by Moe Howard
Next was the problem of Ted’s evening wear that was in the trunk in the basement. He went to the manager and told him he’d like to get his trunk from the basement. Of course he refused. Ted then offered a deal: “Look, here’s my contract for two thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars a week. I can’t go to work without my tails and evening clothes. How can you expect me to pay back rent if I can’t go to work?” The manager thought better of it and told Ted that he could take the evening clothes out of the trunk but nothing else. That was fine since there was nothing else in it. Ted returned to his apartment, put his evening clothes in a bag together with his comb and toothbrush, and then went up to the roof with a tremendously heavy beaver lap robe. I was standing in the street twenty-eight stories below and finally spotted Ted’s bald head peeking over the rooftop. He raised the robe high over his head and tossed it. The robe weaved from side to side clumsily as the wind caught it, wrapping around a flagpole outside of the fifth floor. It made a very impressive and expensive flag blowing in the wind. Ted naturally was very upset that he had lost his lap robe, but I reminded him that at least we had his stage clothes. I remember thinking, “The show must go on,” and I started to hum, “California here I come.”
A few days after our opening at the New Yorker Cafe in Hollywood, Larry and I were playing cards in our apartment at the Lido Hotel when all hell broke loose. The building started to shake like a house of cards.
Larry’s eyes bugged. “What the devil is that?”
I said, “That’s got to be an earthquake.”
Larry replied, “What the hell are we doing sitting here?” and bounded out of the apartment, running smack into Curly, who was pounding on Ted’s door, yelling, “Come on now, Ted, cut that out!”
Curly was certain that Ted, whose apartment was right above his own, was up to one of his old tricks. I screamed to Curly to get out of the building fast, as we were in the middle of an earthquake. The three of us pushed Ted’s door open, and there he was—arms spread apart under a doorway, poised like Atlas trying to hold up the world. Unable to get Ted to move from his spot, we three decided to try for the basement. Rushing through the lobby, we saw an enormous crystal chandelier—more than three hundred pounds of tinkling, flashing prisms—swaying on its chains from one side of the lobby to the other. This was certainly a frightening sight. The main shocks and aftershocks lasted about an hour, with milder shocks continuing for days.
That night at the club, we had two shows to do. Everything went along smoothly for about fifteen minutes at the early show; then came a rather sharp aftershock. We quit in mid-joke and raced from the club, along with most of the customers. I found myself standing in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, afraid to stand too close to the buildings, pieces of which were falling to the sidewalk. High atop one of the buildings nearby was a round cupola with about six oval niches, each containing a statue. As each shock wave rolled beneath me, the statues would lean out of their niches and then sway back. I was still in the middle of the street when a large convertible came straight for me. I jumped aside. The driver shouted at me to get out of the street, and I yelled back, “It’s an earthquake, you idiot!”
I heard him shout “Sorry!” as he took off as though shot out of a cannon.
After about ten minutes, the commotion subsided, and some of us went back into the club. Many never did return, though. Others came back and paid their bills. Some paid by check, which we found impossible to cash—the banks were closed. Anyway, we finished the act, but this wasn’t time for laughter. The audience had dwindled to about twenty from the original two hundred. We hung around the club until the scheduled late show; finally the manager said, “It’s no use!” We accepted half salary and went home.
My wife, Helen, was back in New York at the time with our daughter, Joan, and I tried to explain to her about the near-catastrophe. That was a mistake, as I had a difficult time later trying to get her to return to California.
A short time after the New Yorker Cafe date, Harry Rapf of MGM asked us to do a charity benefit at the Uplifters Ranch and signed us—and Ted—to a one-year contract at the studio.
The boys off guard, with Larry’s wife, Mabel (left), and Moe’s wife, Helen.
Moe and Curly welcome their parents to sunny California in 1933.
