A Little Wisdom from (Groucho) Marx:

I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it.

Has Anyone Ever Told You You Look Like the Prince of Wales?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARPO!

Arthur "Harpo" Marx
Film Comedian, Musician, Author, Socialite, Father

November 23, 1888 - September 28, 1964

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Marx, Groucho

Julius Henry “Groucho” Marx
Actor, Singer, Humorist, Dancer, Mangy Lover
October 2, 1890 – August 19, 1977

Funny as hell and a founding father of Diaspora Jewish culture in North America. What’s more, a personal idol, a friend and a watershed for my life.

I would write a tribute, but what more do you say? If I got sappy, he’d only slap me, so I’ll let the pictures do the work. Enjoy!

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‘Atsa Good, Eh, Boss?

Leonard “Chico” Marx
Comedian, Actor, Pianist, Gambler.
March 22, 1887- October 11, 1961

In typical Chico style, this might not be the right day to celebrate his birthday. He may have been born yesterday. There is some confusion. That would have been just perfect by Chico.

Chico meant it when he said there was no such thing as Sanity Clause. Actually, put the full stop after Sanity.

Chico Marx was the oldest surviving Marx brother (an older brother, Manfred, died in infancy), and his youth was spent gambling, hocking his father’s sewing supplies (as well as his little brothers’ possessions), and playing pool and piano with equal nonchalance. Mostly he gambled. Girls were a serious hobby throughout Chico’s life (hence the name, pronounced Chick-o, not Cheek-o), but gambling was his life’s passion.

In fact, the later films, which are often cursed needlessly by Marx Brothers fans (I say that mediocre Marx Brothers is better than none), were made specifically to finance Chico’s habits (and to placate his bookies). Harpo and Groucho, both staid family men in comparison to their brother, had invested a nice enough to sum to retire after A Day at the Races (1937). (Actually, Groucho had threatened to retire every year since before Duck Soup (1933), though he never seemed to make it.)

But it was Chico, invariably showing up at one of his brothers’ doors late at night explaining how one of his bookies was going to break his legs, who kept the act going. He needed the cash.

Chico was the Vaudeville Italian of the group, and one of the last remaining artifacts of turn-of-the-century ethnic comedy. However, his parody of the Italian immigrant was never cruel. In fact, his character was much beloved by Italians at the time, and he was continually being invited to come and stay or eat with strangers who wished to claim him as a countryman from Naples or Milan. It is questionable as to whether these people really believed his accent, or whether they just enjoyed being spoofed by one of the most prestigious comedy acts in the world.

A talented and naturally gifted pianist, Chico was characteristically unromantic about his skill. His mother, Minnie, had purchased him cheap one-handed piano lessons as a boy (which he was then supposed to teach, second-one-handed, to his little bother Adolph, a.k.a. Harpo), and he studied only so long as it took to get him pianist gigs in the brothels and saloons of New York or Chicago. Though we enjoy his musical interludes in the films, we should not pretend that his piano meant as much to him as the harp did to Harpo (who was genuinely and sentimentally in love with his instrument). For Chico, the piano meant a source of income, female admirers, and some time-killing. It was a hobby, but not a passion. (That spot was reserved for bridge.)

Chico joined the Marx Brothers act (which consisted of Groucho, Gummo, Harpo, Minnie and anyone else they could hire for a slave wage) during its “Fun in Hi Skule” Vaudeville revue phase, and, after the death of their mother, served as a manager for the group. Though poor at making decisions regarding personal finances, Chico was a dedicated and ambitious man when cutting a deal for the group (mostly because he needed the most money he could get, to pay off his debts). It was he who, at a bridge game, found Irving Thalberg and convinced the young MGM producer that the rumours of the Marxes’ death in show business were grossly exaggerated. (The story often goes that Thalberg won the Brothers, which one can almost believe. Chico loved gambling, but he wasn’t terribly good at it.)

Aside from his film successes with his brothers, Chico led his own big band for a while in the 30s and 40s, and toured as a solo piano act. He also had long stints on the keys in Vegas, performed routines with Harpo around England for a while, and was a favourite act on the army base tours of the 40s. He was also a well-loved member of the Hillcrest Round Table, and seems to have been adored by all who knew him (except perhaps by those who were married to him).

When people reminisce about Chico, they almost always focus on the gambling and the womanizing, but also on a dedication to sharing whatever he had (he was famous for stealing his brothers’ clothing to send to impoverished relatives in Russia) and to making sure the Brothers got along with the beleaguered writers (when he himself wasn’t raising a stink if he had fewer lines than Groucho). Stories about Chico take on the qualities of heroic legends, complete with tall tales, schemes and a punch line. He lived larger than any man has the right, and he died of heart disease in 1961 at the ripe age of 74, leaving behind a daughter and an ex-wife.

