The Guests on Television

by SALLY ISELIN

1

I’VE been working in television for the past four months. That isn’t a very long time, but it feels like four years spent in a foreign country. Yet I never left mid-town Manhattan. The job look almost all my time, entailed learning a new language and, as one of my intellectual friends remarked, “being with television people.” And if you re in television, you see nobody else, except a few hardy friends who don’t mind your strange new hours and habit of looking at them sharply and saying, “Gee, we could use that on the program.” To make matters worse, the only television people you do see are those working on the specific show you are on. TV people lead curiously circumscribed lives, like shut-in children, limited by things known as “orange pancake, “dollies, and “pans. Those words make it sound like playing house in a kitchen or nursery — and in many ways, that is just what it is like, with show business overtones.

To have a really good time playing house, you have to have guests come and visit you. This was where I came in. On the surface it would appear that all that is necessary is an “emcee” (master or mistress of ceremonies), an interviewee or “guest” (trade term for an outsider who comes plus or minus fee), two chairs, and a camera. But there is much more to it than that. The emcee is far too busy to get guests or anything else. Standard procedure is to hire a “writer-contact,” such as myself — so named because she contacts and writes — who will gel them for you. These writer-contacts do quite a lot of the work and act as interpreters between the two worlds. They not only think of whom to invite but what the guest should bring with him, say or not say.

If you in the audience have not already been invited, either to chat, join in a quiz, or slip on a banana peel (this activity is usually reserved for professional actors), you probably will be any minute. You may think you are not important enough; perhaps you aren’t. But the industry is running through VIP’s very quickly for ad lib appearances, and though it may not want second-stringers, it is taking more and more of them. Your office chief may be bored with TV and send you in his place. How would you make out ? What would you say?

Perhaps some of my experiences will help you. I put on a variety of guests, including myself, one day, by default of a guest who ran out of chatter. On one show it was suggested that I bring a guest her handbag, which was in the far corner of the studio. I did so, but not without some disaster. The bag jumped up and down as if it had a guinea pig in it, I was so preoccupied with it that I tripped over a paper tree, which crashed to the floor of our garden party setting. However, I delivered the bag to the owner, who opened it and produced her pet chihuahua dressed to the nines. It looked wonderful on the screen, or so I heard. Programming is not supposed to be quite so loose as this was, but the best way for guests to avoid such events is to come prepared, either with a chihuahua or, better still, what they are going to say.

Our show was an old-timer, having been on the air for five days a week for three years. It was slanted at women and whoever else might be listening for three quarters of an hour in the middle of the afternoon. My job was to supply “names” for the “spots.” (Spots are subdivisions of the time on the air.) One quarter of an hour went to an interview with a “name.” a half hour to “how-to’s” (how to knit, how to garb a pint-sized figure, how to cook a barbecue, how to do most anything). The producer of the show, in this case, was the emcee. She explained to me briefly that the program was sustained except for one day a week, that we had no expense accounts, that the best way to get around this problem was to stress to guests that the time was being given to them by the network. Any expenses that they might go to were chicken feed compared with what they would be getting.

The emcee was very busy producing, emceeing, handling the budget and over-all policy. To help her were two other assistants and a secretary. Her working day began about 9 A.M. at the office. For a couple of hours she went through her mail, tried to memorize her questions and possible answers. Talked to network bigwigs on the telephone and, if our queries were vital, to us.

At eleven she went to the studio, where she rehearsed for three or four hours. Rehearsal is very important to TV because of the possibilities of mistakes, both from an emcee and the camera crew. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she got a drugstore lunch out of a paper bag, consumed during make-up time. Finally she and the guests, who felt the tenseness in much the same way that dogs feel thunderstorms, went on the air. It was then that we saw the emcee’s Television Personality (TV people discuss relative differences in TV personalities ad infinitum). This particular one was studiously simple and sweet, with nary a frown, saccharine at times, always homey. Occasionally, a disarming giggle. No humor. But don’t think the audience didn’t like it. After going off the air, she spent two more hours in the office, then went home armed with the outlines we had prepared for the next show. You can see that this routine does not leave much time for anything but TV, beauty, and hairdressing. And it is more or less typical.

