Studio One (1948–1958): Season 6, Episode 11 - Confessions of a Nervous Man - full transcript
On opening night, a playwright sits in a bar interacting with well-wishers and remembering the problems of getting a play ready for Broadway while anxiously awaiting the verdicts of the eight newspaper reviewers.
Westinghouse. The
name that means sureness.
Whether it's on
the Laundromat...
The world's most
automatic washer...
Or lighting for our airports.
Whether it's a
product for your home,
for your business,
for your farm,
for your factory...
This is a documentary,
a true story about
what happens to a guy...
Me, as a matter of fact...
Who writes a play
that turns out to be a hit.
My name is George Axelrod,
and I wrote a play called
"The Seven Year Itch"
that's been running for
almost a year on Broadway.
And it's running also in
Chicago, London, Paris, Rome,
Stockholm, Amsterdam,
and Lima, Peru.
So I guess it's a hit.
The playwrighting business
is kind of a crazy
way to make a living.
Whether a play
is a hit or a flop
is decided, of course,
by the audience.
But more directly
than the audience,
it's decided by the critics...
Eight gentlemen who see
the play on opening night
and then beat it
back to their offices,
write their reviews
for the morning papers.
If the critics say
you're a hit, you're a hit.
If they say you're
a flop, you're a flop.
At least it's over
kind of quickly.
There are a couple of
tough hours in there, though...
The hours between the
time the curtain comes down
on opening night and the time
that the early-morning papers
are out with the first reviews.
You sweat when
you're waiting to see
what the critics
are gonna say...
Mr. Atkinson,
Mr. Kerr, Mr. Chapman.
It's their verdict, and
you're sort of sweating.
That's one of the things
this show's about tonight.
It's about some
other things too.
For the next hour, Art
Carney is gonna play me.
Sitting and watching
somebody else play you
on a television show is
kind of a weird experience,
but it's kind of typical
of one of the things
that seems to happen
to a guy who writes a play
and the play turns
out to be a hit,
which is another
one of the things
this show is about tonight.
Okay, Art. It's all yours.
"You know my phone number.
If you want me, call me."
What would you like, ladies?
- Two horse's necks.
- Yeah.
So I was just...
- Again, please, Mike.
- Oh, sure, Mr. Axelrod.
So I called him up
and said, "Listen here..."
♪ Da-da da dum ♪
♪ Ba dee da dum ♪
Pretty song.
Yeah.
"Knickerbocker Holiday."
Walter Huston sang it.
We use it in my show
at the end of the first act.
He plays it whenever
I come in here.
I think he thinks I
wrote it or something.
I hate to disillusion him.
- Mighty pretty song, all right.
- Yeah.
Such a quiet night.
Has been since
4:00 this afternoon.
Well, I think I'll just
have a little one myself.
Good idea. I highly
recommend it.
As a matter of fact,
have one with me.
- Be my guest.
- Thanks.
Well, good luck.
Yeah.
Ahh.
Not that you'll need it.
Everybody needs it.
No. Not you, Mr. Axelrod.
You don't need no more
luck. You got all the luck.
So you wrote a play.
Well, millions of
guys write plays.
So what? So nothing happens.
But you write a play,
and it turns out to be
"The Seven Year Itch."
Hey, what did I read
in Walter Winchell
they gave you for
the movie rights?
A quarter of a million dollars?
- Something like that.
- That's a lot of dough.
Yeah. It sure is.
Pay for one of them
jet planes with that.
- I did.
- What?
Oh, I see what you mean!
I guess you did pay
enough in taxes this year
to buy one of
them jets, at that.
And you talk about
you need luck.
Say, did I read
someplace in the paper
they was giving a party
for you someplace tonight?
The Stork Club or someplace.
They probably are.
What are you doing here, then?
How come you ain't at the party?
I don't think I could take it.
I don't think I could
go through that again.
Remember last
year, the party in here
the night "The Seven
Year Itch" opened?
Oh, I couldn't forget it.
Took three days to
clean this joint up.
Oh, that was some party.
Don't seem like
that was a year ago.
It was.
It sure was.
Opening-night party.
Actors and backers and
everybody connected with it.
Sweating it out.
Waiting to see whether
Mr. Atkinson and Mr. Kerr
and Mr. Chapman had
decided we had a hit or a flop.
Oh, I never want to go
through anything like that again.
Honey, did you like this play?
I adored the play, of course.
Absolutely adored it.
But "The Seven Year
Itch"... What a repulsive title.
I bet George could change it,
call it something attractive,
like "One Love-Mad Summer."
But you know how
stubborn and neurotic he is.
Yes, I talked to Cecil
B. DeMille in Hollywood
right after the show.
I said, "Cecil, as far as the
picture rights are concerned,
you can start
talking at $200,000
and a piece of the negative."
It's in, honey. It's in.
There's no question.
I was sitting two seats
away from Atkinson.
He was laughing his head off.
Well, there wasn't much to
it, really, but it was amusing.
At least no one died
or disintegrated in it.
My dear, you were lovely.
I saw in your performance
a certain inner tension.
But let me tell you, darling.
Just before I made
my first entrance,
I felt an elastic snap.
Darling, I played that entire
scene but in mortal terror!
You know I'm willing to
give my all for the theater,
but there are limits.
Ah, you were lovely,
my dear. Lovely.
I can't wait for the
reviews! I just can't wait!
Oh, it'll be another hour yet.
I'm a little worried
about Atkinson,
but Chapman's got to love it.
It's a real Chapman show.
I sat three seats
away from Atkinson,
and he never cracked a smile.
At least, I think
it was Atkinson.
I'd like to have a little
piece of that show, that's all.
A man have any money in
that show will make a fortune.
It'll run forever, you know?
Oh, well, darling,
naturally you'd say that.
As long as you think it's a hit.
I don't remember much
about the party myself.
I was sitting over in
the corner somewhere
with a lukewarm drink
in my cold, wet hand.
Don't worry, darling.
Everything's gonna be all right.
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
Why are they kidding themselves?
It's a disaster.
A total disaster.
The audience hated it.
You could tell they hated it.
Even I was down in
the lounge, I could tell.
I could hear that ominous
silence from upstairs.
Frankly, I blame
it on all the actors.
I've never seen such horrible
performances in all my life.
They were great when we
tried out the play in Boston.
I don't know what
happened to them tonight.
Cheer up, sweetheart.
About an hour to go.
Atkinson's probably
writing his review right now.
Atkinson? I hear he left
at the end of the first act.
Relax, baby, will you?
It's a smash. You're in.
All you got to worry about
is what to do with the money.
Atkinson. Kerr.
Chapman. The critics.
They're sitting there
destroying me right now.
Trite, unoriginal,
and tasteless!
Left this reviewer with a
distinct feeling of nausea!
Stamp out this ugly thing!
No, no, no, no. No, no.
Don't be ridiculous.
Critics aren't monsters.
They're just people.
You know, human beings.
As a matter of fact,
they happen to be
sensitive and intelligent
theater-loving gentlemen.
They were appointed on
account of their wisdom,
experience, and good taste.
If it's a good
play, they'll like it.
And it is a good play.
It's original, funny,
and very good.
It's very theatrical,
what with all the
monologues and new devices.
The audience loved
it. You could feel that.
You could absolutely
feel it all the way.
I could feel them liking it
when I was down in the lounge.
Came right through the floor.
No, no. Don't worry, kid.
It's a good play, and
the critics will know it.
You're in. You're
in like gangbusters.
Ohhhh!
A bright, fresh, new talent
exploded onto the
Broadway scene!
Brilliant. Hilarious.
But withal a deep and
probing human document.
It spread a magical, gossamer
web along the Great White Way.
Look back to Molière to find
a comparable comic genius.
This reviewer laughed and
cried and when he left the theater
felt that he had become somehow
a better, richer human being.
It'll be running when our
great-grandchildren are old.
Destined to become
an American folk classic.
Probably win the
Critics Circle Award.
Might even win
the Pulitzer Prize.
Well, no. Not the Pulitzer.
Why not the Pulitzer?
Oh, don't be ridiculous.
They never give the
Pulitzer to a comedy.
What about "You
Can't Take It With You"?
That was a comedy.
That won the Pulitzer Prize.
The Nobel Prize for Literature.
Of course, that would mean
going to Sweden for the ceremony.
We'd have to take
the kids out of school.
"The Seven Year Itch"!
No, no, no, no, no. No,
it would never happen.
They'd never give the
Nobel Prize or any prize
to a play called "The
Seven Year Itch."
No, they're right.
They're absolutely right. I
should have changed the title.
I should have called it
"One Love-Mad Summer"
or something like
that, but I didn't.
You know how stubborn
and neurotic I am.
What am I kidding myself for?
It'd have been a flop
no matter what I called it.
Just got to face it squarely
and try to figure out
where I go from here.
How did I get into
this thing, anyway?
Oh, George, it's
gonna be great, darling.
What was I trying to prove?
I didn't want to write
a play in the first place.
No, that's not true. I
did want to write a play.
Abstractly. Everybody
wants to write a play.
They just don't
go around doing it.
There I was.
A simple, happy comedy writer
writing a simple, happy little
hillbilly program once a week.
I wrote 20 jokes a week.
They gave me $200.
That's $10 a joke.
Very peaceful. Perfectly
lovely arrangement.
But no, I had to louse it up.
I had to be a Robert
Sherwood or something.
I wouldn't have done
this thing in the first place,
but they kept after me.
"Write a play," they said.
"Write a play. Write a play."
Actually, the whole
thing was my wife's idea.
Darling.
Darling, I don't
want to interrupt you,
but I've got to talk to you.
