished? I could interview him then.
In preparation, I read everything I could find about the great comedian. I exhausted the newspaper’s files about him, read his previous books as well as books by other comics who spoke about him, I read (and memorized) his Who’s Who listing. I checked with one of my editors who had seen him perform at a military base in Southern California during World War II.
New to the newspaper, and newly married, I was anxious to do a good job. I prepared as though I were researching for a graduate thesis.
I arrived at the store early. One of Hope’s advance men arrived a short time later. He was nervous. To occupy us both, he told of having a similar assignment for Richard Nixon when the future president was promoting his book, “Six Crises.” Nixon was a tough cookie too, he said. Hmmm.
Then another publicity man, the one to whom I had spoken on the phone, arrived. He was nervous too.
Finally, Hope and his male companion arrived. Hope was fuming. He had driven his own car, and gotten lost. He let his publicists (and everyone else within earshot) know that he had been given what he regarded as poor directions.
A place had been arranged for the book signing in the store’s furniture department, with Hope seated behind a desk. Hope’s companion took a place next to me on a sofa, apparently not realizing I was with the press (I was the only reporter on hand). Identifying himself as one of Hope’s attorneys, he began by saying that Hope was scheduled to play golf later that day, didn’t want to be late — and boy, did Hope have a bad temper.
The companion then filled me in on a number of incidents in which Hope had become angry. According to him, one of the worst times was when one of the comedian’s representatives sold his share in the Los Angeles Rams football team without telling him.
I just listened and nodded. Then I noticed how Hope interacted with people who were coming up to his desk to have their books signed. A long line formed snaking through the furniture on sale and leading up to the desk occupied by hope, which took on the aura of a throne.
One elderly woman waited patiently in line with her books and finally made it to Hope. She became emotional in thanking him for entertaining her son overseas during World War II. Hope paid little attention. Next.
This sort of thing went on for about 20 minutes until a man stepped forward with an old printed program from a radio show Hope had done the day the comedian met Gen. Dwight Eisenhower during the war.
“Hey, look at this will ya?,” Hope said, waving the paper. “Somebody’s gotta make me a copy of this!” One of his two publicity me scurried away to find a copying machine.
As the clock ticked away, the publicity man who promised me the interview with Hope looked worried. He sidled up to me and in hushed tones asked if I would, instead of actually speaking with Mr. Hope, please just sit next to him and write about his signing books.
I replied that this was out of the question. I had been promised an interview. That’s why I was there.
The publicity man sighed. He said he would talk to Hope.
Finally, the book signing was over. Hope signed the last of the books, and rose from his chair. The publicist apparently hadn’t talked to his boss. Red-faced and perspiring, he motioned his head toward Hope, indicating I was on my own and should follow him, persuading him to do the interview myself.
Hope moved fast, wending his way through the furniture department to the back of the store and out of sight.
I followed about 30 feet behind. And following me were about 30 members of the public. A small crowd.
What we didn’t know was that Hope was heading for the men’s room.
We all waited at the door, me in front. When Hope emerged, he stopped in his tracks and the expression on his face froze. Hope the comedian had completely disappeared. He was not amused.
“Mr. Hope?” I stammered. “I’m a reporter and I was promised an interview with you.”
Hope stared. “All right,” he said finally, “but make it fast.”
We headed for a stock room where there were a couple of chairs, and quickly hunkered down, the two of us across from one another.
I mentally pared down 100 questions that I had assembled after an enormous amount of research to 10, the softer the better I mistakenly reasoned.
I asked about his first big break in show business.
“I’ve always been a star,” he replied.
Oh. (He actually had honed his routine in vaudeville for years, and hit it big with “Roberta” on Broadway in 1933, and went on to international fame in the films “The Cat and the Canary” with Paulette Goddard and “Road to Singapore” with Crosby a few years after that.)
And so it went. Hope proceeded to toss back stock answers to my slim list of questions without any real thought, rose to his feet as quickly as he could — and disappeared.
I returned to my newspaper and am ashamed to admit that I joined the legions who covered up for him. In effect, I became an extension of his publicity staff, writing a puff piece that was better suited to an entry in TV Guide. I was wrong and I knew it. (So did my editors.)
Flash forward to April 1982.
I was now on the writing staff of a large Southern California newspaper. The entertainment editor there had heard my story about encountering Hope years before and, with a smile, asked if I would like to give it another go: Hope was scheduled to perform at a local sports stadium, and was available for an advance interview to promote his appearance.
“Would you be interested?” the editor asked.
I answered that I would, very much, promising that I wasn’t about to do a hatchet job as recompense, but that I wanted to finally have a real conversation with Hope in which I could pose some meaty questions — and hopefully, he would respond.
Once again, I did extensive homework in preparation. Again, I had my questions written down and ready to go, things like reports that Hope was worth a half-billion dollars, that he really wasn’t that close to Crosby. I also had questions about the Academy Awards, other comedians, and his films (including those that many found to be lacking in comparison to his earlier work).
This time, I hit the ground running (and didn’t mention my previous interview).
I phoned Hope at his home, and when he came on the line, said: “Mr. Hope, I know you’re a busy man and don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll get right to the point with my quesitons, starting with, ‘How much are you worth?’ I’ve read a half-billion.”
Voila!
“You know what happened?” Hope replied. And we were off to the races. “It’s really shocking,” he said, “that a magazine with the reputation of TIME would do that. A guy with TIME walked around backstage in Burbank, never came to me, but found some Italian guy who must have been sipping too much of his own wine or something, and this guy said I had such and such holdings. Nobody ever checked a thing with me.”