2

IN the beginning, I was wide-eyed about the ease with which I could persuade names to fill the spots. After all, there were all kinds of interesting people who hadn’t been on television. Not necessarily of the name category. But the guest had to be a name. Why? Because it needed no introduction to the audience, nor any effort on the part of the emcee. Also, by dating the guest a couple of weeks ahead, advance publicity could be handed out in the various cities to which the program went, and up, perhaps, would go our rating. Also, the network bigwigs would be impressed. I darkly suspect that another explanation might be willful ignorance on the network’s part. They have heard of, let us say, the Cabinet and the President, and they know that the audience has. This seemed to me the acme of talking down to the public, but there it was.

One of my first suggestions was an Assistant Secretary of State who was an authority on something or other. He was firmly turned down because of the word “assistant,” which of necessity would have to be used introducing him on the air. “Why not get Acheson?” was what I was told. Then came a tip: “Never get an assistant. There isn’t time on the air to explain where the chief is.” I later discovered that there rarely was enough time to explain anything, but that is neither here nor there.

I had one lucky break during my first week. I had been told to “find General Bradley,” who, rumor had it, was not only in town but appearing on program after program, radio and TV, in connection with his book. He had not offered himself to our show. Well, I did find him through a writer friend whose business it is to follow names, and I sighed with relief when I heard that the General had just boarded the train for Washington. Relief because I suspected the General might have refused our invitation. Also, he might have a good reason. The next day there was much bowing and scraping over the phone between the publisher and myself. It turned out that the General had appeared on Mary Margaret McBride’s program because the General’s wife and Mary had gone to school together. The publisher regretted that we were upset, suggested that we invite the colonel who had acted as a kind of Boswell in the course of the writing. This was out for the same reason that the assistant secretary was turned down.

I quickly found that we were in hot competition with other shows, as nearly all of them depend on guests. And every show wants names. Granted there are a few who can make a show with “characters.” (Characters can be cab drivers, policemen, and the like.) But we weren’t one of those. It isn’t hard to think of the names. Scrupulous reading of the papers, lists prepared by Celebrity Service, private sources. I used to make a card file of them, with notes as to what particular subject the name was working on. Government people provide a good hunting ground because they nearly always can use free air time. They also are interested in appearing on quiet, literal (if dull) programs where they can expound to their heart’s content.

All sense of proportion is lost when a guest fails to make an appearance. I found that to have an empty spot was a truly dreadful, as well as frequent, experience. One hot day, the last Friday in July, Congressman Celler, who was to have addressed our audience on baseball, gave out because he felt obliged to stay in Washington, Though we agreed his first duty was in Washington, we didn’t do so very graciously as we were left with fifteen empty minutes. We were not only hired to contact but to secure. If I had been emcee, I would have gone on the air with the standard opening, “Guess who is with us today,” then simply said, “Nobody at all. Why? Because it is a roasting hot day here in New York, and no one in his right mind would have come to the city. However, we’ll bake a cake instead, or show you how to keep cool, or something or other.” Fortunately, I didn’t suggest this as an alternate.

I went out and had a long cooling drink, and thought and thought who would be in town. We had only a couple of hours to find someone. Then I remembered reading in the Times about a middleaged lady who for years had read aloud to the children in New York City playgrounds. Perhaps she could read aloud to our audience. She worked in the children’s division of the Public Library, which presumably would like the publicity. I was right. She not only didn’t mind being asked so late, but was very jolly, full of homey stories, eager to go on TV, if only to see what her “children” would say. The emcee wouldn’t let her read aloud — that’s considered “dead” on TV. Luckily they both had jokes up their sleeves — gentle and cozy. The emcee found herself admitting on the air that she too had once read aloud to children for a public library (long, long ago, before she got to be famous in her own right). The next week brought us “a big response.”

Suddenly my eyes were opened to why we didn’t get more such guests who fitted with the audience. Soon it came over me that the emcee had but one idea and that was to advance herself in the TV world — and names are the best and least expensive method. With the guests, incongruous as they may be to the show, comes the high rating. This impresses sponsors and broadcasting chieftains alike.

