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Times Square Tintypes: William Shakespeare

In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles, with tongue planted firmly in cheek, playwright William Shakespeare.

THE BARD OF AVON

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.—Was born April 22, 1564, in a little house on Henley Street, Stratford-on-Avon. The stunning event occurred at precisely three minutes past eight. His dad was already at work, not interested.

He was the third child. Since then he has written thirty-seven plays, five poems and one hundred and fifty-three sonnets. Since then people have advocated Birth Control.

Always wears Buster Brown collars, Windsor ties, knickers and silk stockings.

His favorite eating place is the Mermaid Tavern.

It’s claimed he steals his ideas. He doesn’t deny it. Believes there’s nothing new under the sun. Hopes that some day people will steal from him.

He is vain and conceited. His favorite topic is William Shakespeare. He can talk about him for hours.

He never uses the subway. Never listens to the radio. Never sends a telegram. Never telephones. He writes all his plays in longhand. He can’t operate a typewriter.

Kit Marlowe and Ben Jonson he considers the world’s greatest men. His happiest moment was when he became the godfather of Jonson’s son.

Started his theatrical career by holding horses outside the Globe Theatre. Later became an actor. Then wrote plays to make more money.

His favorite dish is olives.

He was a wild kid, up to all sorts of mischief. Often arrested for deer stealing. Left school at the age of thirteen. At the age of eighteen he had to marry Anne Hathaway. Six months later he became the father of an eight-pound baby, Susanna.

George Bernard Shaw thinks his stuff is piffle. He never heard of Shaw.

He talks with fluency in a high tenor voice. Has reddish hair, a pointed chin, a face that mirrors every change of emotion.

His main weakness is that he is overfond of sleep. No matter what time of day it is, or where he is, he can fall asleep at a moment’s notice. He has never spent a sleepless night. Sleeps at least fourteen hours every day.

Rewrites all his stuff at least three times. Once rumored that Samuel Shipman was “ghost writing” his plays. This was discarded when critics proved that Shipman couldn’t write that bad no matter how hard he tried.

He dislikes bacon.

Is gentle, gay and witty. His wisecracks generally get him into trouble. Because of one of his flippant remarks he can’t break into the movies. He said: “All the World’s a Stage.”

He can’t carry his liquor. Two glasses of ale has him hugging the floor.

He refuses to allow Jed Harris to produce his play Hamlet because he doesn’t want George Abbott to rewrite it.

He hobnobs with actors, stagehands and producers. Yet he is on intimate terms with Lord Pembroke, the Earl of Essex, the Earl of Southampton and the Prince of Wales.

He has made his will. In it he states that to his wife he leaves his second best bed.

His right ear is a little larger than his left. Says this is so because he sleeps on his right side.

His ambition is to write a play which the Theatre Guild will produce.

New York as it was

Frank Oscar Larson (1896-1964) was born in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, of Swedish immigrant parents and lived in Flushing, Queens most of his life. As an adult, Larson spent his days at a branch of the Empire Trust Company (now Bank of New York Mellon), working his way up through the ranks from auditor to vice-president, and spare time on weekends taking photographs of street life throughout New York City.

He was an accomplished photographer who eloquently documented 1950s Chinatown, the Bowery, Hell’s Kitchen, City Island, Times Square, Central Park, and much more.

This exhibition is compiled from thousands of negatives recently discovered stored away in his daughter-in-law’s house in Maine in 2009. Soren Larson, his grandson and a television news camera man and producer, has been scanning and printing the 55-year-old images found stored in over 100 envelopes filled with mostly medium format, 2-1/4 x 2-1/4″ negatives, and neatly noted by location and date in Larson’s own hand.

Frank Oscar Larson: 1950s New York Street Stories is on view at the Queens Museum of Art through May 20, 2012.

The above text is from queensmuseum.org

27 Apr 12 | Tags: 1950s, Central Park, Chinatown, City Island, Frank Oscar Larson, Hell's Kitchen, photography, Queens Museum of Art, the Bowery, Times Square
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Times Square Tintypes: Eugene O’Neill

In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles playwright Eugene O’Neill.

THE GREAT GOD O’NEILL

EUGENE O’NEILL. He is the only Broadway playwright who was born in Times Square. He was born in the Barrett House, now the Hotel Cadillac, at Forty-third Street and Broadway. The date: October 16, 1888.

