Red Skelton

Re "Red Skelton, TV and Film's Quintessential Clown, Dies," Sept. 18: When I was a child, I remember watching my share of television; of the things I remember best, I remember Red Skelton. Such an integral part of my childhood was he that it's difficult for me to say goodbye. I remember watching him and thinking that there could be no better job in the world than making people laugh, and I wanted to grow up to be a comedian. Of course, after I grew up and found out how cutthroat is the business we call "show," I took another path; but the joy that Red brought to me as a child stays with me, and I still enjoy making people laugh, though not professionally.

A woman whose brother sent her a letter in 1944 will finally receive it ? with a little help from officials at California's Camp Roberts and one of the post's most famous enlisted men, the late comedian Red Skelton. Last month, the errant letter mysteriously arrived in the daily mail at Camp Roberts. It was postmarked in Montgomery, Ala., and addressed to Miss R.T. Fletcher at the base's Red Cross hospital, which had been torn down decades ago. Gary McMaster, the curator of the base museum, alerted the Montgomery Advertiser, the city's biggest newspaper.

Red Skelton always wanted a theater of his own. His career spanned six decades and four genres -- vaudeville, radio, movies and television -- but the rubber-faced comic never owned one of the buildings he often called "palaces." Saturday, nine years after his death, hundreds of clowns paraded through his southwestern Indiana hometown to celebrate Skelton's legacy and the theater that finally bears his name: Vincennes University's Red Skelton Performing Arts Center. "He loved the theater.

Art Gilmore, who launched his more than 60-year career as an announcer in the 1930s and became a widely recognized voice on radio, television, commercials, documentaries and movie trailers, has died. He was 98. Gilmore died Sept. 25 of age-related causes at a convalescent care center near his home in Irvine, said his nephew, Robb Weller. "He was one of an elite corps of radio and television announcers, a voice that everyone in America recognized because it was ubiquitous," film critic and show business historian Leonard Maltin told The Times this week.

Whoever successfully argued for Red Skelton as the recipient of the Governor's Award at this year's Emmys--presented Sunday night in Pasadena--is responsible for an intriguing bit of business. As far as television is concerned, Skelton has been washed up for 16 years. In contemporary videoland, he's a non-person.

Red Skelton was a great audience. While playing such characters as the Mean Widdle Kid, Clem Kadiddlehopper and Deadeye on his variety show in the '50s and '60s, he'd crack himself up so much that you could barely understand some of his lines. Thank goodness nowadays you can tape, rewind a little and figure out those trampled lines. And thank goodness that KOCE Channel 50 is going to air episodes of "The Red Skelton Show"--even though it's just 10 of them.

When works by Picasso, Degas and Matisse were pilfered last year from a San Pedro warehouse, Los Angeles police quickly jumped into action. But on Friday, nearly a week after a Red Skelton clown self-portrait was spirited away from a San Pedro art gallery, Los Angeles detectives had yet to interview the sales clerk on duty when the lithograph was lifted. Nor had the LAPD's art theft specialist yet been called in to investigate the caper. "I'm not even aware of it happening," said LAPD Det.

Red Skelton was the original carrot top comic--a delightful, wonderful clown who entertained audiences for nearly 60 years. Skelton, who died last week at age 84, may have been out of the limelight for several years, but his comedy remains as fresh and funny as it was 50 years ago. Several of his movies and episodes from his long-running TV series are available on video.

Red Skelton, the rubber-faced harlequin and pantomimist whose antics delighted stage, radio, film and television audiences with such characters as Clem Kadiddlehopper, Freddie the Freeloader and the Mean Widdle Kid, died Wednesday. He was 84. He had been in declining health for several years before he died at Eisenhower Medical Center in Rancho Mirage. Skelton was the quintessential clown. In his later years he even painted clown faces, earning more than $80,000 for a single canvas and about $2.

While my mother slept on a fold-out couch in the living room, my sister and I shared the bedroom. Lucy and I had twin beds. In the darkness before we fell asleep, I instituted a program called "Assembly," modeled after school assemblies. I introduced talent, frequently a singer, and then sang a song ("16 Tons" maybe, or "Mr. Sandman"). Most likely I was trying to restore order to our shattered reality, and I remember feeling contentment as I went about this ritual.