Chico remains a mystery to film historians in some ways. He was the only Marx Brother who neither wrote a book, nor gave significant interviews, about his experiences on stage and before a camera. Thus, we will never have Chico’s versions of the stories so lovingly (and ruefully) recounted by his exasperated, yet tolerant, brothers. We don’t even have many photos taken of Chico on set (he was often out playing dice with the teamsters between shots).

However, we have a great number of wonderful screen moments, and perhaps the mystery works with this Chicolini with no real past and hazy details (he doesn’t remember where he was born – he was only a little baby). We have his recorded verbal acrobatics, and his shooting of the keys. We also have glimpses of his magic smile. So maybe that is enough.

Who are you going to believe: me or your own eyes?

Let Harpo Do the Talking for Once

“The only tradition in our family was our lack of tradition.”
~ Adolph (Arthur) “Harpo” Marx.

I am so up to my eyeballs in Marx (Groucho, that is) right now that I scarcely have anything to say, and I have even less time in which to say it.

I present my paper on Groucho’s performance of Jewishness (in terms of posture, vocal presence, gender subversion, and humour) on the 15th (next Wednesday for those of you without a calendar and only the fields by which to plan your wholesome little lives). That means that, along with preparing for my tutorials and class for Monday (curse that rotten day!), I now have about four days to prepare a paper, practice my “performance” of that paper (yes, we are getting graded on showmanship), select less than ten minutes of Groucho clips that illustrate my points, construct my Power Point presentation, and do enough extra research that I can handle the questions and critique… Oh, and skim all of the class materials so I can try to use one or two of the readings, and thereby pretend that I actually got something out of the 27 hours I have sat in stunned and depressed boredom in that class. (Well, OK. Maybe a few of those hours were not that bad... Like break times.)

Well, I have no doubt that my presentation will be a performance… It is just down to whether it is a performance of intelligence and competence, or one of incompetent lollygagging— that remains to be seen.

This evening, I started Daniel Boyarin’s Unheroic Conduct (a fascinating and heavily theorized exploration of how Jewish non-masculinity has been constructed), and I am enjoying it very much. Tonight I am also re-reading the particularly “Jewish” passages of Harpo Speaks! (Did you know that Harpo Marx took a tour through Germany on his way to Russia six months after Hitler came into power? Suffice it to say that he cut his plans short and got the hell out of the joint. Being the only Jewish kid in an all-Irish school had taught him enough to know when the odds were against Jewish safety.)

Thus, I have very little to share. Right now, my life is all Groucho, all the time.

I have been discussing Groucho’s manhood (yes, in both the figurative and literal sense) with everyone I meet, and have a pretty good grasp on it (no dirty thoughts there, please). A colleague asserted that Groucho could not practice classical gender subversion, as he was so heavily male because of his moustache. Ah, I responded, but why such a fake moustache? What was he trying to hide? Why couldn’t he grow his own? Perhaps this a part of performing Jewish blurred maleness, like the stage Shylock's long tressed-wig. I even threw him a reference to some hefty tome on hair and sexuality, which is currently lying on my living room floor. I do not remember the name of it, or of the author, but it has already served me well.

You can see that I beginning to enjoy myself. Groucho can be happy that his masculinity is once again some woman's play-thing.

So, I am on my way out of my last term in classes (possibly EVER), and I am enjoying my research, but I am running on empty (just a little bit). I tried to come up with something good for this entry, but the only thing I could easily find in entertainment history for March 9th was Bob Hope’s film debut (1938), and for the 10th the first Warner Brothers film (1918)… Both very important things, but not really up my alley.

Bob Hope, bless him, was many things, but Jewish was not one of those things.

Oh, well… Next week I have a good tribute to Sidney Chaplin (the elder), so that’s something to look forward to. For now I will leave you with a little something from my reading:

“My sex education was direct, no punches pulled, and vividly illustrated. I learned a lot more about the subject and its ramifications than most twelve-year-old boys. But the method had its draw backs. For years I couldn’t eat pickles.”

And if you want to know what that means, you’ll have to read Harpo Speaks!

Happy One-Oh-Five, Zeppo!

Herbert “Zeppo” Marx
Straight Man; Singer; Actor; Mechanic; Inventor.
February 25, 1901- November 30, 1979

105 years old, and he’s still the youngest brother!


It took a lot of guts to understudy Groucho, and go on for him in Chicago.

It took courage to co-star with Groucho, Chico and Harpo, at all.

It took even more fortitude to leave the team, and strike out on his own.


I hope the cards are hot wherever you are, Zepp.

Happy birthday.

Swing While You Sell!

Oh for a shotgun, or at least some sort of potion to get this song out of my head…

Realized that I didn’t provide lyrics for my songs in my proposal, or clear segmentation notes of the scenes, so I am up adding them.