Now, I've been thinking
very seriously about this.
You're wasting your time.
You've got so much
talent it just kills me
to see you sitting there
stealing miserable jokes
for that miserable
hillbilly program.
I don't steal jokes.
I anthologize them.
You think this is funny?
"I've milked so many cows
that when I shake
hands with somebody,
I shake one finger at a time."
No.
Darling, if you're ever going
to write a play, now is the time.
Don't worry about the
money. Quit the hillbilly show.
I'll get a job, and you
can stay home and write.
I don't want to quit
my hillbilly show.
I like my hillbilly
show. I love old jokes.
Besides, what kind
of a job could you get?
Oh, I don't know. Something.
Something glamorous
and highly paid.
I could be a fashion consultant.
A fashion consultant?
I don't even know what
a fashion consultant is.
Well, neither do I, exactly.
But I could probably be one.
Or I could sell things
at Lord and Taylor's.
Look.
I got eight more jokes
to get for tomorrow.
Let me go to work, dear.
"One finger at a time."
You sure you don't
think that's funny?
Absolutely. I would testify
before Congress to that effect.
Oh, darling, at least think
seriously about writing a play.
It can be a comedy. You
write very funny comedy.
- But you just said...
- Oh.
Don't quit the hillbilly show.
Write it in your spare time.
Which you certainly have plenty.
Stealing 20 miserable jokes
is hardly enough to keep a
grown man occupied for a week.
Okay, okay, okay.
I'll think about it.
I'll think about it.
I'm gonna use this
"one finger" joke.
Even if you don't like it,
my hillbillies will love it.
That'll play.
Hey, uh...
Matter of fact, I did
have kind of a funny idea
for a new play the other day.
About this summer bachelor
who meets this dame
while his wife is away.
Sounds dreary.
But you'll come up
with something exciting
if you just think about it.
I know you will.
Why don't you talk
it over with Danny?
That's what you
have an agent for.
"when I shake
hands with somebody,
I shake one finger at a time"?
Baby, I'm trying to get
you a raise on this show.
Look.
My hillbillies love cow jokes.
Now, you just handle
the business end.
I'll handle the artistic end.
Look, my wife thinks
I ought to write a play.
She wants me to come over
here and talk it over with you.
She says that's what you're
for. To talk things over with.
She's absolutely right.
There's no future for
you in television, baby.
Business is lousy.
Everything's panel shows.
Only the other day I was
reading in the paper about this guy
jumps out of a hotel-room window
and hits four unemployed comedy
writers standing on the corner.
Now, you write a play,
right away you got stature.
You're a big man. Maybe
the movies want you.
Look at this guy Sam Taylor.
Last year he was
a comedy writer.
A bum like you.
Then he writes "The
Happy Time." Big hit.
Yesterday I see
him coming out of 21,
wearing one of these
English-looking suits
and smoking a big black cigar.
Now he's a big
man. He's got stature.
Well, maybe you're right.
Look, I had this kind of a
funny idea the other day
for a new play about
this summer bachelor
who meets this dame
while his wife is away.
It's been done,
baby. It's been done.
But you'll think of a
gimmick. I know you will.
Baby, get me Variety, will you?
So I was weak.
I was easily influenced.
I wrote a play.
Must have been out of my mind.
I wish I was dead.
Everything was so
lovely, so lovely before.
I loved my hillbilly show.
My hillbillies loved me.
They loved my jokes.
I loved the $200.
Those were the good old days.
Those were the good old days.
Now, you talk
about milkin' cows.
I done milked so
many cows in my time
that now when I go to
shake hands with somebody,
I shake it one finger at a time.
Ooh! It's hot out
tonight, ain't it?
Funny thing. Funny thing.
First time I ever milked a cow,
just by accident I dropped me
a dollar down on the barn floor.
I was on my hands and
knees and rooting around for it.
Then I reached up
to pull on the light.
Those were mighty
fine jokes this week, son.
Mighty comical.
Thank you, sir. I'm
glad you liked them.
One finger at a time.
That's mighty comical.
Now, son, you run along
home now and think up
some more of them
wingdingers for next week's show.
If you need me for anything,
I'll be over to the Stork Club.
One finger a time.
Oh, it just kills me!
I can't wait till I tell that
to old Sherman, boy.
I just kills me to get a good
one like that on old Sherman.
One finger at a time.
Boy, you sure write
comical! You surely do!
I was so happy.
So very happy.
But all that's finished now.
All you need is one flop
like this, and you're finished.
Absolutely finished.
Any minute now,
sweetheart. Any minute now.
Or is it gonna be a flop?
If I only knew.
If I only knew!
Now that you've seen part one
of "Confessions
of a Nervous Man,"
let's turn to our
Westinghouse program
and Betty Furness.
Which one of you could take
this out of my hands before...
Uh-oh! I knew it.
Doesn't that happen every time
when you defrost
the refrigerator
and the drip pan gets too full?
Defrosting is such
a messy, sloppy job.
Anyway, you have to
take all the foods out
and scrape the
frost off the freezer.
I bet you do it every
couple of weeks.
But never again if you own
this big, beautiful Westinghouse
frost-free refrigerator.
It's frost-free.
And that means no defrosting
to do in the freezer here
and no defrosting to do
down here in the refrigerator.
The frost-free system quickly
wipes away every trace of frost.
Why, even the defrost water
evaporates automatically.
And talk about room.
Let me show you.
Look at this great big freezer.
So much room that
you won't be running
back and forth to the store
for those convenient
frozen foods.
They'll be right here.
And this you have to see. Look.
Rollout shelves that
bring foods right out
and practically put
them in your hands.
Isn't that something?
And when they
designed this refrigerator,
they even remembered how
awkward it is to open the door
when your arms
are full of foods.
So watch.
Just a touch of your elbow,
and the door
opens automatically.
Like magic.
And you'll find
this magic opener
only on a Westinghouse
refrigerator.
Isn't it a wonderful
refrigerator?
It's so roomy, so
modern, so convenient.
And it can be yours for
as little as $5.15 a week
after a small down payment.
So stop in at your dealer's
and see this big Westinghouse
frost-free refrigerator.
It's so handsome and so
much handier in every way.
And remember...
We return now to
"Westinghouse Studio One"
and "Confessions
of a Nervous Man."
Quarter of 12:00 now,
and the tension's growing.
All over New York, friends,
press agents, and spies
are haunting the corridors
of the morning papers,
waiting for the verdict.
Fame or oblivion.
A virtual... if you'll
pardon the expression...
dragnet had been thrown out.
First break came at 11:50 p.m.
A phone call to The
New York Times.
Yeah?
Yeah. Yeah.
I just called The Times.
I just talked to
Harry at The Times.
He's sitting right across the
desk from Brooks Atkinson.
And what do you think
Atkinson was doing, baby?
He was smiling! Smiling, yeah!
Smiling!
Harry says Atkinson hasn't
smiled while writing a review
since the opening
night of "Oklahoma!"
You're in, baby. You're in!
Get me Hollywood!
Cecil B. DeMille!
Atkinson was smiling.
Atkinson was smiling.
Atkinson was smiling.
Know what that means?
He liked the show.
He's writing a rave review.
It's gonna be a
hit. A smash hit.
Do you know what that means?
About 6,000 plays
get written a year.
Not more than 50 of
them get produced.
- Only 5 or 6...
- Oh, darling!
1000 to 1, and
I'm gonna make it.
Atkinson was smiling,
and I'm gonna make it.
It's gonna be a
hit. A smash hit.
Oh, boy, oh, boy.
I'm gonna be the hottest
thing that ever happened.
1,000 to 1 against
me, and I did it!
Why, even Lindbergh
was better than 1,000 to 1.
I'm gonna make it. I'm
a playwright with a hit.
It's gonna be a smash hit.
I-I'm the biggest thing
that ever happened.
The biggest, hottest,
most sensational thing
that ever happened in the world!
I did it. I did it. I did it.
I'm a celebrity.
I'm famous. I'm rich.
There'll be autographs,
personal appearances,
radio shows, lecture tours,
interviews on television.
Oh, it's so wonderful
to see you're all here,
and you're all here
to see little me.
A-ha!
But of course I know you're here
to see my wonderful
guest stars too.
Oh, friends!
We're going to rearrange
our show just a little bit tonight.
As you know, I have
some wonderful guests
lined up for you tonight...
Danny Kaye, Mickey
Mantle, Eleanor Roosevelt.
But we're going to ask
Eleanor and Danny and Mickey
if they'd mind bowing out,
because George Axelrod
just walked into the restaurant,
and I know you'd
rather talk to him.
A-ha!
Let's see if we can get
George Axelrod to come over!
Oh, darling.
I know this is asking
so much of you,
but would you say
hello to the people?
Just hello?
Oh, darling, it would
mean so much to me.
It would raise my ratings.
My sponsor would
give me a bonus.
Please, darling? Please?
Glad to, baby. Glad to.
Hello.
Oh, darling!
Thank you so much.
It was so utterly
fantastic talking to you.
Ladies and gentlemen,
that was George Axelrod,
author of the smash-hit
play "The Seven Year Itch,"
who just said hello to you.
A-ha!
And remember, you saw him here.
Ha ha!
Time now for our mystery guest.
Everyone blindfolded?
Now, let me take a guess.
There's only one
person in America today
who could get
applause like that.
George Axelrod!
Right, right, right!
You are so right!
Good evening, sir.
I have a few messages here.
A Mr. DeMille called
from Hollywood.
He would like you to go
out there for a few days.
He needs help on a new picture.
Oh, Cecil. I'd love
to help him out.
But I've been
rather tied up lately.
