Kup's Chicago - Irv Kupcinet [108]
Another time, when the show was being telecast from a hotel instead of from our regular studios, a veteran actor managed to tiptoe around our custom of serving nothing stronger than coffee in the cups we provide each guest. He had somehow talked the maître d’ of the establishment, who was in charge of refreshments, into serving him cupfuls of whisky instead – and soon the actor was almost literally in his cups! We tried to overlook it when he became argumentative, but when he began swearing in discussions with a Russian visitor on the program, alert viewers knew as well as I did that something affirmative would have to be done quickly. Much as I regretted it, we bade him an early goodnight.
But some of the unexpected crises on the show represent nothing more than innocent fun. One such surprise occurred in 1961 when my guests included educator Robert M. Hutchins, Edward R. Murrow, and a group of CBS correspondents who had assembled in Chicago that day. One of my secret fears for At Random is a deadly lull in the conversation, when neither my guests nor I have anything to offer. Never would I expect such silence from the articulate guests that comprised this panel.
But when I threw out the first question, a sort of warm-up to prime the conversational pump, I was greeted with complete silence. Hutchins shook his head and muttered, “no comment.” Murrow had a blank stare on his darkly handsome face. The CBS correspondents – Daniel Schorr of Germany; David Schoenbrunn, then of Paris; Alexander Kendrick of London; Richard Hotellet of the United Nations; Peter Kalischer of the Far East, and Blair Clark, then of New York but now a network vice-president – each shrugged his shoulders as I turned to them pleadingly.
“This,” I said to myself, “was the simplest subject I could think of and I can’t get any response. Where do I go from here?” Perspiration formed on my forehead but I was chilled inwardly.
Finally, after what seemed an interminable period, Murrow burst into laughter and explained his little gag to the audience. He had suggested to the others not to reply to anything I said, just to cause a few moments of embarrassment. Never did I heave a more welcome sigh of relief than while Murrow did the explaining.
And there was another At Random show where Alfred Hitchcock worked a similar gag on his fellow guest, Jack Paar. Confiding to me in advance that he was a bit miffed at Paar, he said, “Now don’t worry, but I’m just going to sit there for about an hour and not say a word. Let’s see what Paar does about it.”
True to his word, Hitchcock did “just sit there,” responding to the conversation with nothing more than some occasional mugging of cool assent or cold disapproval. Finally Paar could restrain himself no longer.
“Mr. Hitchcock,” he said, “you’ve been sitting there for almost an hour and you haven’t said a word. How come you don’t talk?”
Whereupon Hitchcock, with his pixyish grin, explained that it all had been a joke. Paar – who, incidentally, proved to be a bright, witty, and co-operative guest – laughed as hard as everyone else over the gag.
And another time, Carol Channing gave the other guests a bit of a start, although the reason for their reaction was not immediately understood by the viewers at home. Carol had arranged to join our At Random party late, as soon as she could get to the studio after her last show at the Empire Room of the Palmer House. Eager to join us as soon as she could, she stripped off her costume, climbed into a red jersey dressing gown, jumped in a cab, and breezed into the studio. Needless to say, several guests did a double take. But Carol