Hope, then a month shy of his 79th birthday — he was born in Eltham in S.E. London to a stonemason and his wife, and moved to Cleveland with his family when he was 4 — said his wealth was nowhere near a half-billion, but was more like $130 million, in property, and that he worked as much as he did primarily to pay taxes on it and help various charities. (For the record, a 1968 Fortune magazine survey listed the comedian’s net worth as between $150 million and $200 million, along with others such as James S. Abercrombie of Houston, William T. Grant of W.T. Grant variety store fame, and J.S. McDonnell Jr. of McDonnell Douglas Aircraft.)
Hope, who early in his career especially, was hailed as the successor to Will Rogers as a friend of the common man, a man who made fun of presidents and potentates, was now criticized as someone who played golf and hobnobbed with the rich and famous.
“They know I’m still with ‘em,” Hope said tersely, referring to the working-class people who had idolized him for years.
At one point, he took a shot at one of his brothers (Hope was the fifth of seven sons) who had asked for a loan, noting that it was the same brother who had advised him to get out of show business early in his career after he had bombed during a performance at a factory. His bitterness was palpable.
Hope then pooh-poohed stories put forth in the book “Bing Crosby: The Hollow Man,” and in a TV special following the death of the singer in 1977, that he and Crosby were not as close as their “Road” picture repartee might suggest.
Hope denied that, denied that Crosby was a cold person — and for good measure, defended Golden Age actress Joan Crawford against the “Mommie Dearest” portrait painted of her by her daughter Christina in the infamous book accusing her of abuse (it didn’t happen, Hope insisted).
Of Crosby, Hope said: “The reason Dolores and I didn’t go to his house more is that he and his wife, Kathryn, moved to Hillsborough, and we didn’t go up there often.”
Perhaps most surprising is that Hope’s jokes during Oscar ceremonies about his films and performances being worthy of Academy Awards sprang from what he really, truly believed. Deep down he wasn’t laughing. He rattled off some that he said fit in that category: “Beau James,” “The Seven Little Foys,” “Tha Facts of Life,” “The Paleface,” “Monsieur Beaucaire” and “Louisiana Purchase.”
“You know how the Oscars work?” he said. “It’s like a political race, you gotta push, then see if you get lucky and win. When ‘Facts of Life’ came out, TIME magazine did a full-page rave on the picture, a solid rave …”
It was the same TIME magazine he had just chastised. He went on.
“I didn’t push it. It wasn’t my business. The same kinds of things, though, happened to Charlie Chaplin. They had to bring him on after all those years and give him a special Oscar. And Cary Grant, a great light comedian, they overlooked him all those years. It happens.” He accused the studio behind one of his films, “Louisiana Purchase,” which he found especially awards-worthy, of expending its resources instead on someone else’s picture. It still chafed all these years later.
Then he talked about humor. He was especially critical of actor-comedian Richard Pryor for doing “dirty” material, citing a specific example: “Isn’t that wonderful?” he asked sarcastically. In the next breath, Hope said he was going to have some things in his upcoming live appearance at the sports stadium “that are a little blue, that we couldn’t get on the tube.”
Flash forward to January 1985.
The occasion was the ground-breaking ceremony for the Bob Hope Cultural Center in Palm Desert, California.
Hope had been due at a press conference at 2:30 p.m. He didn’t make it. A reception in his honor started at 3 p.m. He didn’t make that, either. The ground-breaking was to begin at 3:30 p.m. The guest of honor arrived at 3:53 p.m. A publicity man told me Hope was late because he had been playing golf.
He had kept the 38th president of the United States (Gerald Ford), luminaries of all stripe (such as Golden Age actress Ginger Rogers and former New York Gov. High Carey) — about 400 invited guests and a horde of “common folk” (like 6oish Mildren Smith, who had driven from Rancho Mirage, crutches, camera and all) — waiting. And waiting. He finally addressed his official visitors at 4:39 p.m. (He seemed genuinely moved.)
Once again, one of Hope’s representatives had promised reporters private interviews. A few reporters, me included, believed this and stayed. And waited. Just before Hope arrived for the “private interviews,” an official of the center came and told us, collectively, “Five minutes, and that’s it.” Actually, the interview lasted, altogether, two minutes (Mildred Smith had been the smart one — she left at 4:37 p.m.)
Flash forward to December 1988.
Hope was on the phone promoting his upcoming TV special, “Bob Hope’s Jolly Christmas Show With the All-American Champs.”
Once again, I ask him about negative press he has received.
“I get so much positive stuff,” he said. “It’s great — so I don’t mind. The only problem I have is that Daily Variety does something every once in a while on me, takes a chop at my show. They rip us a little bit. But you can’t let that bother you.”
He said he had been doing 40 years of TV, and 12 years of radio before that.
“That’s 52 years … People are not going to listen or watch unless they really like these shows.” Then before he hung up, he told a “naughty” joke. “But it’s not for publication,” he added.
Flash forward to March 1989.
“Bob Hope’s Easter Vacation in the Bahamas” is on the television horizon. Publicists for the man who had criticized Richard Pryor for being “dirty” wrote in their news release of guest star LaToya Jackson, Michael Jackson’s sister, who the month before had posed au naturel in Playboy: “Inside the latter magazine LaToya drops considerably more than Michael in shedding one glove.”
They made LaToya available for interviews.
And Bob Hope.
This time, I demurred.
At one point somewhere along the way, I had been contacted by Hope’s publicists who invited me to go on one of his overseas trips so I could write a behind-the-scenes story. For many reasons, including scheduling issues, I declined.
In retrospect, I wish I had gone.
Bob Hope, as with so many other comedians, was a deceptively complex man, and like so many before and after, turned his pain and anger inside out to manufacture laughs. If he wasn’t really thanking everyone for the memories after all, as his famous signature song suggested, it really didn’t matter. Sometimes the memories he created were ours, and made us smile.