‘Ben-Hur’ Premieres in Benefit for USC

Nov. 25, 1959: Los Angeles' population reaches 2.4 million.

Parents pose with newly adopted children in a program of the Adoption Institute.

“Ben-Hur” premieres as a benefit for USC. Gore Vidal worked on the script for “Ben-Hur?”

William Wyler, "whose extremes are as often matched by subtleties, has more nearly bridged the centuries between Christ's and ours than any other moviemaker. 'You are there,' " The Times' Philip K. Scheuer says.

Hey, Keith! Is this the “Home Run Derby” with Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays?

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 24, 1959

Face It; Aren't You Just a Mite Rigged?     Sit down.     No.  Better yet, lie down.  Or is it lay down?     Anyway, get prone.  Tuck a pillow under your head if it'll help relieve that nervous tension which undoubtedly has been building up within you all day.     All set?  Nice and comfy?  You've got my column in front of you, extended at arm's length?     Good.  Now I can tell you.     Today, I'm going to discuss the TV quiz scandals.     You undoubtedly thought that they were passe by now.  That, of course, is part of your trouble.  Too flighty.     Along comes payola and your attention is diverted.     All you're interested in now is if your favorite disc jockey was getting a few bucks under the turntable for trying to make a roll and rock hit out of that old ditty, "Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life."     I could write a story.  I could tell you that Madame Curie was rigged, and you wouldn't care.  If Van Doren can be rigged, why couldn't Madame Curie?  That's what you'd answer me.     And now we're getting close to my point.       My point is that you've pushed this whole messy affair back deep, deep into your subconscious before you've had a chance to carefully analyze (which is, I grant you, a split infinitive) its implications.     In other words, what I'm probing into is: "The TV quiz show scandals and YOU!"     Do you know exactly where you stand now that we've all been told by the TV quiz show moguls that the riggings were a natural byproduct of the decadent, deceptive day in which we live?     If you don't, be thankful you're here.     I have with me a test which will show to what degree you have decayed morally.     Please --not for my sake, but for your own -- answer the questions truthfully.  If you don't you'll just rot a little more.     1- When you do crossword puzzles while driving home on the Hollywood Freeway in the evening, do you turn to Page 8, Part III, for the answer to "Tibetan oxen," and then write it in, giving yourself full credit?     2- On departing from a cocktail party, do you tell the hostess that you had a wonderful time, even though you know, down deep, that the Martinis were watered?     3- If you give a seven-year-old newsboy a dollar for a newspaper and he gives you $1.10 in change, do you pocket the profit, pat him on the head, and walk away with a feeling of accomplishment?     4- Do you save last year's Christmas gift boxes with Bullock's labels on them to package gifts which you bought at the 5-and-10 this year? So, You Got Defects     Now, tally up your answers.     If you have one "yes" answer, you're morally defective.  But only a little bit.  Don't let it worry you.  Cut the test out. Try it again six months from now.     If you have more than one "yes" answer, you're a moral thief.     You know it.  I know it.     And that's what I like about you.  You're not afraid to own up to it.     Now, if you'll excuse me, get off the couch.  My head hurts and I want to lie down myself.

A Kinder, Simpler Time Dept.: Your Movie Columnist

Nov. 23, 1960:  “Had a few days in New York while homebound from Europe so took in Lucille Ball's show 'Wildcat' in Philadelphia. It makes you laugh and cry and when it reaches Broadway it'll take this old town like she took the nation with 'I Love Lucy.' “

Voices – Evelyn Rudie

Above, Evelyn Rudie, 9, who played Eloise on TV, makes the front page of the Mirror with a story about vanishing from home to go see Mamie Eisenhower.