He always wears dark clothes.

When writing he uses either pen and ink or a typewriter. It merely depends on which is handy. Revising a play annoys him.

His father was James O’Neill—an actor famous for his portrayal of the Count of Monte Cristo. His mother, a fine pianist, attended a convent with the mother of George Jean Nathan.

He’s a great swimmer and doesn’t mind cold water.

Night life doesn’t appeal to him. He made one tour of the night clubs. It was his last.

Never attends the openings of his plays. In fact he seldom goes to a theater. He’s rather read a play than see it performed.

While at Provincetown, a feeble-minded lad of six took a great liking to him. One day while sitting on the beach the boy asked: “What is beyond the Point? What is beyond the sea? What is beyond Europe?” O’Neill answered, “The horizon.” “But,” persisted the boy, “what is beyond the horizon?”

Could grow a beard in ten days if he didn’t shave.

His father, who said he never would be a great playwright, lived to see his son’s first success, Beyond the Horizon.

He hasn’t touched a drop of liquor in the last three years.

In his youth Jack London, Joseph Conrad and Rudyard Kipling were his favorite authors. Today Nietzsche is his literary idol.

He can’t walk a mile without meeting an old friend who asks for money. He gives.

After the opening of Strange Interlude he chance to meet an old seafaring friend. O’Neill asked what he was doing, and the friend replied, “Oh, I’ve married and settled down. Got a nice little business and doing pretty good. And you, Gene, are you still working the boats?”

Reads all the reviews of his plays. He claims he knows the good critics from the bad ones.

He seldom talks unless he has something to say.

While writing he hates to be disturbed. When working at Provincetown he tacked this sign outside his door: “Go to hell.”

Is crazy about prize fights and the six-day bicycle races. When in town he will go to anything at Madison Square Garden. The only person he expressed a desire to meet was Tex Rickard.

His full name is Eugene Gladstone O’Neill. Lately he discarded the middle name entirely.

Once, when a mere infant, he was very ill in Chicago. George Tyler, then his father’s manager, ran about the streets of that city at three in the morning for a doctor.

Is always making notes for future plays. He wrote the notes for his first plays in the memorandum section of that grand publication, The Bartender’s Guide.

He likes to be alone.

He had three favorite haunts. One was Jimmy the Priest’s saloon, a waterfront dive. He later made use of this locale in Anna Christie. Another was “Hell’s Hole,” a Greenwich Village restaurant. The third was the Old Garden Hotel, which was situated on the northeast corner of Madison Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street. Here he met many people of the sporting world. A former bicycle rider (now a megaphone shouter on a sightseeing bus) he met there is still a pal of his.

It took him three years to write Strange Interlude. He had only six of the nine acts completed when he sold the play to the Theatre Guild.

He is especially fond of fine linen.

When in New York he lives in a secondary hotel. A place no one would ever think of looking for him.

He has huge hands.

For every play he draws sketches suggesting designs for the sets.

Of his own work he prefers, The Hairy Ape, The Straw (this he considers the best of his naturalistic plays), Marco Millions, Strange Interlude and Lazarus Laughed. The last is to be produced next year by the Moscow Art Theatre.

He takes great delight in recounting droll stories. Tells them with feeling and skill.

While attending Professor Baker’s class at Harvard he almost ruined the college careers of John Colton and Johnny Weaver by filling them full of beer.

Is now living in France. He does not intend to return to America for some years.

His first book, Thirst and Other One-Act Plays, was published at his expense.

All of his original manuscripts are in his possession despite offers in five figures for them.

He writes important messages which are not to be breathed to a soul, on the back of a postal card.

In Shanghai, on his recent trip around the world, he was a called a faker posing as Eugene O’Neill.

You missed a spot

Our day job (hard as it is to believe, our efforts here at Cladrite Radio are not sufficiently rewarding as to allow us to avoid holding down a bill-paying gig) is in an office building a mere stone’s throw from the Empire State Building, our favorite NYC skyscraper (it’s a tie, actually, between the ESB and the Chrysler Building, depending upon which day you ask us).

