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Burns and Allen Backstage An Intimate Close-Up of the Famous Radio Couple B EFORE the interview was over, it was not at all certain that I was not Gracie Allen’s brother. Or is it George Burns’ brother? At all events, I was just as lost. I might have known from the way the matter 'farted that something confusing would eventuate. The fact was that I was not asked to interview Burns and Allen at all. I was asked to interview 'omebody else, hut the writer-fellow who was going to interview Burns and Allen wanted to interview that somebody else. So he asked me, and I said all right, and we swapped and that’s how it all began. Indeed, I might have known that something confusing would happen from such a beginning, bur no sane mortal could have foreseen quite such a topsy-turvy, downside-up affair as this interview with Burns and Allen turned out to be. It might more accurately be said, as Allen and Burns turned out to be. You may catch some idea from that of what to prepare yourself for. l or my part quite unwarned, I presented my- '<*!f on the dot of the appointed hour at the stage door of the Paramount Theater in 'Times Square, and, passing through that portal, became an un fitting Alice stepping through the Looking Glass, r.verything that followed made as much sense as I he Carpenter and T he Snark and all the other inverted denizens of that classic Wonderland. Forcing what I told myself was an indifferent progress through groups of chorus girls sitting on the stairs with apparent—but only apparent— unconcern for their evident allurements, I felt into an elevator and my hand short individual with tortoise- I took him, in my innocence, By Leo Fontaine Same say that Burns is Jewish and Grace Allen is a Gentile, while others whisper that Grace Allen is Jewish and her famous husband a non-Jew. The fact is that both of these famous radio stars are Jewish. The writer of this article is a well-known contributor to Radio Guide. His portrait-interview with Burns and Allen is the most entertaining and colorful close-up of the two stars ever presented to the reading public. m self pushed grasped by a shell glasses. T ‘r George Burns. Somewhere aloft, I think it was at the fifth *or, he led me into a dressing room spacious enough for a Latin prima donna and started promptly disrobing, with only a casual, “Be with *u in a minute.” I watched each article peeling until nothing was left but a pea-green under cut—and the tortoise shell glasses. I’ll have Mrs. Burns in here right away,” he nformed me. Picking up a telephone, he com manded, “Have Mrs. Burns come to my dressing ; om at once, please.” Not knowing exactly what was expected of me, "'as immensely relieved when the young man se- -cted a dressing robe from an elaborate collection mging in a cabinet and, moreover, put it on. He sat down, and then, “Now, just what kind of an interview do you want?” he inquired. “Well, Mr. Burns,” I started, but started only. “Oh, let me introduce my self,” he interrupted genially. “I don’t blame you—no, I don’t blame you at all. I’m Georgje Allen—what’s your name?” “Gracie Burns is mine,” said the little dark-haired lady who stepped into the room at that moment, and in all truth it was, and is. Moreover, as far as she knows, it is going to continue to be. I gleaned that much, anyway, in a lucid interval of discussion on marriage and divorce among motion picture and radio stars. But it was only an interval. Something about their background, how they came to get into show business, how they liked radio and all that sort of thing, I thought, might be of engrossing interest to my readers. “Do you think so?” asked Gracie. "Isn’t that sweet ?” “Tee-hee-tee-hee,” twittered Georgie, or George, whichever he was at the moment. “Now, George, listen,’’ Grace chided. “The man is very nice and wants to interview you. And besides, don’t put on an act—he didn’t pay to get in.” She had been, it seemed, with an Irish act which is where she got the brogue she hasn’t ever been able to shake entirely, in spite of the fact that everybody in her San Francisco family but her mother was on the stage. He was born in the lower East Side and became the only actor in a family of thirteen children, but he has a thousand nieces who all do the Charleston, and at the age of seven he was singing with a quartet in back yards and Hamilton Fish Pond-Park, rather, where he used to dance on skates. “As a matter of fact,” said Grace, “George is the dumb one in that act.” “Just let that pass,” he remarked. “Brown and Williams were doing a dancing act on skates and I was twelve years old.” “So he went into Brown’s act,” said Grace. “Because Williams took sick, and my teacher was sitting in the audience the first night I played hookey from school. The next day they sent the truant officer and when I played the Windsor 'Theater a year later, they were tearing it down.” GEO. BURNS AND. GRACIE ALLEN "Tee-hee-tee-hee," twittered Mr. and Mrs. Burns. “George stole a gun,” Grace interpolated. “For the five dollars pay I couldn’t collect,” he explained. “Now, Gracie, you tell the man all about yourself.” Tee-hce-hee-hec,” twittered Mrs. Burns. For it was their eighty-first week on the same program for the Columbia Broadcasting System, and that sort of thing, after eighty-one weeks, gets you. T was up until five o’clock this morning finish ing my continuity,” George volunteered. “My life is just a gag.” “Georgie!” admonished Grace, for she wanted to tell me that she hadn't worked for a year and was visiting a girl friend in Jersey when an act called Burns and I^orraine came to town and she met them. Burns and Lorraine. Well, Burns, anyway. He had an act and needed a girl. She had an act and needed $500. So they decided to put on his act. “He was the comic and I did the straight lines,” said Gracie, “but everybody laughed at me, so we shifted the act around.” Honest,” he interrupted earnestly, “I’m the nut in the family. But let me tell you something funny about Gracie. She gets up in the morning and has her breakfast. 'Then she goes shopping. T hen she goes to lunch. Then she goes to a mati nee. Then she has dinner. 'Then she plays bridge. Then she goes to bed. Then the next morning she gets up and does it all over again.” “Georgie!” exclaimed Grace, hopelessly. “Do you suppose you could just let me tell the man it was three years after w r e met before you got me to marry you?” “You think that’s funny,” retorted George. “Well, listen to this—there were two fellow’s, a Jew’ and a Scotchman—” “And they couldn’t speak French,” put in Gracie. “Gracie!” said George. (Please turn to page 18) THE SOUTHERN ISRAELITE * [7]