Paul Coates’ Nov. 10, 1959, column (“Evelyn Is a Real Old Hand at Drum Beating”) brought a response from Rudie, who is now co-artistic director at the Santa Monica Playhouse: Evelyn Rudie here. Wow - what a blast from the past. But you know - Leo was wrong. Although he was a good friend of mine, he was also notorious for getting himself in the midst of exaggerated gossip. I never asked him to be my Valentine. True, I sent lots of Valentine's (and St. Patrick’s Day cards, and Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving and Christmas) - everybody did that in those days. You bought little boxes of holiday notes, passed them out to everyone in your class, teachers, friends, relatives. But when I was six, and seven, and eight, my heart truly belonged to Paul Coates and in 1959 he was the only person I actually asked to be my Valentine. Paul - if you're up there looking down, or down there, looking up, I hope you hear that. :)  And Leo, shame on you for making me out to be a “loose” woman at age 7.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 10, 1959

Evelyn Is a Real Old Hand at Drum Beating     I'm not one to go around saying I told you so.    But I did.     Three years ago I warned you about Eloise's alter ego, Evelyn Rudie.     I told you that she was an artful woman.  That behind that saccharine smile of innocence was one of the most calculating, wily women of Hollywood, Zsa Zsa Gabor not withstanding.     This I knew long before Miss Rudie's unscheduled flight east to consult Mamie about her Hooper rating.     Shortly after television and Evelyn were born, I had the occasion to interview the child star on a TV show.     Miss Rudie was 6, going on 7, at the time.  And I was practically old enough to be her father.  Or at least her older brother.     But you know Hollywood.     About a week after the show, I received a thinly disguised letter of affection from the tyke.     Being a married man, I naturally ignored it.  In fact, I destroyed it immediately.     When one has a wife one just doesn't leave that kind of perfumed mail spread all over the living room coffee table.     Then, a few days later- it was the first week in February -- came note No. 2.  This one didn't beat around any bushes.     It asked, bluntly, did I want to be her Valentine?     And it was signed, "Love, Evelyn Rudie."     Assuming that this thing she felt for me was nothing more than childish infatuation, I decided to play it as a big joke.     I was at a Sunset Strip restaurant with a group of friends when I let it drop, during a lull, that I'd been getting these letters.     "She seems so sincere.  I'd hate to hurt the poor child.  But, really -- the difference in our ages," I said.  "It would never work."     As I said it, Leo Guild, a notorious eavesdropper who worked for the Hollywood Reporter, appeared over my left shoulder.     "WHO seems so sincere?" he asked, not very casually.     Envisaging Evelyn and I being linked as the latest twosome in tomorrow's editions, I answered him:     "I was just telling the folks here, Leo, that Evelyn Rudie has been sending me the most intimate letters, and I'd just hate to hurt the poor-"     "Evelyn Rudie?" he interrupted.  "You been getting those letters, too?"     My face fell.  "Too?"     Guild nodded.  "She's been doing that for years."     "Years?" I cried.  "She's not even 7 yet."     "Well," he qualified, "for a few years, anyway."     "And," he added, "she just sent me a note asking if I'd be her Valentine."     This, I dutifully reported to you three years ago.  Evelyn Rudie is a sneak.  She double-dates, but without an extra girl.  Just to get her name in the columns.     This Mamie Eisenhower routine, I'm convinced, was strictly another one of her publicity schemes.

Yet Another Killer Dad in the Black Dahlia Case

The front page of the Los Angeles Examiner, Jan.  25, 1947. The only message ever confirmed to be from the Black Dahlia’s killer.