During 1933, we made five two-reel comedies with Ted at MGM, two in color. Hello Pop! was one. We also did Plane Nuts, an airplane story in which we flew around the world upside down and backward; Beer and Pretzels, a musical short by Gus Kahn; and The Big Idea, a musical revue. Later Larry, Curly, Ted, and I made four or five features for the studio, including Meet the Baron, starring Jack Pearl as the Baron Munchausen. Jimmy Durante and ZaSu Pitts were also in this one. We also made Turn Back the Clock with Lee Tracy and Mae Clarke; Fugitive Lovers, with Madge Evans and Robert Montgomery; Dancing Lady with Joan Crawford, Clark Gable, and Franchot Tone; and Hollywood Party with Lupe Velez, Jimmy Durante, Laurel and Hardy, Jack Pearl, and others.
A publicity shot of the Stooges with Ted Healy and Bonnie Bonnell in 1933.
Larry gets instructions from Ted Healy as Bonnie Bonnell, Moe, and Curly look on.
Bonnie Bonnell, Ted Healy, Moe, and Curly in Plane Nuts (1933).
Ted and the Stooges address the crowd before taking off in Plane Nuts.
Matthew Betz appears to be intimidated by Ted, Bonnie Bonnell, and the boys in Plane Nuts.
MGM’S two-reel Technicolor musical revue Hello Pop! (1933), which starred Ted Healy and his Stooges—Howard, Fine, and Howard, as the credits read.
The Stooges and Ted clown with Clark Gable on the set of Dancing Lady (1933).
In Meet the Baron (1933), the boys and Ted threaten the dignity of Edna May Oliver.
The Stooges with Ted Healy in Universal’s Myrt and Marge (1933).
Curly, Ted, Bonnie, Larry, and Moe get one of the props ready in Myrt and Marge.
Curly Howard in a rare film apart from the Stooges, with George Givot and Joe Callahan in MGM’s Technicolor musical revue Roast-Beef and Movies (1934).
Curly, Moe, and Larry with Robert Montgomery during a break in Fugitive Lovers (1934).
The Stooges as autograph seekers with reporter Ted Healy in the Laurel and Hardy film Hollywood Party (1934).
Wallace Beery drops by the set, where the boys are starting to create havoc.
In early May 1934, after Hollywood Party, we came to a final parting of the ways with Ted. We were walking through the vast MGM complex when we came face to face with him and his agent, Paul Dempsey.
I said, “Ted, I saw your latest film, Death on the Diamond [he had made a half dozen without us Stooges], and at least four times during the picture you extended your arms as if you were pushing us back. You always did that when we worked with you as Stooges. Only this time we weren’t there and it made you look very awkward.”
Dempsey nodded. “You know, Ted, Moe is right, I noticed that, too.” Then I continued, “In all honesty, Ted, you really don’t need us any longer. You’re doing great on your own. Let’s sign a paper right here stating that, as of this date, we will go our separate ways.”
Ted looked at Dempsey, who agreed: “Moe knows what he’s talking about. I’ll draw up the paper and you’ll each sign a copy.” In no time, he was back with the releases, and it took us less time to sign them. Larry, Curly, and I wished Ted every success, and the three of us walked away.
Finally, alone, both Larry and Curly jumped on me: “Gosh, Moe, why did you do that? What are we going to do now?”
I said, “Listen, boys, if we stick with Ted we’ll be getting our measly one hundred dollars a week. Let’s see what we can do on our own. No more of that Howard, Fine, and Howard. Right now we are three fairly good comics, and we were Healy’s Stooges, so let’s call ourselves—THE THREE STOOGES!”
10
THE FINAL BREAK WITH TED HEALY
On the day we left MGM after breaking with Ted Healy, I tried to convince Larry and Curly that there had to b
e a place for us in the movie industry. We found our place, but through a veritable comedy of errors.
We each had come to MGM that day in our own cars. As we were ready to go our separate ways, Larry reminded me, “Don’t forget, Moe, we’ll meet later this afternoon at your apartment.”