They were three kings of comedy, long before that honorary title came into use. Bob Hope, Joe E. Brown and Red Skelton were all multimedia comedians whose best work isn't that well known anymore. The release this week of vintage DVDs highlighting the films of these comic actors could introduce them to a new generation of fans. Bob Hope Hope made feature films from 1938 through 1972, but unfortunately, his last movies were wheezy, bloated, unfunny vehicles. In his earlier work, however, Hope was a master of comedic timing, a brilliant film comedian who created a wonderful neurotic character — outwardly glib, inwardly cowardly (similar to Woody Allen's on-screen persona)

Pamela Blake, 94, a B-movie actress known for her roles in such late 1940s action serials as "Chick Carter, Detective" and "Ghost of Zorro," died of natural causes Tuesday at a Las Vegas care facility, her family said. Born in 1915 in Oakland, Blake came to Hollywood after winning a beauty contest at age 17. Originally known by her given name, Adele Pearce, she adopted the stage name Pamela Blake in 1942, the same year she signed with MGM, according to the All Movie Internet database.

Bob LeMond Jr., 94, a familiar voice in radio and television as the announcer for "Leave It to Beaver," "Ozzie and Harriet," "Our Miss Brooks" and Lucille Ball's first radio sitcom, "My Favorite Husband," died Jan. 6 at his home in Bonsall, Calif., according to his family. The cause of death was not announced. Born in Hale Center, Texas, on April 11, 1913, LeMond grew up in Southern California and began his broadcasting career in the mid-1930s. He would spend most of his career working for CBS. During World War II, he was a special services officer with Armed Forces Radio serving in the South Pacific.

Look, Willie Mays was the greatest ballplayer maybe ever. Elizabeth Taylor was a stunning movie actress. And a lot of people thought Milton Berle was hilarious. But as historical figures of California, they hardly match up to "the Big Four" who built the western leg of the transcontinental railroad, or to the reform Gov. Hiram Johnson or even to the man who gave us blue jeans, Levi Strauss. Or industrialist Henry J. Kaiser or Gov. Pat Brown.

Red Skelton always wanted a theater of his own. His career spanned six decades and four genres -- vaudeville, radio, movies and television -- but the rubber-faced comic never owned one of the buildings he often called "palaces." Saturday, nine years after his death, hundreds of clowns paraded through his southwestern Indiana hometown to celebrate Skelton's legacy and the theater that finally bears his name: Vincennes University's Red Skelton Performing Arts Center. "He loved the theater.

Jerry Lewis. No comedian since Charles Chaplin has been so loved and so reviled. He is America's Dark Prince of Comedy--brilliant, bitter, passionate and deeply conflicted. A man of many demons, his cockiness conceals a labyrinth of doubts and self-destructive impulses. An American original whom Americans have never quite come to terms with, he also happens to be one of the greatest filmmakers of the latter half of the 20th century. And for this he deserves an Academy Award. It's not surprising that he's never even been nominated for one. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has a tradition of snubbing comedians.

Jerry Lewis. No comedian since Charles Chaplin has been so loved and so reviled. He is America's Dark Prince of Comedy--brilliant, bitter, passionate and deeply conflicted. A man of many demons, his cockiness conceals a labyrinth of doubts and self-destructive impulses. An American original whom Americans have never quite come to terms with, he also happens to be one of the greatest filmmakers of the latter half of the 20th century. And for this he deserves an Academy Award. It's not surprising that he's never even been nominated for one. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has a tradition of snubbing comedians.

Guy Della Cioppa, 87, early executive with CBS radio and television who helped produce "The Red Skelton Show." Born in Philadelphia and educated at the Wharton School of Business there, Della Cioppa joined CBS in 1937. During World War II, he served in Army intelligence in Europe, establishing an armed forces radio network in Britain and working in psychological warfare under Col. William S. Paley, the future head of CBS.

While my mother slept on a fold-out couch in the living room, my sister and I shared the bedroom. Lucy and I had twin beds. In the darkness before we fell asleep, I instituted a program called "Assembly," modeled after school assemblies. I introduced talent, frequently a singer, and then sang a song ("16 Tons" maybe, or "Mr. Sandman"). Most likely I was trying to restore order to our shattered reality, and I remember feeling contentment as I went about this ritual.