Son's Not Quite Like Dad, but He's a Todd

    Hollywood, U.S.A. — The shadow of a showman slipped into town this week.

    His name was Mike Todd, with a Jr. tacked on the end, and he came in on tiptoes like he was afraid everybody was asleep and shouldn't be disturbed.

    He had the trademark cigar.  He studied it and fingered it and inhaled it with taught dexterity.  With it, he was a mimic unaware.

    His suit — navy blue — was once his father's, too.

    But behind the cigar and under the suit there was no more showman Mike Todd to be found.

    If there had been — you can be sure — his arrival would have been heralded.  It would have been recorded on Page 1.  With a picture.

    But Mike Todd Jr. has neither the drive nor the desire to be news.  And you get the feeling that he's annoyed by any attempts to draw a comparison.

     We talked across a desk.

    "The cigars," he said, "are as close as our personalities coincide.  When I was a kid, Dad used to tell me that smoking cigarettes looked silly.  I never smoked cigarettes.  I've been smoking cigars since I was 21."

    Mike Todd Jr. is 30 years old.  Six years ago, he married, literally, the girl next door — the daughter of a successful building contractor.  The Todd Jrs. have three children. 

    "We lead a completely asocial life," he said.  "We never go out at all.  Maybe, four or five times a year.  That's it."

    That wasn't the way it was with his father.

    "No," Mike agreed, "he liked being with people.  I'm just not so crazy about it.  I get nervous."

    But the son of Mike Todd made it clear that personality differences weren't synonymous with personality clashes.

    "I hope that I can be half the father to my kids that he was to me," he continued.  "He never preached to me.  There was nothing heavy-handed.  Getting guidance from him was fun.

    "He never tried to cut out any career for me.  He let me decide."

    Mike Jr.'s choice was to follow his father.  He worked with him until the plane crash in March of 1958 took Todd's life.  The he continued on alone.  His first production, "Scent of Mystery," premieres here next Monday.

    "With my father, his work was his life.  Everything he did was centered around his work.  He was in love with it.

    "It's not that way with me.  It's not my life.  I do as little work as possible.  At home, in New York, I get to my office at 10:30 and usually I'm through by six.

    "We've got five fireplaces in our house and I like to sit in front of them.  We burn two cords of wood a year."

    "My father and I," he continued, "were more like brothers.  I was the conservative one.  In that respect, sometimes he was almost the youngster brother."

    He remembered his father — a man with a reputation for his ups and downs — as a man without a problem in the world.  "I never went wanting," he said.  "I guess that he made and lost a million more than once, but I never knew if he had $2,000,000 in the bank or if he owed $2,000,000.

    He recalled that his father was president of  a bricklayers college at the age of 16.  "He used to tell me about that," Mike said, "and about how the college folded after one semester after none of his students could get jobs as bricklayers."

    Eventually, Mike Todd told his son about all the wild gambles he took in business. 

    "Money," he said, "was no objective in Dad's life.  He had a fantastic imagination.  When he got an idea that he liked, he'd sink everything into it."

    "But you?" I asked.  "You don't operate that way.

    The son of Mike Todd shrugged.  "Everything I've got is tied up in 'Scent of Mystery.' It's a fun picture.  The people will love it.  Smell-O-Vision, Smells piped right into their seats.  Thirty-three of them."

    His smile was one I'd seen before.

    "Thirty-three," he repeated.  "Count 'em." 

    There might be a sequel to the Mike Todd story, after all.
   
 

Coates Views the Funny Side of Nixon

    NEWS ITEM (Hank Grant's column, Hollywood Reporter) — "Writer Tony Webster's been approached to pen gags for Richard Nixon's campaign speeches."

    I'm no Criswell, but I can make a prediction or two, myself.  And, the way I see it, if Richard Nixon wants a gag writer, it indicates that he fully expects his opponent for the Presidency to be that mirthful rib-tickler, Adlai Stevenson.

    So come with me now, to mid-September, 1960.  The scene is the office of the Vice President in the Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.  Mr. Nixon is seated at his desk idly fingering a "For Prosperity And Hilarity Stick With Dick" campaign button.

    Two men in identical Sy Devore sports jackets are pacing either side of the room.  They are the gag writers hired by the Republican National Committee to write pungent ad-libs for the candidate's use.

     One is Arty, whose writing credits include Joe Penner, Al Pierce and His Gang, and Pinky Lee.  The other is Marty, who wrote for Don McNeil's Breakfast Club, Moran and Mack, Billy Jones and Ernie Hare and who, at one time, was hired to create sparkling patter for the A&P Gypsies.

    ARTY (stops pacing):  Listen, Rich.  You mind a little honest criticism?

   NIXON:  Mind it? I welcome it.  Any man who accepts the cloak of high government office would be remiss in his responsibility to . . .

   ARTY:  Fine, Rich. Fine.

    NIXON:  . . . his constituents.  We, in government, are, after all, no more, in effect, than servants of the people.  If they find us lacking in any respect, we have  a solemn obligation not to . . .

    ARTY: Yeah.  Well, good, Rich.

    NIXON:  . . . not to deny anyone, big or small, regardless of race, creed or color, the opportunity — in fact, the right — to be heard.  Even, I assured you if what we hear is critical in nature.  It is the very essence of our democracy.

    ARTY:  Swell, kid.  Swell.  But what I was gonna say, I get this feeling that your performance isn't warm enough.  You know?

    NIXON (icily):  I don't think you have any call to make a crack like that.

    MARTY:  That's not what Arty meant, Rich.  It's nothing personal.  What he meant was we got to build you some warm style jokes to get you across.  You know?  Gags like about the kids, the wife, the mother-in-law, the family dog. 

    ARTY:  You got a dog, Rich?

    NIXON:  Are you kidding?

    MARTY:  Great!  Now what we do, we go through the file on dog jokes.

    ARTY (snaps fingers): I got one, Marty.  Right off the top of my head.  Now follow me.  There's this TV show, see?  And Lassie's being interviewed on it.

    MARTY:  No good, Arty.  Too blue.

     NIXON (gets up and starts pacing with them):  Variety had an item that Stevenson's planning to revive that "old shoe" routine again.  That's a tough act to follow.

    MARTY (slaps him jovially on the back):  We top him, Rich.  Leave it to us.  We just do the shoe gag.

    ARTY:  You come on, Rich.  You follow?  You make a few introductory remarks like I'm glad to be in your fair state.  Then wham!  You say, "You know, folks, it's a funny thing, but you can't make shoes out of bananas.  Only slippers."

    NIXON:  I don't get it.

    MARTY:  You don't have to get it, Rich.  Just throw it away.  Deadpan.  You know, like Bob Hope.

    NIXON:  I'm booked for a one-nighter next week before the Women's Auxiliary of the National Grange in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, fellows.  You got any ideas?

    MARTY:  Cedar Rapids, Iowa.  Corn belt.  We need some farm type jokes, Arty.

    ARTY:  Got one, Marty.  Right off the top of my head.  There's this . . .

    MARTY: No good, Arty.  Too blue.

    (THERE'S A KNOCK AT THE OFFICE DOOR.  A SENATE PAGE ENTERS AND ANNOUNCES, "MR. VICE PRESIDENT, THE SENATE RECONVENES IN FIVE MINUTES.")

    NIXON (fluffs out his boutonniere):  That's all for now, boys.  Got to go.  It's showtime!