With the publication of Steve Hodel’s “Black Dahlia Avenger” and “Most Evil,” I assumed that the market for “Daddy did it” claims about the Black Dahlia case was exhausted, particularly after the tragic suicide of Janice Knowlton, who began this bizarre publishing genre with “Daddy Was the Black Dahlia Killer.”   But no. Throw onto the pile of claims about conveniently dead “killer Dads” the one being offered by Dennis Kaufman, a Sacramento man who says his stepfather, Jack Tarrance, (you guessed it) killed Elizabeth Short and committed the Zodiac murders. And yes, there is a movie in the works. Unlike some crime writers, I am a specialist rather than a generalist. The Black Dahlia case is one I know well, but I’m only familiar with the outlines of Zodiac, so I’ll skip anything involving Tarrance and the Zodiac killings. Here’s a brief explanation of what’s wrong with the claim (it’s not even good enough to call a “theory”) linking him to the Black Dahlia case. My information on Tarrance comes from online reporting by Kris Pickel and posted by KOVR, the CBS affiliate in Sacramento.  According to Pickel’s reports, Kaufman and “forensic document examiner Nanette Barto” say that Tarrance’s handwriting matches the Zodiac letters and the mail received in the Black Dahlia case.   The problem with these claims (and it’s the same mistake made by “Black Dahlia Avenger” and “Most Evil”) is that they are based on the wrong assumption that Elizabeth Short’s killer sent a flood of postcards and letters to newspapers. There were no letters from the killer. There were no postcards from the killer. There is no handwriting to compare.  Zero. Let me repeat: The only confirmed message from the killer of Elizabeth Short is the “Here! is Dahlia’s belongings” envelope shown above, which used letters clipped from newspapers. Notice that there’s no handwriting on the envelope. None. All the rest of the mail was the work of anonymous crackpots. The fact is that in the weeks after the killer sent some of Short’s belongings to the newspapers, there was a deluge of mail from pranksters. Every bit of it was a joke. That anyone is taking this mail seriously 60 years later is a sad reflection of the  pitiful lack of skepticism among amateur researchers, writers and book publishers.     The issue of whether Tarrance was the Zodiac killer is one I will leave to somebody else. But here’s the first question I have for the folks claiming he killed the Black Dahlia: “Can you show that Jack Tarrance was in Los Angeles at the time of the murder?” Not, “Could he have been in Los Angeles? “ or “Do you think he was in Los Angeles?”  The next question is: “If you don’t know, what are you doing to find out?” You’ll notice from the KOVR videos that the purported “evidence” is long on the nebulous art of handwriting comparison and very short on facts. All that’s said is that Tarrance was in the Navy and might have been in San Diego in 1945 – two years before the killing – and was discharged a few months after the Black Dahlia murder. In fact, a shot of his discharge papers shows he was in the service until October 1947, nine months after the murder.   It is not impossible to answer the question of where Tarrance was in January 1947 at the time of the Black Dahlia killing – but it’s a fair amount of work. The test will be whether these folks will even attempt to fill in the blanks or content themselves with a lot of mumbo-jumbo about penmanship in hopes of a book/movie deal. Note: The two images of crackpot mail are from the Herald-Express/Herald Examiner photo archives. Some of the Herald’s Black Dahlia material, including these images, is at the Los Angeles Public Library and has been posted online, and many photos are in the John Gilmore archives at UCLA Special Collections. The screen grab of Tarrance’s honorable discharge is from KOVR.

House Committee to Investigate Payola

Nov. 7, 1959: A U.N. group finds no proof that Laos had been invaded by communist troops from North Viet-Nam but discovers that Laotian rebels were supplied by Viet-Nam Reds. You may hear more about Viet-Nam in the days ahead -- much more.   A House committee investigating rigged TV quiz shows turns its attention to payola. Here's a clip from a wonderful satire by Stan Freberg (with Jesse White). Stan Freberg, Payola Blues

Students swarm Vice President Richard Nixon during an appearance at Los Angeles City College, The Times says. A little more than a week later, Vincent Stones' father, Kenneth, was killed in a car accident. In March 1960, Joanne Elizabeth Selby was found not guilty by reason of insanity in the drowning of her nephew.

Girls go bad in two foreign films, "Night Girls" and "Flesh and the Woman."

Carving a turkey is more difficult than it looks for Ferd'nand.

"Powell 47-Sec. Kayo Victim" and "Indians 4-Point Pick to Scalp Bruins Today." Now there's two headlines you won't see anymore ... and "Cuppers?"

Dodgers Deliver Plans for Stadium

Nov. 5, 1959: An artist’s concept of Dodger Stadium. Look at all the parking!