3

OF COURSE, there were lots of days when things went off schedule. Here is a typical one which started out as though it would be perfect. I was feeling quite relaxed because I had two relatively distinguished guests. One was a Congressman who had written a magazine article on the chemicals used in processed foods. This was right up our alley subject-wise, and any Congressman is a name. Via a few phone calls to Washington (this cost no money on the network tie line) the questions to be asked had been worked out with the Congressman’s first assistant, who guaranteed that his boss knew all about TV and therefore need not be bothered with rehearsal. (Avoiding rehearsal is very annoying to TV people.) He had promised all kinds of props, in the form of processed foods, to be sent to the studio early on the day of the show.

The other guest was Oscar Ewing, Federal Security Administrator, who was to talk on old-age hospital insurance. For one happy half hour between ten and ten-thirty I thought I would be lucky enough, in the light of these experienced public speakers, to have lunch in some near-by restaurant with a friend. Then the phone rang. It was Howie Moog, the prop man at the studio. He sounded very upset. Two chickens had arrived, very dead, and he wanted to know what to do with them. It was a very hot day, and as they were falling apart, he thought they should be in an icebox but he didn’t want to take the responsibility.

The other extension rang. It was Oscar Ewing’s chauffeur (his New York chauffeur), who reported that Mr. Ewing was not on the plane from Washington. What was he, the chauffeur, to do? I said I didn’t know, suggested he stay to meet a later plane in case Mr. Ewing had missed the first one. The chauffeur said Mr. Ewing didn’t miss planes. Something must have happened. I took his phone number, promised to call him later. Called Washington, found that Mr. Ewing had taken a train and, what was more, would be very angry that the chauffeur had missed him. I called the chauffeur back, tried to persuade him to come to the studio, but in vain. He wasn’t moving until he heard from Mr. Ewing. (For all I know, he may still be at La Guardia Field.)

By this time the emcee had gone to the studio. When I got there she was engrossed in rehearsing the how-to of the day, sandwiched between the Congressman and the Security Administrator. The studio (one of fifteen-odd belonging to the network all over the city) was located on East 58th Street in a famous old German-American clubhouse known as Liederkranz Hall. The industry had grown so fast that there was barely enough time to move into it, much less to decorate it along lines fitting for the newest medium of communications.

On arrival this day, I went right upstairs to the prop room. There were the chickens, very dead — one might almost say disintegrated. They were in the custody of two men who introduced themselves as Dr. Z and Mr. Y of the Food and Drug Administration. Howie seemed wryly amused by some joke. Why? I didn’t know. I ignored it, but not for long. Dr. Z described himself and colleague as the slickest team that Food and Drug had touring the market for illegal pieces of meat. The specimens on the table were not only illegal but “hormonated.” With that, I peered at them. Then it was explained: they weren’t poisonous at all, ha-ha, except that they were. They had been given something like six times the ordinary human dose of female hormones so that they would get fatter faster. If the chickens were eaten, you and I were very likely to become sterile. Howie and his helpmates, a fairly tough group, blanched over their Coke bottles. Dr. Z then cheered us all with some off-color jokes as to what one bite would do. He asked what we were going to do with them on the air. I wondered. I realized that “chemicals in processed foods” could take in all kinds of things, including these birds.

For the moment, the chickens were left in the prop room. We returned to Studio 55, where the emcee was still in rehearsal. It isn’t done, to interrupt rehearsal. So I waited. Finally the emcee came out, as usual, in an apparent trance. I explained briefly. She smiled and said, “It’ll be all right,” and meandered off to make up.

Mr. Ewing came in at that moment. Unwittingly he put a wet blanket on Dr. Z’s and Mr. Y’s conversation, which was continuing in the same vein. It turned out that Food and Drug are under Federal Security.

I happily counted on the Congressman, who finally arrived with a beaming smile and bow for everyone, fresh from Fire Island and covered with sunburn, peeling and bright red. Full of self-confidence and charm. Time was getting short, so I thought it wise to acquaint him with a carbon copy of our questions. He sat down, read for a bit, looked panicky, and said, “Jees, I don’t know the details.”He then read with great — in fact, too great — interest the magazine article which he had written, Just at that moment, his assistant made his entry, introduced himself as his counsel. Right behind him was the publicity man for the magazine. All three went into a deep huddle.