Tennis lessons and
all that, you know?
Quite, sir.
And Miss Marilyn
Monroe called again, sir.
Oh, Marilyn. I hope
you told her I was out.
Quite.
I have a few other
messages here...
No, no. Not now. I'm
tired and quite hungry.
Quite, sir.
Supper is laid out
in the library, sir.
No, no. That won't be necessary.
I think I'll just
go get something
out of the refrigerator.
Very good, sir.
The Westinghouse people sent
her along with a new refrigerator.
With their compliments.
How sweet.
The play.
The play.
It'll be played all
over the world.
Not only in New York and
Chicago but all over the world.
London...
You're married, aren't you?
Yes. I am.
I thought so. You look married.
Really amazing.
At home, nobody was married.
But in London, everyone is.
Men, I mean.
That's a remarkable observation.
Your wife's away for
the summer, isn't she?
As a matter of fact, she is.
But how did you know?
They all are.
Really amazing.
And Paris.
It'll be played in Paris.
Vous êtes marié, n'est-ce pas?
Mais oui. Je le suis.
Oh, vous avez l'air marié.
C'est curieux.
Dans mon village,
personne était marié.
Mais à Paris,
tout le monde l'est.
Tout les hommes.
Oh, c'est un observation
vraiment remarkable.
Dit-moi, votre femme... Est-elle
à la compagne pour tout l'été.
Oui, oui. La partie.
Comment le savez-vous?
Elles sont toutes parties.
Vous êtes vraiment formidable.
And not only in London
and Paris, either,
but all over the world.
All over the world!
Sire?
Yes, my little pigeon?
Your wives are away for
the summer, are they not?
Yes, as a matter
of fact, they are.
All of them.
How did you know?
Everybody's wives are away.
It is really amazing.
"The Seven Year Itch."
Ho ho! This play's gonna live.
Why, they'll be studying this
in colleges 500 years from now.
500 years from now,
it'll be required reading.
As we know, the 20th century
was a barren period
of noncreativity.
There was no art to speak
of, no music, no theater.
Therefore, it is
most interesting
that out of this cultural desert
there should arise one
great literary figure...
Axelrod... And one
timeless masterpiece...
"The Seven Year Itch."
What?
What?!
Yeah. Yeah.
Brace yourself,
kid. Brace yourself.
I just talked to
Harry at The Times.
- Yeah? Yeah?
- Bad news, baby.
Atkinson is frowning.
- Oh, no.
- Frowning?
I thought you said
he was smiling.
I know, baby. He was, he was.
But now he's frowning.
Don't take it too hard,
kid. That's the way it goes.
Maybe you'll write
another one someday, huh?
Don't take it too hard.
Cancel that call to DeMille.
- You need another drink.
- Yeah, I need another drink.
Atkinson was frowning.
Atk... At... Atkinson...
Atkinson was frowning.
You know what that
means. He hated the show.
He's panning it right now.
It's a flop. A disastrous flop.
I-I'm a playwright with a flop.
You know what that
means. I'm dead.
I am the coldest thing
that ever happened.
You had to be a playwright.
You couldn't be satisfied just
making a comfortable living
stealing jokes for
those lovely hillbillies.
Oh, no. Not you.
You had to write a play.
Well, nobody in
television will hire you now.
I just hope you're
satisfied, that's all.
Uh, son, little ol'
Brooks Atkinson says,
"It's tedious, contrived,
unoriginal, and tasteless."
Little ol' Walter Kerr. He
seems to be of the same mind.
"Dreary and uninspired.
Left this reviewer with a
distinct feeling of nausea."
Cousin John Chapman.
He didn't like it, neither.
But he had some nice
constructive criticism.
"Sets Broadway back 50 years.
Stamp out this ugly thing."
Just the way he put it, son.
Son, even the Partisan
Review just plain hated it.
Of course, you understand...
I'm sorry to do this... But
I got to get a new writer.
Oh, of course. I can
understand that, sir.
Good luck, son.
And no hard feelings.
One finger at a time!
Oh, you sure
used to write funny.
You sure used to.
I wish I was dead.
I could kill myself.
That's not a bad idea, son.
That's not a bad idea at all.
Baby, I've tried, but
there's not a television show
in the country
that'll touch you.
I've been going over
the want ads here,
trying to come up with
something for you to do.
If you just had
some kind of a trade.
If you'd been a welder
or an accountant
or even gone to college,
there might be some hope.
Nice jobs here
for college grads.
But you... You never even
graduated from high school.
Well, don't worry,
baby. I'll find...
Baby!
I finally found
something for you.
It's nice, clean work,
and you're gonna
be very happy at it.
You start Monday.
And then, if it's not too
much trouble... or even if it is...
I'd like to look at a
pair in gold for evening.
Certainly, madam.
May I recommend this cunningly
contrived silhouette pump,
which bears the
foot forward and aft.
In sleek calf with
contrasting vamp trim.
Oh, yes, it comes
in Benedictine, jet,
lettuce leaf, fun
pink, and poof.
What's poof?
Blue.
And now, madam, if
I also may suggest...
Young man, haven't I seen
your face somewhere before?
Possibly.
I know you! You're
George Axelrod.
Shh! Please! I beg your pardon.
They don't know here.
You're the one who
wrote that terrible flop
with the repulsive title.
What a pity.
Well, I suppose
you're much happier
doing this sort of thing.
Lord and Taylor's
has been kind, madam.
More than kind.
You ever think about
writing another play?
No, madam. I learned my lesson.
It's probably just as well.
And now maybe madam
would be interested
in these Leisure Lovelies,
designed for genuine
foot happiness
while lazing in luxury.
Notice the twinkle
of fiery rhinestones.
The glitter of multicolored
nailheads against velvet.
The intense beauty
of velvet unadorned.
Hello. Give me Harry, will you?
Hello, Harry?
What? He did?
You did? What?!
Yeah, I'll get him.
Hold on, Harry.
Yeah, hold on.
George! George, come on,
baby. Snap out of it, baby.
- What?
- It's Harry. The telephone.
- Come on, baby.
- Look, y-you talk to him.
Tell him I'll call him
the first of the week.
He got Atkinson's review on the
way down to the composing room.
Come on.
Can't you talk to him?
I don't want to
talk. You know me.
- Come on. Come on.
- Come on, darling.
Hello, Harry?
Hello, George.
You, uh... You want to know
what Mr. Atkinson has to say?
George, are you there?
I guess so, Harry. I guess so.
What you ought to do...
You ought to take this review
and, uh, paste it
up over your bed.
Harry, I think I'm gonna
drop dead any minute.
Will you hurry up, please?
I-I'd like to hear what
Atkinson said before I do.
Okay. Here it is.
"Tom Ewell and George
Axelrod might begin the day by..."
"gratefully thanking
each other."
He liked it?
I know. I know.
What's the matter,
baby? You're in!
I know! I know!
What's the matter?
What's worrying you now?
I-I don't know.
Nothing, I guess.
I just think I'm sort of
scared about my next play.
And now let's pause a moment
and turn to our
Westinghouse program again.
First time I've ever done this,
but I want you to
be sure and see
these smart new
Westinghouse radios.
They'll make exciting
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And for people who live some
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In fact, anywhere you
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Now, here's a wonderful gift
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And who doesn't?
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And here's another clock radio
with all the fine Westinghouse
quality that you expect.
A reliable electric clock,
a radio tone that pleases
the most sensitive ear,
and it's specially
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Actually, it's worth about $40.
But you can have it
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You'll see all these
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Westinghouse makes
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Some as low as $19.95.
Some models are slightly
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They make such gay
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Such rugged,
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With the Westinghouse
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You're safe if you insist
on a Westinghouse radio
because, remember...
We return now to
"Westinghouse Studio One"
and "Confessions
of a Nervous Man."
"The Seven Year Itch,"
which opened on November
20, 1952, was a hit, all right.
A smash hit, I guess.
The picture rights were
sold for a little better
than a quarter of
a million dollars.
The backers will make something
like 1,000% on the investment.
It's a smash hit, all
right. The biggest kind.
It's a year later now. 1953.
Another night. It's quiet.
Except on festive occasions
like an opening-night party,
Maud Chez Elle
is a dinner place.
After 11:00, it's pretty quiet.
I just want to ask him!
Excuse me. Aren't
you George Axelrod?
Yes.
See, I told you!
I saw you on "What's My
Line?" program the other night.
I thought you
were just wonderful.
You looked so young.
Thank you. I was
feeling pretty old.
I saw the play too.
I thought it was...
Ooh! It was just wonderful.
Thank you.
They're giving very
good performances.
Would you autograph this for me?
My nephew. He
collects autographs.
Be glad to.
Oh, and if it wouldn't
be too much trouble,
I wonder if you
would take this paper
and give it to Tom Ewell
and Vanessa Brown
and ask them to sign it.
And then send
it to this address.
My nephew would be so thrilled.
Sure.
Ohh. Thank you very much.
Oh, that's awfully nice of you.
It's a pleasure.
And it certainly
has been a pleasure
to make your acquaintance.
Thank you.
And...
Good luck to you.
- Thank you.
- Not that you need it!
Hey, you're getting to be like
some kind of a movie
star or something.
I didn't know you
were such a big deal,
or I'd ask for your
autograph myself.
You do that, and I'll
stop buying you drinks.
No kidding, though.
You are pretty hot right now.
Oh, I'm... I'm hot all right.
About the hottest thing
that ever happened.
- You sure are.
- You can say that again.
You sure are.
- You know what I am?
- What?
I'm a corporation.
I'm a heavy industry
that grosses somebody
around $80,000 a week.