However, while lyrics to “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” and “The Laws of the Administration,” were readily available for pilfering off the web, the same cannot be said for either “Freedonia’s Going to War!” or “Sing While You Sell!”

Hmmm. The two most complex and difficult to transcribe… I wonder if those facts are connected.

In any case, have just spent 40 minutes painstakingly making full transcriptions of those two production numbers, and now I have a damned sore arm and that hideous swing number from The Big Store (1941) stuck right through my brain, with absolutely no way to get it out.

It is now much, much clearer to me why old people always seem like they are looking at the world through a fog… They grew up with this stuff.

It’s probably all they’ve heard in their brains for sixty years.

Kill me. Please. Before the same thing happens to me.

(And, yes, I know this pic is actually from Duck Soup... But it is close to swing, right? Ah, get off my back.)

Either Really Like Your Partner, or Have a Really Good Hand. (When playing bridge, of course.)

Well, to use language appropriate to a pink-poodle fan diary, I am, like, totally crushing on Groucho Marx right now…

Maybe it’s those dark, mysterious eyes. Maybe it’s that black, romantic, wavy hair. Maybe it’s the Semitic good looks. Maybe it’s the springy, scrawny legs. Maybe it’s the moonlight, the wine and the song, or just the impetuousness of my youth (I really should tell my Youth to be more careful).

I’m not sure why, but right now I am madly in love with Groucho Marx. Been reading about the man, and every page makes my heart more and more tender. Soon it’ll be ready for roasting.

I’ve been learning all sorts of wonderful things. For instance, did you know that Groucho had a “thing” for getting his feet tickled, especially by any female in her twenties? (Well, gootchi-gootchi-goo, you cutie!)

I have also read that all his life Groucho was insecure because it was always easy for Chico to score (hence the name, not pronounced cheek-o, but chick-o), while poor young Julius had to work for hours just to get a number from a girl. Heartbreaking, and confusing: If women preferred Chico to Groucho in those days, then I never would have fit in with those dames. (Although Margaret Dumont seemed to like him, and I probably couldn’t have fit into anywhere with her, either.)

My heart belongs to Groucho. Go ahead and laugh, but we were made for each other. We both enjoy a good joke, for example. Further, we are both charmingly Yiddilicious (patent pending on that word, by the way), and both of us would go a long distance for a good piece of pumpernickel. That’s a great basis for any relationship.

Actually, I’m starting to think that my work is beginning to go to my head… However, with a little luck, in my dreams tonight it may go to other, better places…

Oh, Groucho!

Grouchy for Groucho

Wednesday night: Holly’s weekly battle with the narcolepsy, which, oddly enough, only hits her during her grad seminars.

Spent three useless hours in my useless class, listening to useless opinions from useless people… Then spent nearly an hour having a great chat with one of the only classmates from that class that I have any interest in. (That got me wondering why some of my most educationally stimulating discussions happen out of the classroom and for free, when my classes are unchallenging, un-stimulating and uninteresting? By that comparison, I should be paying for chats with Andrew, and getting the class for free… I really must talk to the dean about this.)

Then I came home and watched A Day at the Races (1937) to pull myself out of the grumps. I find a movie is the only way to improve my mind and save it from the lethargy inspired by modern educational practices, such as convincing even the least interesting people that they should speak up in class.

Thursday night our PhD seminar prof is taking us out for Indian food… Am I grateful? No. I am, in fact, grouchy about it, because I’d rather be home. It doesn't seem fair that they make me come to class for three hours a week, and then pressure me into having a meal with them away from my comfy apartment, on my own time. For me, staying at home, even if that means eating nothing but some popcorn because I haven't made it to the store, is better than eating a $400 meal at the Ritz.

At home I’m not bothered, and I don’t have to make nice… At home I can read and watch movies. At home I don’t have to pretend I like hearing about peoples’ kids, car troubles or academic interests. At home, it’s just me, John, the cat, and the Marx Brothers… Why can’t it be like that all the time?

Man, why can’t I just spend my life watching old films? I would be so much happier that way. Sure, as it is I am lucky. (Can you name someone else who gets to spend a term doing research on Groucho Marx, while getting paid by a university?) But I’d still rather make my living directly off watching movies with fewer middlemen.

Yeah, I know: "Bitch, bitch, bitch..." Well, maybe I'll be happier tomorrow. Maybe, but I doubt it.

Really, the fact that they make me come in for classes is starting to cut into my leisure time.

If I had a Million Dollars…

I’d purchase 30” of Groucho…



This is the little fella I’d love to have all to myself, if only I had a pile of cash with nothing better to do with, like rent. Man, I hate rent so much…

Just think of it, would ya? I’d be a legend: The PhD student who presented her term research via a Groucho ventriloquist dummy! (It’s technically a figure.)

Don’t worry, I’ll launch a telethon to bring you home to me… I’ll keep a candle burnin’ in the winda’ for you, my sweet. Wait for me?