This time
Groucho Marx
to the rescue
EIGHT days into the lockdown. Social isolation is for most of us an unnatural and unnerving state. So is isolation from the draught beer taps, the wee dram and the accompanying bonhomie.
How do we compensate over the next 13 days? I guess we each of us have to discover our own solution. A week ago I shared with readers the delight of re-acquainting myself with the hilarious writing of SJ Perelman.
Today I do the same with an account by Groucho Marx of a Hollywood dispute between the Marx Brothers and the legal department of movie-makers Warner Brothers.
It's contained in a book I read many moons ago, Modern Humour, edited by Mordecai Richler. It's 535 pages in hardback, priced at R24.80, so that gives an idea how many moons.
I find a debate between Groucho Marx and a group of po-faced lawyers the kind of thing that makes you momentarily forget the coronavirus pandemic, the lockdown and the economic catastrophe. Perhaps readers of this column can experience the same temporary relief.
Warner Brothers produced the epic blockbuster, Casablanca, starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Years later the Marx Brothers announced their own movie, A Night In Casablanca.
Next they got a letter from Warner Brothers legal department warning them against infringement of copyright.
To which Groucho himself responded: "It seems that in 1471 Ferdinand Balboa Warner, your great-great-grandfather, while looking for a shortcut to the city of Burbank, had stumbled on the shores of Africa and, raising his alpenstock, named it Casablanca.
"You claim you own Casablanca and that nobody can use that name without your permission?"
The Warner Brothers lawyers then ask about the content of the Marx Brothers movie. Groucho explains that it's about a doctor of divinity operating on the Gold Coast of Africa, who has a sideline in hawking can openers and pea packets.
The Warner Brothers attorneys express puzzlement and ask for a proper resume of the plot. To which Groucho responds:
"Since I last wrote you, I regret to say there have been some changes to the plot of our picture, A Night In Casablanca. In the new version I play Bordello, the sweetheart of Humphrey Bogart. Harpo and Chico are itinerant rug pedlars who are weary of laying rugs and enter a monastery for a lark.
"Across from the monastery, hard by a jetty, is a waterfront hotel, chockfull of apple-cheeked damsels, most of whom have been barred by the Hays Office for soliciting. In the fifth reel Gladstone makes a speech that sets the House of Commons in an uproar and the King promptly asks for his resignation. Harpo marries a hotel detective. Chico operates an ostrich farm. Humphrey Bogart's girl, Bordello, spends her last years in a Bacall house.
"This, as you can see, is a very skimpy outline. The only thing that can save us from extinction is a continuation of the film shortage.
"Fondly, Groucho Marx."
At which point the correspondence from the Warner Brothers legal department dried up.
Did this divert you for a few moments? It did me.
Tailpiece
TWO retired army officers are taking a snifter in their club.
"I say, old boy – when did you last make love to a woman?"
"Er … 1958."
"I say, that's an awfully long time ago."
"Not really. It's only ten past eight now."
Last word
The things we know best are the things we haven't been taught. - Marquis de Vauvenargues
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