I got a manager, two lawyers,
and I don't know how many
certified public accountants.
It figures you're a busy man.
Oh. I'm busy all right.
Yeah, I'm something else.
Something pretty special.
Something brand-new.
I'm a writer that doesn't write.
- You know why I don't write?
- Why?
I don't have the time.
You know what I
do? Go to meetings.
Meetings with the lawyers and
the accountants and my manager.
Gets very remote.
Very remote.
Suddenly the whole
thing has very little to do
with sitting down in
front of a typewriter,
putting words on paper.
Darling, before you get started,
I want to go over
the day with you.
You're having lunch
with Charlie and the
lawyers about the picture.
I said you'd pick them
up at Charlie's at 1:00
because you have to sign
something while you're there.
Try not to get stuck too long
because I promised the studio
you'd be there at
3:00 to cut that tape
for the "Stage Struck" show.
We were supposed to go to
two different cocktail parties.
I got you out of that because
we're going to the opening,
and Joe wants us to
come to the party afterward.
You're not even listening to me.
What are you writing, anyway?
A letter to my mother.
I've been working
at it all week.
Still haven't had
time to finish it.
Oh, that's sweet, George.
Danny called.
He'll be over in a little while
with Frank and the accountants.
He's all upset about the
British rights to something.
I couldn't quite
get it straight.
Oh, that must be
Danny and Frank now.
Don't forget to
call Billy at noon.
That's 9:00 out there.
He wants to talk before he gets
started shooting this morning.
Oh, here, gentlemen.
Hi, fellas.
- Hello, George.
- You look awful, baby.
Sorry to break in on you
like this, but my hands are tied
on the German thing
till you make a decision.
Boys on the coast are
screaming about a release date.
I told them June 1956, but
I don't think they'll hold still.
Bob, we're sitting on $7,500
worth of English royalties.
We can't deposit until
you clear the statement.
It's Billy calling
from the coast.
George can't talk to anybody
till he's made a decision
on the German thing.
He's got to. He starts
shooting in a couple of minutes.
He'll be dead for
the rest of the day.
If it's really urgent.
Urgent?!
The front office just came back
with 10 pages of
reservations on the treatment.
We've got to get those
English figures verified
so we can deposit.
Hi, Billy. How's your tennis?
Yeah.
Well, that's the way it goes.
Here are the Milan notices.
Thought you'd like to read them.
How are they?
Great notices. Great, terrific.
Tell me what they
say. I can't read Italian.
They're a smash. It's the
biggest thing since pizza pie.
Okay, Billy. Well, uh, I'll
try and think of something.
Yeah.
Yeah, okay.
Bye-bye.
Look, fellas.
Fellas.
Fellas.
Uh, can we let this
ride for a little while?
I'd like to try out a new
idea I got for a new play.
Just to get the reaction.
Not now, George. Not now.
We have important things.
The whole question of
the amateur stock rights
has been completely clarified.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Clarified.
And it's just a question
of whether we should
form a corporation
with limited
partnership agreements
and package all
the units ourselves
or whether it would be
better just let Dramatists Play
handle the whole mess.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- The whole mess.
Look, fellas.
If I can't try out
my new play idea,
let me try out this idea I
have for a letter to my mother.
- George!
- That's very funny.
Now, look, Bob has been going
over this thing very carefully,
and we can't afford to
write another play this year.
We're making too much money now.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
Absolutely.
Look, I'm a writer! I've
got to write something!
George, as your accountant,
might I suggest that you
go to Europe for a while?
Lie in the sun.
Think if you have to,
but don't write anything.
Or if you do have to write
something, why, write a musical.
A musical?
Hey, that's it! A musical!
We'll write a musical!
Why, it'll take years to write,
and we won't make any money!
Look, first things first.
- Absolutely!
- Absolutely!
Germany.
What are we going
to do about Germany?
Surely, my heart is bleeding.
Don't tell me any more.
I might give way to tears.
In fact, the whole
thing is so sad,
I might just have another drink.
In fact, let me buy us both one.
An honor and a pleasure.
Mike...
I'd like to have you
notice this shoe.
What?
This shoe. Made by
Piers and Company.
Oxford Street. London.
Well, it looks pretty
much like a shoe.
Very deceptive. Very deceptive.
This shoe is entirely handmade.
Manufactured exclusively for me.
A very sweet old gentleman
with a white mustache
and an alpaca coat
drew a picture of my foot.
Now, the untutored
eye cannot detect this,
but there are 27 stitches to
the inch in this hunk of footwear.
Now, in order for a piece
of leather to be stitched
that 27 times to the inch,
the hides must be soaked
for two years in streams.
Mountain streams.
Well, it's a very
fine-looking shoe.
There's no question about that.
Also very comfortable.
Also very expensive.
I merely mention this
to illustrate and
support your statement
that I am very hot, indeed.
You know what the
trouble with the theater is?
Well, yes, I think so. It's...
No, no. That's a
rhetorical question.
Requires no answer.
The trouble with the theater is,
to state it simply and
basically as possible...
- Me.
- What?!
Or actually the fact that
I can be as hot as I am
on the basis of having written
one... not two, not a dozen...
But one play that
happened to be a smash hit.
Let me ask you a question.
If you're gonna have
any kind of theater today,
people have got to write plays.
True or false?
Look, I'm a bartender,
not a straight man.
If you want to make a
speech, make a speech.
Enjoy yourself.
It's a free country.
But don't get me into it.
All I know about the
theater is it costs too much,
if a show's any good,
you can't get tickets,
and they don't let you smoke.
Very sound.
Very, very sound.
You're obviously a very
thoughtful and perceptive man.
Let me buy us a drink.
The point, however,
that I'm trying to make is
that there should
be a lot of plays.
In order to have a lot of plays,
people have got to write them.
Then the tickets
would be easier to get.
Let me ask you another question.
You buy me two drinks, and
right away I'm involved in your life.
Can you think of any
sane or rational reason
why I should write another play?
If it was a hit, I couldn't
keep the money.
I could not possibly be
any more hot, famous,
or in demand
than I am right now.
You know what?
And the last thing...
A very frightening thing
has begun to happen
just this last year.
I have begun to like being
the hottest thing
that ever happened.
I like having three
movie companies
and two television networks
bidding for my services.
I like having piano players
play "September Song"
whenever I come into saloons.
I like having people
ask me for autographs.
I like having too much money.
I like being on
television programs.
I should write another
play and louse all this up?
Am I crazy or something?
Is that rhetorical too?
Yes.
No kidding... Say I write
another play, and it's a flop.
Then suddenly and magically,
I am no longer the hottest
thing that's ever happened.
I am, in fact, the coldest
thing that ever happened.
Flash in the pan. One-shot guy.
The three movie companies
and the two television networks
are no longer fascinated
with my services.
The value of my autograph on
the open market drops considerably.
Look, I could sit tight
for the next five years
and watch the dollars,
francs, kroner, guilder, lira,
and whatever medium of exchange
they use in Lima, Peru, roll in.
Can you give me one reason
why I should put it on the line again?
There's no contest.
You've sold me.
I agree with your managers.
Manager. One manager
and two lawyers.
I agree with them.
Go to the south of France
and lie on the beach.
Hey, look, wait a minute.
Let me ask you something.
If you have to know so
bad, if you feel like this,
how come you went
and wrote another one?
I-I don't know.
Guess I'm just too nervous.
I can't wait for years.
I have to know if the first play
I wrote was... was an accident
or if I could
really do it again.
- I have to know.
- Let me ask you something else.
If you have to know like that,
if you have to know so bad,
what are you doing here tonight?
Your new play opened tonight.
Why weren't you at the theater?
How come you ain't at
the opening-night party?
I couldn't go
through all that again.
Well...
It's after 12:00.
The morning papers
must be out by now.
Yeah, that's right.
Well, what do you think?
Is this new play any
good? Is it gonna be a hit?
How do I know?
Hello?
Yeah.
Yeah, he's here.
Just a minute.
It's for you.
It's a fella named Harry
from The New York Times.
Okay? I'll take it.
Hello, Harry?
And now Betty
Furness wants to ask,
"Do sheep put you to sleep?"
189 sheep.
190.
Poor man. The cold woke him up.
He had to put on
another blanket,
and now I'll bet he'll
never get back to sleep.
But there's no more waking
up because you're cold
when you own either
the Westinghouse
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or this wonderful
Westinghouse electric sheet.
Crawl under either
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Choose either the
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And for as little as $29.95,
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Remember...
Next week,
"Studio One" will
present "Dry Run"...
The dramatic story of
an American submarine
during World War Il,
based on Captain Robert
I. Olsen's experiences
as commanding officer
of the USS Angler.
Prepared and developed
with the close cooperation
of the United States Navy.
Art Carney is seen regularly
on "The Jackie Gleason Show"
on CBS Saturday nights.
See National League
Football on TV,
brought to you by Westinghouse.
There's up to $10,000 in prizes
on "Half-time Telephone Quiz."
So get this blue sheet
and register now at your
Westinghouse dealer's.
Dresses by Phil Cole.
Furs by Fredericton.
"Studio One" originated
live from New York City.
This is the CBS
Television Network.
name that means sureness.
Whether it's on
the Laundromat...
The world's most
automatic washer...
Or lighting for our airports.
Whether it's a
product for your home,
for your business,
for your farm,
for your factory...
This is a documentary,
a true story about
what happens to a guy...
Me, as a matter of fact...
Who writes a play
that turns out to be a hit.
My name is George Axelrod,
and I wrote a play called
"The Seven Year Itch"
that's been running for
almost a year on Broadway.