While walking toward my car, I was stopped by a young man, Walter Kane, an agent. He told me that he had seen the three of us with Ted Healy, and that if I would accompany him to Columbia Studios, he felt he could get the Stooges a contract. Mr. Kane and I went directly to Columbia and, without an appointment, he brought me in to meet studio head Harry Cohn and production chief Sam Briskin, who told me that they had seen the Stooges work with Ted at the New Yorker Cafe and that Columbia would like to sign us to a one-picture deal. After sixty days, if they liked what they saw, they would give us a long-term contract.
Cohn said, “Of course, you must understand the film will be a two-reel comedy, not a feature. We’re willing to pay you fifteen hundred dollars for the first short.”
All this sounded fair to me, and I agreed to the figures while they sent for someone from the legal department to draw up a temporary paper stating the salary, the starting date, and the sixty-day-approval clause.
Meanwhile, Larry left MGM about the same time as I had, only a different young man—an agent named Joe Rivkin—approached him.
“Larry, I’ve been watching you boys work with Ted Healy for some time. I heard that you’ve left Ted.”
Larry said, “Boy, the news sure travels fast!”
Rivkin talked Larry into going with him to Universal Studios, in the valley, where, Rivkin told him, he could get the Stooges a film contract—provided Larry had the right to sign for the group. Larry assured Rivkin he had the authority, so off they went to the office of Carl Laemmle Jr., head man at Universal.
After introductions and a short discussion of terms, Laemmle sent for a studio lawyer and a form contract was drawn up for the Three Stooges. The legal department stamped it with the date and hour, and Larry signed it.
Later, when I met with Larry and Curly in my apartment, I said, “Boys, we’ve accomplished what I was hoping for, a contract at Columbia Pictures.”
Then Larry piped up, “A contract with Columbia? I’ve just signed one at Universal!”
The next morning, I went back to Columbia, asked to see Mr. Cohn, and explained to him what had happened with Larry. “You know, Moe,”—he laughed—”this story would make a helluva movie.” Then he called in the head of the legal department. We looked at the agreement and checked the time stamped on it. He then phoned Universal and asked their legal department what time Larry signed his agreement. I couldn’t hear what they answered, but Mr. Cohn hung up, turned to me, and said, “You boys belong to Columbia!”
Several years later, Universal signed Abbott and Costello. I doubt very much if they would have joined Universal if fate had us sign there first. Years before, when we were starring at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City, Abbott and Costello were appearing there in a minstrel show, and at every opportunity, they would come backstage and watch us perform from the wings. I always felt there was much of Curly—his mannerisms and high-pitched voice—in Costello’s act in feature films.
We made our first two-reel comedy for Columbia, Woman Haters, in late June 1934. It was a musical, all in rhyme, written and directed by the songwriter Archie Gottler. Actually, the three of us appeared in the film separately, not as a team.
Woman Haters (1934), the Stooges’ first Columbia two-reeler, finds the boys thinking they are taking advantage of Marjorie White.
Our contract stated that the studio had the right to wait sixty days after the film was completed before they exercised their option to sign us to a long-term deal. Larry and Curly were pleased, but after going over the deal at my leisure, I was bothered. I just didn’t like the idea of having to wait a month before starting a second comedy, and I put down on paper an idea I had in mind for a long time: a story called Punch Drunks. It took me two nights and a day to complete the nine-page treatment; then I had a stenographer type it for me. I showed it to the boys and they agreed it was good. I made an appointment with Ben Kahane, a Columbia executive, for the following morning. Our agent at the time was Leo Morrison, but I felt that I had to take care of this appointment myself. The next morning I acted out the entire story for Kahane while he watched—all smiles.
When I finished, he said, “It’s great. You’ve really sold me. I’ll take this up with Mr. Cohn and Mr. Briskin at our meeting today.” I thanked him and left.
Two days later, Kahane called. “Moe,” he said, “I have some good news for you. Bring the boys with you and come to my office at two thirty this afternoon.” Curly and Larry met me in front of the studio. I couldn’t wait to get into Kahane’s office to hear the news, but I decided that we should be a little late so we wouldn’t seem too anxious.