So we thought it appropriate we share with you this snippet of video that documents—one might even say celebrates—the men (it was just men in those days) who kept that beloved structure’s hundreds of windows clean back in the late 1930s. A daunting task, we’re certain you’ll agree, and not one suited to the faint of heart.

19 Apr 12 | Tags: 1930s, Chrysler Building, Empire State Building, New York City, NYC, window cleaning
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Times Square Tintypes: Helen Morgan

In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles actress and songbird Helen Morgan.

FANNY ON THE PIANO

Some people achieve fame by playing the piano. But this little lady got that way by sitting on one. HELEN MORGAN.

She never uses perfume.

Her favorite colors are black and flame red.

She was born in Danville, Ill. Uncle Joe Cannon‘s home town. When a baby he used to tickle her under the chin.

Her first job was as a cash girl in Marshall Field’s. Later was a telephone operator and a model. She attended twenty-six schools and finally managed to graduate from public school.

Can cook and sew but can’t knit. Used to cook when her mother took in boarders while they lived in Chicago. Her mother was a Sunday school teacher.

The only flower she will wear is the camellia. her life ambition is to play Camille.

Once won a beauty contest as “Miss Montreal.” Much to the embarrassment of the judges who later discovered that she had been living only three weeks in Montreal. In New York she was received by the Mayor and crowned the “Miss 1925.”

Buys at least four dresses a week. Often purchases a hundred pairs of stockings at one time. Always takes a man with her when she goes shopping.

Was discovered by Amy Leslie, critic of the Chicago Daily News. Miss Leslie brought her to Florenz Ziegfeld who gave her an audition. He placed her in the chorus of Sally, then on the road.

Her next dealing with Ziegfeld was some years later when, without having seen her work, he signed her to play in Show Boat. She was in Europe at the time.

She is crazy about mice. Has two live white mice for pets. Her stationary is monogrammed with a mouse. Her nickname is “Mousey.”

She rouges her lips between kisses.

First sat on a piano when working in The Backstage Club. The reason she took to sitting on a piano was because the night club was so crowded that it was the only place she could sit.

Once she adopted a baby. Only to have the mother, a chorus girl, kidnap it from her two months later.

Her favorite dish is potato soup as made by herself. It is made of potatoes with lots of cream and onions.

Likes to dress in men’s clothing. Often works about the house in overalls. She sleeps in fancy colored men’s pajamas. Sleeps with her head resting on so many pillows that she looks as if she were sitting up in bed.

Some years ago she appeared in a dramatic sketch with the Grand Guignol Players under the name Neleh Nagrom. Which is her name spelled backwards.

When she sings, “Why Was I Born,” she actually cries. Because she says she feels sorry for herself.

Reads all current novels. Her favorite author is Ernest Hemingway. She owns a copy of James Joyce‘s Ulysses, which was punctuated especially for her.

Is shy about exposing her body. Wouldn’t let her mother see her in Americana because she had to wear short panties in a dance number.

Necklaces and bracelets annoy her. Earrings give her a headache. The only jewelry she wears is a love altar. This was given to her by a titled Englishman who wanted to marry her.

She dislikes hearing her own phonograph records. At parties, whenever anyone plays them, she gets up and breaks them.

Always has her hair cut by the same barber. The coiffure is now known as the “Helen Morgan Haircut.” She combs her hair carefully. So as to make it look as if it hadn’t been combed.

Her most valued possession is a pitcher than an Atlantic and Pacific grocery store gave her in return for coupons when she was a kid.

The minute she enters a house she loosens her garters and walks about with her stockings hanging over the top of her shoes.

Is popular and very much sought after. But generally not by the man she likes. When singing “Someday He’ll Come Along, The Man I Love,” she means it.

She is fond of pets. Has two love birds, a dog named Mose, and one goldfish—the other died. She had two baby alligators. She kept them in the bathtub. Had to give them away because they snapped at her toes when she took shower baths.

Often wears a kimono, with a fur coat over it, when driving to the theater in her roadster.

She corresponds with William S. Hart regularly. This started after Bill Hart heard her sing, “My Bill.” He took it rather personally.

She has a possum claw birthmark on her right ankle.

If she were a man she’d be a sailor.

Give a boy a June night,
Give a girl a song.
They'll be dancing in the moonlight
All night long.

---Dancing in the Moonlight, Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson, 1933