And it's running also in
Chicago, London, Paris, Rome,
Stockholm, Amsterdam,
and Lima, Peru.
So I guess it's a hit.
The playwrighting business
is kind of a crazy
way to make a living.
Whether a play
is a hit or a flop
is decided, of course,
by the audience.
But more directly
than the audience,
it's decided by the critics...
Eight gentlemen who see
the play on opening night
and then beat it
back to their offices,
write their reviews
for the morning papers.
If the critics say
you're a hit, you're a hit.
If they say you're
a flop, you're a flop.
At least it's over
kind of quickly.
There are a couple of
tough hours in there, though...
The hours between the
time the curtain comes down
on opening night and the time
that the early-morning papers
are out with the first reviews.
You sweat when
you're waiting to see
what the critics
are gonna say...
Mr. Atkinson,
Mr. Kerr, Mr. Chapman.
It's their verdict, and
you're sort of sweating.
That's one of the things
this show's about tonight.
It's about some
other things too.
For the next hour, Art
Carney is gonna play me.
Sitting and watching
somebody else play you
on a television show is
kind of a weird experience,
but it's kind of typical
of one of the things
that seems to happen
to a guy who writes a play
and the play turns
out to be a hit,
which is another
one of the things
this show is about tonight.
Okay, Art. It's all yours.
"You know my phone number.
If you want me, call me."
What would you like, ladies?
- Two horse's necks.
- Yeah.
So I was just...
- Again, please, Mike.
- Oh, sure, Mr. Axelrod.
So I called him up
and said, "Listen here..."
♪ Da-da da dum ♪
♪ Ba dee da dum ♪
Pretty song.
Yeah.
"Knickerbocker Holiday."
Walter Huston sang it.
We use it in my show
at the end of the first act.
He plays it whenever
I come in here.
I think he thinks I
wrote it or something.
I hate to disillusion him.
- Mighty pretty song, all right.
- Yeah.
Such a quiet night.
Has been since
4:00 this afternoon.
Well, I think I'll just
have a little one myself.
Good idea. I highly
recommend it.
As a matter of fact,
have one with me.
- Be my guest.
- Thanks.
Well, good luck.
Yeah.
Ahh.
Not that you'll need it.
Everybody needs it.
No. Not you, Mr. Axelrod.
You don't need no more
luck. You got all the luck.
So you wrote a play.
Well, millions of
guys write plays.
So what? So nothing happens.
But you write a play,
and it turns out to be
"The Seven Year Itch."
Hey, what did I read
in Walter Winchell
they gave you for
the movie rights?
A quarter of a million dollars?
- Something like that.
- That's a lot of dough.
Yeah. It sure is.
Pay for one of them
jet planes with that.
- I did.
- What?
Oh, I see what you mean!
I guess you did pay
enough in taxes this year
to buy one of
them jets, at that.
And you talk about
you need luck.
Say, did I read
someplace in the paper
they was giving a party
for you someplace tonight?
The Stork Club or someplace.
They probably are.
What are you doing here, then?
How come you ain't at the party?
I don't think I could take it.
I don't think I could
go through that again.
Remember last
year, the party in here
the night "The Seven
Year Itch" opened?
Oh, I couldn't forget it.
Took three days to
clean this joint up.
Oh, that was some party.
Don't seem like
that was a year ago.
It was.
It sure was.
Opening-night party.
Actors and backers and
everybody connected with it.
Sweating it out.
Waiting to see whether
Mr. Atkinson and Mr. Kerr
and Mr. Chapman had
decided we had a hit or a flop.
Oh, I never want to go
through anything like that again.
Honey, did you like this play?
I adored the play, of course.
Absolutely adored it.
But "The Seven Year
Itch"... What a repulsive title.
I bet George could change it,
call it something attractive,
like "One Love-Mad Summer."
But you know how
stubborn and neurotic he is.
Yes, I talked to Cecil
B. DeMille in Hollywood
right after the show.
I said, "Cecil, as far as the
picture rights are concerned,
you can start
talking at $200,000
and a piece of the negative."
It's in, honey. It's in.
There's no question.
I was sitting two seats
away from Atkinson.
He was laughing his head off.
Well, there wasn't much to
it, really, but it was amusing.
At least no one died
or disintegrated in it.
My dear, you were lovely.
I saw in your performance
a certain inner tension.
But let me tell you, darling.
Just before I made
my first entrance,
I felt an elastic snap.
Darling, I played that entire
scene but in mortal terror!
You know I'm willing to
give my all for the theater,
but there are limits.
Ah, you were lovely,
my dear. Lovely.
I can't wait for the
reviews! I just can't wait!
Oh, it'll be another hour yet.
I'm a little worried
about Atkinson,
but Chapman's got to love it.
It's a real Chapman show.
I sat three seats
away from Atkinson,
and he never cracked a smile.
At least, I think
it was Atkinson.
I'd like to have a little
piece of that show, that's all.
A man have any money in
that show will make a fortune.
It'll run forever, you know?
Oh, well, darling,
naturally you'd say that.
As long as you think it's a hit.
I don't remember much
about the party myself.
I was sitting over in
the corner somewhere
with a lukewarm drink
in my cold, wet hand.
Don't worry, darling.
Everything's gonna be all right.
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
Why are they kidding themselves?
It's a disaster.
A total disaster.
The audience hated it.
You could tell they hated it.
Even I was down in
the lounge, I could tell.
I could hear that ominous
silence from upstairs.
Frankly, I blame
it on all the actors.
I've never seen such horrible
performances in all my life.
They were great when we
tried out the play in Boston.
I don't know what
happened to them tonight.
Cheer up, sweetheart.
About an hour to go.
Atkinson's probably
writing his review right now.
Atkinson? I hear he left
at the end of the first act.
Relax, baby, will you?
It's a smash. You're in.
All you got to worry about
is what to do with the money.
Atkinson. Kerr.
Chapman. The critics.
They're sitting there
destroying me right now.
Trite, unoriginal,
and tasteless!
Left this reviewer with a
distinct feeling of nausea!
Stamp out this ugly thing!
No, no, no, no. No, no.
Don't be ridiculous.
Critics aren't monsters.
They're just people.
You know, human beings.
As a matter of fact,
they happen to be
sensitive and intelligent
theater-loving gentlemen.
They were appointed on
account of their wisdom,
experience, and good taste.
If it's a good
play, they'll like it.
And it is a good play.
It's original, funny,
and very good.
It's very theatrical,
what with all the
monologues and new devices.
The audience loved
it. You could feel that.
You could absolutely
feel it all the way.
I could feel them liking it
when I was down in the lounge.
Came right through the floor.
No, no. Don't worry, kid.
It's a good play, and
the critics will know it.
You're in. You're
in like gangbusters.
Ohhhh!
A bright, fresh, new talent
exploded onto the
Broadway scene!
Brilliant. Hilarious.
But withal a deep and
probing human document.
It spread a magical, gossamer
web along the Great White Way.
Look back to Molière to find
a comparable comic genius.
This reviewer laughed and
cried and when he left the theater
felt that he had become somehow
a better, richer human being.
It'll be running when our
great-grandchildren are old.
Destined to become
an American folk classic.
Probably win the
Critics Circle Award.
Might even win
the Pulitzer Prize.
Well, no. Not the Pulitzer.
Why not the Pulitzer?
Oh, don't be ridiculous.
They never give the
Pulitzer to a comedy.
What about "You
Can't Take It With You"?
That was a comedy.
That won the Pulitzer Prize.
The Nobel Prize for Literature.
Of course, that would mean
going to Sweden for the ceremony.
We'd have to take
the kids out of school.
"The Seven Year Itch"!
No, no, no, no, no. No,
it would never happen.
They'd never give the
Nobel Prize or any prize
to a play called "The
Seven Year Itch."
No, they're right.
They're absolutely right. I
should have changed the title.
I should have called it
"One Love-Mad Summer"
or something like
that, but I didn't.
You know how stubborn
and neurotic I am.
What am I kidding myself for?
It'd have been a flop
no matter what I called it.
Just got to face it squarely
and try to figure out
where I go from here.
How did I get into
this thing, anyway?
Oh, George, it's
gonna be great, darling.
What was I trying to prove?
I didn't want to write
a play in the first place.
No, that's not true. I
did want to write a play.
Abstractly. Everybody
wants to write a play.
They just don't
go around doing it.
There I was.
A simple, happy comedy writer
writing a simple, happy little
hillbilly program once a week.
I wrote 20 jokes a week.
They gave me $200.
That's $10 a joke.
Very peaceful. Perfectly
lovely arrangement.
But no, I had to louse it up.
I had to be a Robert
Sherwood or something.
I wouldn't have done
this thing in the first place,
but they kept after me.
"Write a play," they said.
"Write a play. Write a play."
Actually, the whole
thing was my wife's idea.
Darling.
Darling, I don't
want to interrupt you,
but I've got to talk to you.
Now, I've been thinking
very seriously about this.
You're wasting your time.
You've got so much
talent it just kills me
to see you sitting there
stealing miserable jokes
for that miserable
hillbilly program.
I don't steal jokes.
I anthologize them.
You think this is funny?
"I've milked so many cows
that when I shake
hands with somebody,
I shake one finger at a time."
No.
Darling, if you're ever going
to write a play, now is the time.
Don't worry about the
money. Quit the hillbilly show.
I'll get a job, and you
can stay home and write.
I don't want to quit
my hillbilly show.
I like my hillbilly
show. I love old jokes.
Besides, what kind
of a job could you get?
Oh, I don't know. Something.
Something glamorous
and highly paid.
I could be a fashion consultant.
A fashion consultant?
I don't even know what
a fashion consultant is.