In came the emcee, done to the usual orange turn with Max Factor pancake. She was full of serenity, and proud to welcome Mr. Ewing on the program for the second time. She was very much annoyed to hear me bring up the subject of the chickens once again and dismissed me firmly. The stagehands moved the chickens onto a silver tray which was put. into our garden set. Just before: air time, the Congressman made his entrance. Back on his face was the constituents’ smile, highly enhanced by a very orange make-up. Quite frightening. However, he was delighted, because the sunburn was now invisible.

Like a bad dream, we went on the air. The first spot had been given over to the Congressman. Things got off to a good start. The emcee asked him to elaborate on chemicals in foods. He thumbed and poked the first prop, a loaf of bread treated with a “wonder” ingredient which kept it fresh for a week or so — but, as he put it so forcefully , this ingredient was known to have given epileptic fits to dogs. He moved on to some relatively innocuous preparations such as ready-mix cakes and puddings. He was steered away from soft drinks which had been kept permanently bubbly with some other frightful chemical.

Finally, with four minutes to go (a long time in TV), the emcee reached for the tray of chickens. “And what, Congressman, would happen if we ate these chickens? They look all right to me.” Actually, they looked repulsive on the screen.

The cameras dollied for a close-up so that nothing would be missed. The Congressman swallowed.

(All such actions, including throat-clearing and stammering, take on exaggerated proportions in TV. and swallowing makes the swallower look as if he were going to choke.) The emcee graciously gave him time, a long look of “I know you’ll tell us,”in her most winning manner. She asked what would happen if she ate them.

There was a deep groan from the Congressman, who swallowed once more, rolled his eyes, and said. “It’s hard to say it. All I know is that it would affect you severely.” With that he grabbed one of the chickens’ necks, poked and poked, and sighed, “I can’t find it.”

“What can’t you find?” in the same mellow voice.

“The pellet with the hormones.”

The emcee’s eyes popped with what looked to me like surprise. Luckily, then came the station break and the end of the spot.

The rest of the show went off as planned, except for an ad lib gimmick in the introduction of Oscar Ewing. This was a song done by the pianist-singer which ran “And Oscar Ewing. What is he doing? He’s Federal Security Administrator.” With that final syllable, Mr. Ewing came on the screen. Very dramatic. He didn’t look as if he liked it. However, he leaped into Ins subject with great presence, explored it thoroughly. The program ended with a singing good-bye to all, a promise to be with the audience the next day, and our theme song, some sentimental lunch-music air. Everyone was happy except Howie Moog, who threw the chickens out immediately. The night shift might have eaten them or taken them home as loot, a traditional fate of food in the studio. It was a horrible fiasco. We had neither explained the chemicals properly nor had we put on a good show. I had a mental picture for some days afterwards of the poor housewives throwing out all their food, including chickens, and bursting into tears. The sight of a distraught TV - minded Representative swallowing and rolling his eyes could not have been very comforting.

4

You can see it takes quite a bit of preparation to line up guests and props. The most successful we had was Mrs. Sherman R. Hoyt, who came with two of her famous poodles. She and I worked out a plan whereby she would be interviewed as the successful career woman, tell the history of the poodle, then show three dogs — one with a show clip, one with more practical terrier-type hair-do, and one trained as a retriever. All to take place in fifteen minutes. Fortunately, from the time angle, the retriever didn’t come (he drooled so that morning that the Hoyts decided he wouldn’t look his best). Also, ihe TV camera could hardly have handled a guest running around the studio. Otherwise, everything went off as planned.

The show dog, known as “Snowboy” to his public and “Boysie” to his friends, was a name in his own right, having won countless honors and having posed many times for newsreels and television. On arrival at the studio he looked quite as spectacular as hoped with his fluffy show clip, white as white could be — or, rather, could be made to be by his valet, who kept ruffing up his ruff with a comb and brush all during rehearsal.

His companion, who was supposed to be the homey, practical “ poodle around the house, was an “unknown,” gray, and, I think, unnamed at that date. He’d never been out of the kennel. However, he was well behaved, acted pleased to be with such a famous star as Boysic.