At exactly 2:32 we entered. Mr. K. was smiling, so all I could do was smile in return, although my heart was thumping like mad. “Moe,” he said, “the studio is not going to wait the sixty days after Woman Haters to make a decision on your contract. I’m having my secretary type up another agreement. We’re going to shoot Punch Drunks right away, and we’re giving you a seven-year contract with yearly options. You will be required to make eight two-reel comedies in a forty-week period with a twelve-week layoff to do what you wish—except make films elsewhere. Your salary will be seventy-five hundred per film, making a yearly total of sixty thousand dollars.”
Dorothy Granger leads on both Moe and Curly in Punch Drunks (1934).
Corner man Moe prepares Curly to fight in Punch Drunks.
We were thrilled at the time with this fantastic offer but didn’t realize the ramifications of this contract.
Although television was far in the distance, our contract contained a clause that stipulated that Columbia Pictures Corporation shall have the rights to use our voices and our likenesses as well as our film product in perpetuity in mediums existing now or to be invented. This clause shut the door to any royalty payments when the 194 Columbia shorts we were to make were later released to television. A few years after the TV release of our shorts, Ronald Reagan, then president of the Screen Actors Guild, was instrumental in passing an SAG ruling that there would be no residuals for pictures made prior to 1960. This shut us out again.
We had a worthwhile clause in the contract which gave us twelve weeks off each year to work where and at whatever we wished. And we could keep all we earned on our personal appearance tours—and on many occasions we worked as much as twenty weeks.
Although we were with Columbia for over twenty-four years, our contract was lucrative— for them and us. Columbia made millions from the Stooges, although they put us through the wringer each time our option came up.
I believe it was the waiting each year, sometimes until the last moment, for Columbia to pick up our option for an additional year that was so upsetting to me and my family. And I found it had a great deal to do with breaking down my self-confidence. After the second option was picked up, Mr. Kahane told us, “Boys, it’s really getting tough to sell two-reel comedies. Movie houses in the South are going into double features, and they only have room for two features, a one-reel cartoon, and a newsreel. There’s no place for two-reelers.”
The studio painted a dire picture for the future of Stooges comedies. Then came that heartbreaking wait on the third option, which was finally picked up. The next year brought more frustrating dialogue about two-reel comedies not being too acceptable, then more waiting. I finally began to understand the studio’s psychology—to keep us off balance, to keep us from asking for an increase in salary. And it worked.
Years later, I found out that the Stooges’ films were always in tremendous demand all over the country. In visiting several of the Columbia film exchanges, I was told by the bookers that when a theater manager came in for a Stooges comedy, he was forced to take one of Columbia’s B pictures. After that I realized h
ow the studio had deceived us.
We suffered through the first seven years and then learned that the studio had another clause to continue the contract for an additional fourteen years with yearly options.
Our contract with Columbia ended, finally, in 1958. We were there for twenty-four years, the longest for any team in Hollywood. We walked out without fanfare, knowing it was a job well done. And that we had a following of millions of wonderful and loyal fans.
During our association with Columbia we starred in 194 shorts and 5 feature-length films. For our work in shorts we were nominated once for an Academy Award (for Men in Black) and received the Exhibitor Laurel Awards for being top two-reel moneymakers for the years 1950, 1951, 1952, 1953, and 1954.
After four decades these films are still being shown in every part of the world.
Our first comedy at Columbia, Woman Haters, had a scene in a Pullman car in which Walter Brennan had a bit as a train conductor. This was one of his earliest films, and he had a difficult time learning his lines. The picture was a musical, and the song he had to do was spoken rather than sung. In this comedy Larry broke his finger tumbling out of the upper berth.
In our second film, Punch Drunks, Curly had to appear in the ring with a professional fighter, and he came away with a bloody nose and a cut lip. And Larry, too, had his troubles. In one scene, he is running through the streets looking for someone who was playing the tune “Pop Goes the Weasel.” He comes to a truck with a man on the back waiting to make a speech. Larry hops into the truck, drives off. The man on the back somersaulted off and broke his arm.