Well, neither do I, exactly.
But I could probably be one.
Or I could sell things
at Lord and Taylor's.
Look.
I got eight more jokes
to get for tomorrow.
Let me go to work, dear.
"One finger at a time."
You sure you don't
think that's funny?
Absolutely. I would testify
before Congress to that effect.
Oh, darling, at least think
seriously about writing a play.
It can be a comedy. You
write very funny comedy.
- But you just said...
- Oh.
Don't quit the hillbilly show.
Write it in your spare time.
Which you certainly have plenty.
Stealing 20 miserable jokes
is hardly enough to keep a
grown man occupied for a week.
Okay, okay, okay.
I'll think about it.
I'll think about it.
I'm gonna use this
"one finger" joke.
Even if you don't like it,
my hillbillies will love it.
That'll play.
Hey, uh...
Matter of fact, I did
have kind of a funny idea
for a new play the other day.
About this summer bachelor
who meets this dame
while his wife is away.
Sounds dreary.
But you'll come up
with something exciting
if you just think about it.
I know you will.
Why don't you talk
it over with Danny?
That's what you
have an agent for.
"when I shake
hands with somebody,
I shake one finger at a time"?
Baby, I'm trying to get
you a raise on this show.
Look.
My hillbillies love cow jokes.
Now, you just handle
the business end.
I'll handle the artistic end.
Look, my wife thinks
I ought to write a play.
She wants me to come over
here and talk it over with you.
She says that's what you're
for. To talk things over with.
She's absolutely right.
There's no future for
you in television, baby.
Business is lousy.
Everything's panel shows.
Only the other day I was
reading in the paper about this guy
jumps out of a hotel-room window
and hits four unemployed comedy
writers standing on the corner.
Now, you write a play,
right away you got stature.
You're a big man. Maybe
the movies want you.
Look at this guy Sam Taylor.
Last year he was
a comedy writer.
A bum like you.
Then he writes "The
Happy Time." Big hit.
Yesterday I see
him coming out of 21,
wearing one of these
English-looking suits
and smoking a big black cigar.
Now he's a big
man. He's got stature.
Well, maybe you're right.
Look, I had this kind of a
funny idea the other day
for a new play about
this summer bachelor
who meets this dame
while his wife is away.
It's been done,
baby. It's been done.
But you'll think of a
gimmick. I know you will.
Baby, get me Variety, will you?
So I was weak.
I was easily influenced.
I wrote a play.
Must have been out of my mind.
I wish I was dead.
Everything was so
lovely, so lovely before.
I loved my hillbilly show.
My hillbillies loved me.
They loved my jokes.
I loved the $200.
Those were the good old days.
Those were the good old days.
Now, you talk
about milkin' cows.
I done milked so
many cows in my time
that now when I go to
shake hands with somebody,
I shake it one finger at a time.
Ooh! It's hot out
tonight, ain't it?
Funny thing. Funny thing.
First time I ever milked a cow,
just by accident I dropped me
a dollar down on the barn floor.
I was on my hands and
knees and rooting around for it.
Then I reached up
to pull on the light.
Those were mighty
fine jokes this week, son.
Mighty comical.
Thank you, sir. I'm
glad you liked them.
One finger at a time.
That's mighty comical.
Now, son, you run along
home now and think up
some more of them
wingdingers for next week's show.
If you need me for anything,
I'll be over to the Stork Club.
One finger a time.
Oh, it just kills me!
I can't wait till I tell that
to old Sherman, boy.
I just kills me to get a good
one like that on old Sherman.
One finger at a time.
Boy, you sure write
comical! You surely do!
I was so happy.
So very happy.
But all that's finished now.
All you need is one flop
like this, and you're finished.
Absolutely finished.
Any minute now,
sweetheart. Any minute now.
Or is it gonna be a flop?
If I only knew.
If I only knew!
Now that you've seen part one
of "Confessions
of a Nervous Man,"
let's turn to our
Westinghouse program
and Betty Furness.
Which one of you could take
this out of my hands before...
Uh-oh! I knew it.
Doesn't that happen every time
when you defrost
the refrigerator
and the drip pan gets too full?
Defrosting is such
a messy, sloppy job.
Anyway, you have to
take all the foods out
and scrape the
frost off the freezer.
I bet you do it every
couple of weeks.
But never again if you own
this big, beautiful Westinghouse
frost-free refrigerator.
It's frost-free.
And that means no defrosting
to do in the freezer here
and no defrosting to do
down here in the refrigerator.
The frost-free system quickly
wipes away every trace of frost.
Why, even the defrost water
evaporates automatically.
And talk about room.
Let me show you.
Look at this great big freezer.
So much room that
you won't be running
back and forth to the store
for those convenient
frozen foods.
They'll be right here.
And this you have to see. Look.
Rollout shelves that
bring foods right out
and practically put
them in your hands.
Isn't that something?
And when they
designed this refrigerator,
they even remembered how
awkward it is to open the door
when your arms
are full of foods.
So watch.
Just a touch of your elbow,
and the door
opens automatically.
Like magic.
And you'll find
this magic opener
only on a Westinghouse
refrigerator.
Isn't it a wonderful
refrigerator?
It's so roomy, so
modern, so convenient.
And it can be yours for
as little as $5.15 a week
after a small down payment.
So stop in at your dealer's
and see this big Westinghouse
frost-free refrigerator.
It's so handsome and so
much handier in every way.
And remember...
We return now to
"Westinghouse Studio One"
and "Confessions
of a Nervous Man."
Quarter of 12:00 now,
and the tension's growing.
All over New York, friends,
press agents, and spies
are haunting the corridors
of the morning papers,
waiting for the verdict.
Fame or oblivion.
A virtual... if you'll
pardon the expression...
dragnet had been thrown out.
First break came at 11:50 p.m.
A phone call to The
New York Times.
Yeah?
Yeah. Yeah.
I just called The Times.
I just talked to
Harry at The Times.
He's sitting right across the
desk from Brooks Atkinson.
And what do you think
Atkinson was doing, baby?
He was smiling! Smiling, yeah!
Smiling!
Harry says Atkinson hasn't
smiled while writing a review
since the opening
night of "Oklahoma!"
You're in, baby. You're in!
Get me Hollywood!
Cecil B. DeMille!
Atkinson was smiling.
Atkinson was smiling.
Atkinson was smiling.
Know what that means?
He liked the show.
He's writing a rave review.
It's gonna be a
hit. A smash hit.
Do you know what that means?
About 6,000 plays
get written a year.
Not more than 50 of
them get produced.
- Only 5 or 6...
- Oh, darling!
1000 to 1, and
I'm gonna make it.
Atkinson was smiling,
and I'm gonna make it.
It's gonna be a
hit. A smash hit.
Oh, boy, oh, boy.
I'm gonna be the hottest
thing that ever happened.
1,000 to 1 against
me, and I did it!
Why, even Lindbergh
was better than 1,000 to 1.
I'm gonna make it. I'm
a playwright with a hit.
It's gonna be a smash hit.
I-I'm the biggest thing
that ever happened.
The biggest, hottest,
most sensational thing
that ever happened in the world!
I did it. I did it. I did it.
I'm a celebrity.
I'm famous. I'm rich.
There'll be autographs,
personal appearances,
radio shows, lecture tours,
interviews on television.
Oh, it's so wonderful
to see you're all here,
and you're all here
to see little me.
A-ha!
But of course I know you're here
to see my wonderful
guest stars too.
Oh, friends!
We're going to rearrange
our show just a little bit tonight.
As you know, I have
some wonderful guests
lined up for you tonight...
Danny Kaye, Mickey
Mantle, Eleanor Roosevelt.
But we're going to ask
Eleanor and Danny and Mickey
if they'd mind bowing out,
because George Axelrod
just walked into the restaurant,
and I know you'd
rather talk to him.
A-ha!
Let's see if we can get
George Axelrod to come over!
Oh, darling.
I know this is asking
so much of you,
but would you say
hello to the people?
Just hello?
Oh, darling, it would
mean so much to me.
It would raise my ratings.
My sponsor would
give me a bonus.
Please, darling? Please?
Glad to, baby. Glad to.
Hello.
Oh, darling!
Thank you so much.
It was so utterly
fantastic talking to you.
Ladies and gentlemen,
that was George Axelrod,
author of the smash-hit
play "The Seven Year Itch,"
who just said hello to you.
A-ha!
And remember, you saw him here.
Ha ha!
Time now for our mystery guest.
Everyone blindfolded?
Now, let me take a guess.
There's only one
person in America today
who could get
applause like that.
George Axelrod!
Right, right, right!
You are so right!
Good evening, sir.
I have a few messages here.
A Mr. DeMille called
from Hollywood.
He would like you to go
out there for a few days.
He needs help on a new picture.
Oh, Cecil. I'd love
to help him out.
But I've been
rather tied up lately.
Tennis lessons and
all that, you know?
Quite, sir.
And Miss Marilyn
Monroe called again, sir.
Oh, Marilyn. I hope
you told her I was out.
Quite.
I have a few other
messages here...
No, no. Not now. I'm
tired and quite hungry.
Quite, sir.
Supper is laid out
in the library, sir.
No, no. That won't be necessary.
I think I'll just
go get something
out of the refrigerator.
Very good, sir.
The Westinghouse people sent
her along with a new refrigerator.
With their compliments.
How sweet.
The play.
The play.
It'll be played all
over the world.
Not only in New York and
Chicago but all over the world.
London...
You're married, aren't you?
Yes. I am.
I thought so. You look married.
Really amazing.
At home, nobody was married.
But in London, everyone is.
Men, I mean.
