Daytona Beach Morning Journal
July 25, 1941
pg. 1
NAMES THAT MAKE NEWS
Harpo Is Getting His Voice Back
New Hope, Pennsylvania, July 24 - (AP) -
Funnyman Harpo Marx, the bewigged comedian
who has leered and capered through movie
after movie for years without opening his
mouth, has got his professional voice
back.
But he's still struggling with
himself. It's about this business of
talking out loud on the stage. He
interrupted today's rehearsal for his
debut in legit to moan.
The wildest of the Marx brothers - all of
whom now are running wild separately on
their own - will appear next week at the
Bucks county playhouse in the role of
banjo in "The Man Who Came to Dinner."
George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, who wrote
the play and who have summer homes in
fashionable Bucks county, will play along
with him.
The 43-year-old Harpo thereby will break a
25-year professional silence.
"Vocally," he quips, "I'm a
quarter-century plant."
The last time he spoke on stage was in
1916, in Denison, Texas, and that
practically was an accident.
"We were playing one night stands," Harpo
recalls. "When it was over the
manager said we could stay another night
if we would change the act. We only had
one other act. There had to be four
people speaking. That's the last
time I opened my mouth on the stage."
After playing here for a week, Harpo will
go to Marblehead, Massachusetts, to appear
at another summer theater.
"But can you imagine?" he says.
"It's the role of a mute. I don't
say a word. Maybe I'm starting on my
second quarter century of silence."
Denison, Texas. This was a
time and a place I shall never forget. The
year was 1913, or maybe 1915. Come to
think of it, the place might have been
Bonham or Sherman instead of Denison.
But it was Texas. That is a
fact. A far more important fact is
that, in this town, the Marx Brothers were
reborn, professionally. We became a
comedy act.
The audience loved the Six Mascots
in Denison. So much so that the local
manager asked us to play a second night, but
on one condition; that we didn't repeat the
same show. If we did something new, he
could get the same audience to come back
again. Minnie, without a second
thought, agreed. We hadn't had a
chance to make this kind of loot since our
first weeks in the virgin territory of
Chicago.
Then Minnie had a second
thought. We didn't have anything new
to do. We had one show, period.
After the bass solo, Groucho's solo and
butcher-boy routine, my "Holy City," the
mandolin trio, the sextet medley, and
"Peasie Weasie," our repertoire was
exhausted. The only other thing we
knew how to do was take bows, and if we felt
the audience wasn't paying enough attention,
lead a group-sing of "Dixie."
Minnie called a family conference,
around the boarding house dinner
table. What could we possibly put on
tomorrow night? New scenery might help
disguise our old act. But there was no
new scenery to be had. In fact, there
was no scenery at all, since we performed
not in a theatre but in a school assembly
room. Groucho, the veteran trouper of
the family, had an inspiration.
"Why not put on School Days?"
he said. "I had to follow the act
clear across Montana and I know it by
heart."
School
Days we had all seen, at least
once. It was an old Gus Edwards
routine, a tried-and-true chestnut.
Minnie took mental stock of our costumes and
props. We had everything we
needed. As for the stage set - the
school assembly room was perfect.
Groucho gave us the rundown on the
scene, and Minnie did the casting.
Herr Teacher - Groucho
Hebrew Boy - Gummo
Patsy Brannigan, the Teacher's
Despair - Harpo
Mama's Boy (always "the Nance," in
the trade) - the Bass
Bright Little Girl - Aunt Hannah
Not-So-Bright Little Girl - Minnie
My Patsy Brannigan costume was a
delight. Minnie got out the wig
she'd made up for Jenny, our ex-girl singer,
cut off the piece that used to cover Jenny's
cockeye, and dyed the wig red for me.
She sewed bright patches onto my traveling
pants, which were pretty well shot anyway,
and I used a piece of rope for a
suspender. The rest of the costume was
my beloved turtle-neck sweater and a
decrepit beaver hat that Minnie scrounged
out of the boarding-house attic.
For a final touch before going on
stage, I reddened my ears, painted on some
freckles and blacked out 3 of my front
teeth.
(From Harpo Speaks!,
Harpo Marx and Rowland Barber, New York:
Bernard Geis Associates, 1961, ppg. 107-108