"We have submitted plans for what we believe will be the most beautiful sports stadium in the world, in keeping with the best interest of the community," Walter O'Malley says.

Richard Nixon goes golfing with, from left, Bernard Weinberg, Danny Kaye, Eric Monti and Danny Thomas.

Vice President Richard Nixon buys neckties and plays golf. The Times puts its Team Nixon in high gear.

Student reporters are thrilled to cover the vice president. The Times truly went to extremes to boost Nixon. Notice the artwork on the ad for “The Untouchables.” Truly remarkable for the 1950s.

Jeane Hoffman interviews firefighter Richard Hunt about Olympic skating.

Charles Van Doren’s Statement – Full Text

Nov. 3, 1959: "I would give almost anything I have to reverse the course of my life in the last three years. I cannot take back one word or action; the past does not change for anyone. But at least I can learn from the past. I have learned a lot in those three years -- especially in the last three weeks, I've learned a lot about my life. I've learned a lot about myself, and about the responsibilities any man has to his fellow men. I've learned a lot about good and evil. They are not always what they appear to be."

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 2, 1959

TV game show winner Charles Van Doren says everything was a fake. There's a Strange Girl in His Bath     TOKYO -- You know what you've always heard about those Japanese public baths?  Well, don't believe it.     We Americans have  an innate suspicion of any culture which makes a public excursion of so private a matter as a bath.  To this day, we still gossip about the Romans who took their ablutions in mixed frolic.  We look askance at the coeducational baths of Sweden.     And because the Orient, despite Jack Douglas, remains inscrutable, we distrust the Japanese public bath over all.  So, it isn't simply that we're evil-minded.  It's simply that we have never known what goes on behind those steamy doors.     Therefore, in the interests of creating better understanding, I went to a Tokyo bathhouse that was advertised in an English-language paper as:  "Best bath in Tokyo.  Good massage.  Most pretty girl attendants."     When I handed the address to a cab driver, he gave me a sly, toothy grin which, I must admit, unnerved me  a bit.  But which, I subsequently realized, didn't mean what I thought it did.  The grin was merely to inform me that he couldn't speak or read a word of English, and had no idea where I wanted to go.     After I played charades by taking a pantomime bath in the back seat, he got the message and delivered me, oddly enough, to the right address.     A gentleman in horn-rimmed glasses bowed me to a small room on the second floor and handed me a yellow slip of paper to be filled out later, "Contest for bestgur'," he informed me, "Winner gets r'uving cup."     On the contest form were three questions I was requested to answer about the girl who attended me: "1- Does she give good consideration? 2- Is she so sweet? 3- Does she speak in a softly manner?"     While I waited for her to appear and meet these qualifications, I looked around for the rest of the crowd.  But there was nobody there except me.  Finally a girl in halter and tennis shorts came in and helped me to disrobe.  It could have been embarrassing.  Instead, it was almost insulting.  I've never in my life been looked at with such disinterest.     Then, as though I was a piece of flabby finnan haddie, she shoved me into a steam box where I bubbled and boiled away for awhile.  After I was done to a turn, she opened the box, motioned me to sit on a wooden slab about six inches off the cold marble floor, and began soaping my back.     And if you've never sat scrunched up six inches off the floor while a strange girl soaped your back, don't ever.  It's an utterly degrading experience.       Suddenly she began hitting me in the face with pail full after pail full of hot water.     "Tha's enough," I was finally able to sputter, "You wanta' drown a person?" That Grin Again     But she gave me that familiar, toothy grin meaning that she too, didn't understand a word of English, and continued throwing water in my face.     Just as I was about to go down for the third time, she stopped.  And I, too weak to protest, was deposited into a wooden tub of scalding water.  Then I was dried out, stretched out, unmercifully pummeled on the back and shoulder muscles, dressed and ushered out the door.     Over my shoulder I tossed her a baleful look, spit out a remaining mouthful of water, and tore up the contest blank.     Anyone who treats me like that don't get no r'uving cup!