That's a remarkable observation.
Your wife's away for
the summer, isn't she?
As a matter of fact, she is.
But how did you know?
They all are.
Really amazing.
And Paris.
It'll be played in Paris.
Vous êtes marié, n'est-ce pas?
Mais oui. Je le suis.
Oh, vous avez l'air marié.
C'est curieux.
Dans mon village,
personne était marié.
Mais à Paris,
tout le monde l'est.
Tout les hommes.
Oh, c'est un observation
vraiment remarkable.
Dit-moi, votre femme... Est-elle
à la compagne pour tout l'été.
Oui, oui. La partie.
Comment le savez-vous?
Elles sont toutes parties.
Vous êtes vraiment formidable.
And not only in London
and Paris, either,
but all over the world.
All over the world!
Sire?
Yes, my little pigeon?
Your wives are away for
the summer, are they not?
Yes, as a matter
of fact, they are.
All of them.
How did you know?
Everybody's wives are away.
It is really amazing.
"The Seven Year Itch."
Ho ho! This play's gonna live.
Why, they'll be studying this
in colleges 500 years from now.
500 years from now,
it'll be required reading.
As we know, the 20th century
was a barren period
of noncreativity.
There was no art to speak
of, no music, no theater.
Therefore, it is
most interesting
that out of this cultural desert
there should arise one
great literary figure...
Axelrod... And one
timeless masterpiece...
"The Seven Year Itch."
What?
What?!
Yeah. Yeah.
Brace yourself,
kid. Brace yourself.
I just talked to
Harry at The Times.
- Yeah? Yeah?
- Bad news, baby.
Atkinson is frowning.
- Oh, no.
- Frowning?
I thought you said
he was smiling.
I know, baby. He was, he was.
But now he's frowning.
Don't take it too hard,
kid. That's the way it goes.
Maybe you'll write
another one someday, huh?
Don't take it too hard.
Cancel that call to DeMille.
- You need another drink.
- Yeah, I need another drink.
Atkinson was frowning.
Atk... At... Atkinson...
Atkinson was frowning.
You know what that
means. He hated the show.
He's panning it right now.
It's a flop. A disastrous flop.
I-I'm a playwright with a flop.
You know what that
means. I'm dead.
I am the coldest thing
that ever happened.
You had to be a playwright.
You couldn't be satisfied just
making a comfortable living
stealing jokes for
those lovely hillbillies.
Oh, no. Not you.
You had to write a play.
Well, nobody in
television will hire you now.
I just hope you're
satisfied, that's all.
Uh, son, little ol'
Brooks Atkinson says,
"It's tedious, contrived,
unoriginal, and tasteless."
Little ol' Walter Kerr. He
seems to be of the same mind.
"Dreary and uninspired.
Left this reviewer with a
distinct feeling of nausea."
Cousin John Chapman.
He didn't like it, neither.
But he had some nice
constructive criticism.
"Sets Broadway back 50 years.
Stamp out this ugly thing."
Just the way he put it, son.
Son, even the Partisan
Review just plain hated it.
Of course, you understand...
I'm sorry to do this... But
I got to get a new writer.
Oh, of course. I can
understand that, sir.
Good luck, son.
And no hard feelings.
One finger at a time!
Oh, you sure
used to write funny.
You sure used to.
I wish I was dead.
I could kill myself.
That's not a bad idea, son.
That's not a bad idea at all.
Baby, I've tried, but
there's not a television show
in the country
that'll touch you.
I've been going over
the want ads here,
trying to come up with
something for you to do.
If you just had
some kind of a trade.
If you'd been a welder
or an accountant
or even gone to college,
there might be some hope.
Nice jobs here
for college grads.
But you... You never even
graduated from high school.
Well, don't worry,
baby. I'll find...
Baby!
I finally found
something for you.
It's nice, clean work,
and you're gonna
be very happy at it.
You start Monday.
And then, if it's not too
much trouble... or even if it is...
I'd like to look at a
pair in gold for evening.
Certainly, madam.
May I recommend this cunningly
contrived silhouette pump,
which bears the
foot forward and aft.
In sleek calf with
contrasting vamp trim.
Oh, yes, it comes
in Benedictine, jet,
lettuce leaf, fun
pink, and poof.
What's poof?
Blue.
And now, madam, if
I also may suggest...
Young man, haven't I seen
your face somewhere before?
Possibly.
I know you! You're
George Axelrod.
Shh! Please! I beg your pardon.
They don't know here.
You're the one who
wrote that terrible flop
with the repulsive title.
What a pity.
Well, I suppose
you're much happier
doing this sort of thing.
Lord and Taylor's
has been kind, madam.
More than kind.
You ever think about
writing another play?
No, madam. I learned my lesson.
It's probably just as well.
And now maybe madam
would be interested
in these Leisure Lovelies,
designed for genuine
foot happiness
while lazing in luxury.
Notice the twinkle
of fiery rhinestones.
The glitter of multicolored
nailheads against velvet.
The intense beauty
of velvet unadorned.
Hello. Give me Harry, will you?
Hello, Harry?
What? He did?
You did? What?!
Yeah, I'll get him.
Hold on, Harry.
Yeah, hold on.
George! George, come on,
baby. Snap out of it, baby.
- What?
- It's Harry. The telephone.
- Come on, baby.
- Look, y-you talk to him.
Tell him I'll call him
the first of the week.
He got Atkinson's review on the
way down to the composing room.
Come on.
Can't you talk to him?
I don't want to
talk. You know me.
- Come on. Come on.
- Come on, darling.
Hello, Harry?
Hello, George.
You, uh... You want to know
what Mr. Atkinson has to say?
George, are you there?
I guess so, Harry. I guess so.
What you ought to do...
You ought to take this review
and, uh, paste it
up over your bed.
Harry, I think I'm gonna
drop dead any minute.
Will you hurry up, please?
I-I'd like to hear what
Atkinson said before I do.
Okay. Here it is.
"Tom Ewell and George
Axelrod might begin the day by..."
"gratefully thanking
each other."
He liked it?
I know. I know.
What's the matter,
baby? You're in!
I know! I know!
What's the matter?
What's worrying you now?
I-I don't know.
Nothing, I guess.
I just think I'm sort of
scared about my next play.
And now let's pause a moment
and turn to our
Westinghouse program again.
First time I've ever done this,
but I want you to
be sure and see
these smart new
Westinghouse radios.
They'll make exciting
Christmas gifts
for most anyone on your list.
This one is made to
order for youngsters
because it's sturdy and neat,
and the attractive gold numerals
on the dial are easy to read.
It's ideal for that extra set
in the kitchen or den too.
It comes in four lively colors,
and the price is
wonderfully low.
And for people who live some
distance away from stations,
well, here's the
perfect radio...
The Long Ranger.
It comes in a
handsome maroon finish.
In fact, anywhere you
live, you'll be delighted
with its long-range power
and beautifully clear tone.
Now, here's a wonderful gift
for anyone who likes
to be waked up gently.
And who doesn't?
It's the Westinghouse
Space Saver clock radio.
It fits into the smallest
space on a bedside table.
It wakes up you up with
music rather than a harsh alarm
and has a quiet,
dependable electric clock
with a connection to
start your coffee maker
or turn your electric blanket
off or on automatically.
And here's another clock radio
with all the fine Westinghouse
quality that you expect.
A reliable electric clock,
a radio tone that pleases
the most sensitive ear,
and it's specially
priced for Christmas.
Actually, it's worth about $40.
But you can have it
now for only $24.95.
You'll see all these
exciting radios...
Westinghouse makes
such a wide range of them...
At your dealer's.
They're styled so
high, yet priced so low.
Some as low as $19.95.
Some models are slightly
higher in the West and Southwest.
They make such gay
and popular gifts...
Such rugged,
dependable ones too...
With the Westinghouse
name on them.
You're safe if you insist
on a Westinghouse radio
because, remember...
We return now to
"Westinghouse Studio One"
and "Confessions
of a Nervous Man."
"The Seven Year Itch,"
which opened on November
20, 1952, was a hit, all right.
A smash hit, I guess.
The picture rights were
sold for a little better
than a quarter of
a million dollars.
The backers will make something
like 1,000% on the investment.
It's a smash hit, all
right. The biggest kind.
It's a year later now. 1953.
Another night. It's quiet.
Except on festive occasions
like an opening-night party,
Maud Chez Elle
is a dinner place.
After 11:00, it's pretty quiet.
I just want to ask him!
Excuse me. Aren't
you George Axelrod?
Yes.
See, I told you!
I saw you on "What's My
Line?" program the other night.
I thought you
were just wonderful.
You looked so young.
Thank you. I was
feeling pretty old.
I saw the play too.
I thought it was...
Ooh! It was just wonderful.
Thank you.
They're giving very
good performances.
Would you autograph this for me?
My nephew. He
collects autographs.
Be glad to.
Oh, and if it wouldn't
be too much trouble,
I wonder if you
would take this paper
and give it to Tom Ewell
and Vanessa Brown
and ask them to sign it.
And then send
it to this address.
My nephew would be so thrilled.
Sure.
Ohh. Thank you very much.
Oh, that's awfully nice of you.
It's a pleasure.
And it certainly
has been a pleasure
to make your acquaintance.
Thank you.
And...
Good luck to you.
- Thank you.
- Not that you need it!
Hey, you're getting to be like
some kind of a movie
star or something.
I didn't know you
were such a big deal,
or I'd ask for your
autograph myself.
You do that, and I'll
stop buying you drinks.
No kidding, though.
You are pretty hot right now.
Oh, I'm... I'm hot all right.
About the hottest thing
that ever happened.
- You sure are.