Mrs. Hoyt, an old hand herself, having emceed the dog show at the Garden, stole the limelight with her TV personality, not to mention her get-up, including a real diamond poodle which hung around her neck like a locket. She had a wonderfully firm and gentle voice, which had an almost hypnotic effect on the dogs, and on TV.

The dogs allowed themselves to be inspected from top to toe, webbed feet (these facilitate swimming), clips, well-brushed teeth, and all. At rehearsal we abandoned a prearranged plan to show off Boysie’s ruff to its best advantage by placing him in front of an electric fan. It wasn’t necessary. He looked like a very expensive powder puff. I thought it a pity that the emcee held him as if he were a crab, but then she wasn’t used to dogs. There was only one bad moment — when he barked during the spot ahead of him. However, Mrs. Hoyt explained that he was used to being the star, and when he saw he wasn’t on camera, he wanted to know why. He certainly was fully aware of his television personality. Some of the stagehands were puzzled that with all his entourage he didn’t do tricks (luckily he didn’t, as trick dogs get handsome fees), but when they heard he was a “show dog,” they understood.

Mrs. Hoyt’s book on poodles got the proper mention and was displayed as promised, and not out of context (this sometimes is difficult). The sum total was a nice little vignette of dog show life with some fun besides. I think the audience might have liked to see the valeting, and the dogs drinking water out of lily cups, but this was deemed too close a view of Boysie’s backstage life.

5

HERE are some tips on what is expected of a guest. First in almost every guest’s mind is “What will I look like on the screen?&” Don’t give this more than a thought until you arrive in the studio. Once there, watch the “talent ” (trade term for the paid piano player or actor who has been hired to do his stuff in between spots). Copy them re make-up. Incidentally, networks offer these facilities for free, on the premises, and a special time will be arranged for you to use them. Talent know the particular innuendoes of the show, lighting, cameras, and so forth. Short of this, copy the emcee, who will probably advise a coarse to make you only slightly less attractive than the emcee.

What not to do? Allow yourself to think of Cary Grant and Jane Wyman. The chances are that you will not be on the air with them. Hence, the-audience will not be comparing you with them. But you can be assured that you would not have been invited if you had some hideous TV defect. Writercontacts usually have inspected photographs of guests long ahead of time.

Before coming, take a look or two at the program on which you are going to appear. Very few of the guests who came on our show had ever seen it, which didn’t help at all, for they didn’t have the slightest idea of the format. Then, “package” your subject in a neat bundle at home or in your office. If you have all types of talents, professions, interests, pick the one that the show mentioned to you when it firsl contacted you. It is possible that your name is so glittery that no one thought of your subject; in that case, talk on anything you like. Frame some leading questions, type them up (with as many copies as feasible, to be given to the various assistants on the show), and add a list of props. These can be anything — your first diary, your scratchpad, your latest invention (this had better be smallish or it won’t look well on camera), your dog, any old thing. These props come in very handy in the event that the emcee or you make a boner. You can pop them out of your pocket and scribble or draw as “relief.” Remember, as you plan your answers, that thirty seconds is a long time in television. If you can’t confine an answer to that length of time, the director will “dissolve” to another camera to provide variety to the picture. You won’t be aware of it at the time.

After you’ve delivered your questions and answers, you may not hear from the show, except to get the address of the studio, the time for camera rehearsal, instructions as to what to wear (black and navy suits are out because they cause “halos”; a halo is a white line which outlines the suit and makes for bad reception). During the next couple of days someone is probably transferring the questions verbatim to the green card which the emcee uses on the show. This person might telephone you and ask some silly-sounding questions. It’s best to clear those up before the day of the show, as the risk is great that some mistake will get into the card. If you want an item you have given to be not mentioned, be very explicit about it some time before air time. Last but not least, be sure to go to camera rehearsal.

If you are being interviewed on your new book, bring several copies with you to the studio. It would appear to be relatively simple to photograph one copy on an easel, but there are a great many slipups. If you plan to show a certain page, two copies are essential, one on each of two easels. Most guests came to our show under the impression that they themselves were going to open the book and show il in their own hands to the camera. But the chances are that it will be done by two stagehands, perhaps as far as twenty feet away from you on another camera. It is best not to leave the job of opening to the right spot to them. Autograph one of the books for the emcee. They like to build up autographed libraries.

Details such as these are lined up at rehearsal, at which time you must pay attention to both emcee and director, who will keep in communication with you via the P.A. system in the studio. If things get out of hand he’ll deign to come out of the control room and shout at you, a cameraman, or the emcee, in true Hollywood style. He very polite to him. It is he who will put the whole show on the air, not the emcee. The writer-contact with whom you have been conferring will be there. All this time the camera boys will be focusing the cameras with intense, strained expressions. This is not because of your appearance on the screen; it is due to the vagaries of the machine. It may go on the blink, often does, in which case the director dissolves to the second camera. There will be a “monitor (a studio TV set) placed conveniently so that the emcee can check heror him-self. Don’t allow yourself to look at it. If you do you will probably flinch with horror, raise your eyebrows, or, worse still, lean forward to get a better look. All of this looks very odd on the air. One very distinguished lady editor ruined her equilibrium by following the monitor as it was moved about the studio. The effect was to make her look as if she were writhing with a tummy ache.

Last rule: if you find yourself saying something you don’t want to say at all, simply correct it on the air. That is the only way a correction will be made. You may think it rude to contradict, explain simple pronunciations, but it is important to do so.

Phonetics are important, particularly the pronunciation of guests’ names. If you have a tonguetwister name or title, you’d best keep repeating it slowly at camera rehearsal so that the emcee will be sure to get it correctly without asking. Louis Bromfield came on our show in connection with his book Mr. Smith. The plan was to have him elaborate on Mr. Smith’s disparaging comments on the typical American woman, who presumably was in our audience. The emcee would take her part in the debate. The whole plan was ruined by the emcee’s calling Mr. Bromfield “ Louissss” (as in St. Louis, Mo.). He kept wincing, very pleasantly, but it was a kind of stumbling block to the spontaneity of the chat. If you’re foreign and don’t speak English at all well, I would avoid it — unless you’re a whopping big name, in which case nobody in TV will care what you say. I had a ghastly time on a “remote" (out of studio) show in the Voice of America because most of the names didn’t speak English. I might add that they are not hired to do so.

It seems to me that I have listed mostly the unsuccessful experiences. There were plenty of happier ones, such as the day the two Cavalleros, the proprietors of the Colony Restaurant, came on the show. Gene Sr. chatted about his famous habitués, including Greta Garbo, while his son mixed a truly Italian salad, and café diablo. When this last was lit with a match, it blew up on the screen with as much noise and flame as a bomb. Very exciting. Fortunately, he didn’t mention why it “blew up,” as liquor in any form is verboten. I guess the audience knew. After the show, the stagehands had a field day, for there was enough for all fifteen or so. On this particular program there was no necessity to “pan" (turn) the camera to provide variety in pictures. We had almost too much activity as it was.

It seems to me that the networks should give their emcees, directors, and producers more time in the field so that they could keep in communication with the outside world. The present trend for TV personalities is “here today, gone tomorrow,”and to appear on the air as often as possible today, either on their own shows or on someone else’s. As a result, they can’t help getting swallowed by the industry, orange pancake, orange hair (this comes out a discreet mousy brown on the screen), and ad libbing. There isn’t any spare time even for reading, except perhaps a quick look at the Times during a taxi ride from studio to office to ad agency, but it’s more likely to be a tense memorizing of the latest Tele-Talent, Variety, or some other trade journal.

Guests had better get accustomed to their way of life, as have various shops located near network headquarters on Madison and Fifth. You can buy, for example, a neat little scratch-pad, leather-bound, titled “Gag Lines at a Glance,” subdivided “safe,”“cautious,” and “danger" (the only danger items I can think of are Communists and liquor, but I assume there are many others). Mark Cross, a few blocks away, has “script cases” in red and blue morocco. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a gag book for guests in the near future. Maybe they will come to studios with their own writer-contacts — who knows? I think they rate the same spoon-feeding as the emcees, who are now being spooned so much food for thought that it often seems to come out of their ears instead of their mouths. A spoon-fed guest might be the solution.