- You can say that again.
You sure are.
- You know what I am?
- What?
I'm a corporation.
I'm a heavy industry
that grosses somebody
around $80,000 a week.
I got a manager, two lawyers,
and I don't know how many
certified public accountants.
It figures you're a busy man.
Oh. I'm busy all right.
Yeah, I'm something else.
Something pretty special.
Something brand-new.
I'm a writer that doesn't write.
- You know why I don't write?
- Why?
I don't have the time.
You know what I
do? Go to meetings.
Meetings with the lawyers and
the accountants and my manager.
Gets very remote.
Very remote.
Suddenly the whole
thing has very little to do
with sitting down in
front of a typewriter,
putting words on paper.
Darling, before you get started,
I want to go over
the day with you.
You're having lunch
with Charlie and the
lawyers about the picture.
I said you'd pick them
up at Charlie's at 1:00
because you have to sign
something while you're there.
Try not to get stuck too long
because I promised the studio
you'd be there at
3:00 to cut that tape
for the "Stage Struck" show.
We were supposed to go to
two different cocktail parties.
I got you out of that because
we're going to the opening,
and Joe wants us to
come to the party afterward.
You're not even listening to me.
What are you writing, anyway?
A letter to my mother.
I've been working
at it all week.
Still haven't had
time to finish it.
Oh, that's sweet, George.
Danny called.
He'll be over in a little while
with Frank and the accountants.
He's all upset about the
British rights to something.
I couldn't quite
get it straight.
Oh, that must be
Danny and Frank now.
Don't forget to
call Billy at noon.
That's 9:00 out there.
He wants to talk before he gets
started shooting this morning.
Oh, here, gentlemen.
Hi, fellas.
- Hello, George.
- You look awful, baby.
Sorry to break in on you
like this, but my hands are tied
on the German thing
till you make a decision.
Boys on the coast are
screaming about a release date.
I told them June 1956, but
I don't think they'll hold still.
Bob, we're sitting on $7,500
worth of English royalties.
We can't deposit until
you clear the statement.
It's Billy calling
from the coast.
George can't talk to anybody
till he's made a decision
on the German thing.
He's got to. He starts
shooting in a couple of minutes.
He'll be dead for
the rest of the day.
If it's really urgent.
Urgent?!
The front office just came back
with 10 pages of
reservations on the treatment.
We've got to get those
English figures verified
so we can deposit.
Hi, Billy. How's your tennis?
Yeah.
Well, that's the way it goes.
Here are the Milan notices.
Thought you'd like to read them.
How are they?
Great notices. Great, terrific.
Tell me what they
say. I can't read Italian.
They're a smash. It's the
biggest thing since pizza pie.
Okay, Billy. Well, uh, I'll
try and think of something.
Yeah.
Yeah, okay.
Bye-bye.
Look, fellas.
Fellas.
Fellas.
Uh, can we let this
ride for a little while?
I'd like to try out a new
idea I got for a new play.
Just to get the reaction.
Not now, George. Not now.
We have important things.
The whole question of
the amateur stock rights
has been completely clarified.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Clarified.
And it's just a question
of whether we should
form a corporation
with limited
partnership agreements
and package all
the units ourselves
or whether it would be
better just let Dramatists Play
handle the whole mess.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- The whole mess.
Look, fellas.
If I can't try out
my new play idea,
let me try out this idea I
have for a letter to my mother.
- George!
- That's very funny.
Now, look, Bob has been going
over this thing very carefully,
and we can't afford to
write another play this year.
We're making too much money now.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
- Absolutely.
Absolutely.
Look, I'm a writer! I've
got to write something!
George, as your accountant,
might I suggest that you
go to Europe for a while?
Lie in the sun.
Think if you have to,
but don't write anything.
Or if you do have to write
something, why, write a musical.
A musical?
Hey, that's it! A musical!
We'll write a musical!
Why, it'll take years to write,
and we won't make any money!
Look, first things first.
- Absolutely!
- Absolutely!
Germany.
What are we going
to do about Germany?
Surely, my heart is bleeding.
Don't tell me any more.
I might give way to tears.
In fact, the whole
thing is so sad,
I might just have another drink.
In fact, let me buy us both one.
An honor and a pleasure.
Mike...
I'd like to have you
notice this shoe.
What?
This shoe. Made by
Piers and Company.
Oxford Street. London.
Well, it looks pretty
much like a shoe.
Very deceptive. Very deceptive.
This shoe is entirely handmade.
Manufactured exclusively for me.
A very sweet old gentleman
with a white mustache
and an alpaca coat
drew a picture of my foot.
Now, the untutored
eye cannot detect this,
but there are 27 stitches to
the inch in this hunk of footwear.
Now, in order for a piece
of leather to be stitched
that 27 times to the inch,
the hides must be soaked
for two years in streams.
Mountain streams.
Well, it's a very
fine-looking shoe.
There's no question about that.
Also very comfortable.
Also very expensive.
I merely mention this
to illustrate and
support your statement
that I am very hot, indeed.
You know what the
trouble with the theater is?
Well, yes, I think so. It's...
No, no. That's a
rhetorical question.
Requires no answer.
The trouble with the theater is,
to state it simply and
basically as possible...
- Me.
- What?!
Or actually the fact that
I can be as hot as I am
on the basis of having written
one... not two, not a dozen...
But one play that
happened to be a smash hit.
Let me ask you a question.
If you're gonna have
any kind of theater today,
people have got to write plays.
True or false?
Look, I'm a bartender,
not a straight man.
If you want to make a
speech, make a speech.
Enjoy yourself.
It's a free country.
But don't get me into it.
All I know about the
theater is it costs too much,
if a show's any good,
you can't get tickets,
and they don't let you smoke.
Very sound.
Very, very sound.
You're obviously a very
thoughtful and perceptive man.
Let me buy us a drink.
The point, however,
that I'm trying to make is
that there should
be a lot of plays.
In order to have a lot of plays,
people have got to write them.
Then the tickets
would be easier to get.
Let me ask you another question.
You buy me two drinks, and
right away I'm involved in your life.
Can you think of any
sane or rational reason
why I should write another play?
If it was a hit, I couldn't
keep the money.
I could not possibly be
any more hot, famous,
or in demand
than I am right now.
You know what?
And the last thing...
A very frightening thing
has begun to happen
just this last year.
I have begun to like being
the hottest thing
that ever happened.
I like having three
movie companies
and two television networks
bidding for my services.
I like having piano players
play "September Song"
whenever I come into saloons.
I like having people
ask me for autographs.
I like having too much money.
I like being on
television programs.
I should write another
play and louse all this up?
Am I crazy or something?
Is that rhetorical too?
Yes.
No kidding... Say I write
another play, and it's a flop.
Then suddenly and magically,
I am no longer the hottest
thing that's ever happened.
I am, in fact, the coldest
thing that ever happened.
Flash in the pan. One-shot guy.
The three movie companies
and the two television networks
are no longer fascinated
with my services.
The value of my autograph on
the open market drops considerably.
Look, I could sit tight
for the next five years
and watch the dollars,
francs, kroner, guilder, lira,
and whatever medium of exchange
they use in Lima, Peru, roll in.
Can you give me one reason
why I should put it on the line again?
There's no contest.
You've sold me.
I agree with your managers.
Manager. One manager
and two lawyers.
I agree with them.
Go to the south of France
and lie on the beach.
Hey, look, wait a minute.
Let me ask you something.
If you have to know so
bad, if you feel like this,
how come you went
and wrote another one?
I-I don't know.
Guess I'm just too nervous.
I can't wait for years.
I have to know if the first play
I wrote was... was an accident
or if I could
really do it again.
- I have to know.
- Let me ask you something else.
If you have to know like that,
if you have to know so bad,
what are you doing here tonight?
Your new play opened tonight.
Why weren't you at the theater?
How come you ain't at
the opening-night party?
I couldn't go
through all that again.
Well...
It's after 12:00.
The morning papers
must be out by now.
Yeah, that's right.
Well, what do you think?
Is this new play any
good? Is it gonna be a hit?
How do I know?
Hello?
Yeah.
Yeah, he's here.
Just a minute.
It's for you.
It's a fella named Harry
from The New York Times.
Okay? I'll take it.
Hello, Harry?
And now Betty
Furness wants to ask,
"Do sheep put you to sleep?"
189 sheep.
190.
Poor man. The cold woke him up.
He had to put on
another blanket,
and now I'll bet he'll
never get back to sleep.
But there's no more waking
up because you're cold
when you own either
the Westinghouse
electric blanket here
or this wonderful
Westinghouse electric sheet.
Crawl under either
one of them, and you...
Let the temperature in
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It doesn't matter.
The warmth under your
Westinghouse sheet or blanket
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That's because of this
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You just set it for
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and it stays exactly
that warm all night long.
Choose either the
Westinghouse electric blanket
or electric sheet.
And for as little as $29.95,
you can sleep like a
million, as millions do.
Remember...
Next week,
"Studio One" will
present "Dry Run"...
The dramatic story of
an American submarine
during World War Il,
based on Captain Robert
I. Olsen's experiences
as commanding officer
of the USS Angler.
Prepared and developed
with the close cooperation
of the United States Navy.
Art Carney is seen regularly
on "The Jackie Gleason Show"
on CBS Saturday nights.
See National League
Football on TV,
brought to you by Westinghouse.
There's up to $10,000 in prizes
on "Half-time Telephone Quiz."
So get this blue sheet
and register now at your
Westinghouse dealer's.
Dresses by Phil Cole.
Furs by Fredericton.
"Studio One" originated
live from New York City.
This is the CBS
Television Network.