Ask Marlowe, eh

The mailbag this week fell off the back of Stanley Burke’s studio truck sometime around 1973 as he and Percy Saltzman were doing doughnuts in Charlie Farquharson’s back 40. Fiddlers, cooks, puppets and politicians — all looking for a little guidance. I’m no agony aunt, but a private eye learns a thing or two about human nature while waiting in parked cars. Let’s see what we’ve got, you fifty-first staters.

Dear Marlowe,

So yes, the show’s named after me, a shy old-time, Down East fiddler from Tweedside, New Brunswick. But how come I never get to talk on air while all the glory is hogged by that strutting minx Marg Osburne and her half-cut, cane-twirling Islander partner, Charlie Chamberlain? Instead, I’m instructed by wet-behind-the-ears recruits from the phony-baloney Lorne Greene School of Broadcasting to face the camera with an idiotic smile plastered to my face, show after show. When will it be my turn to grab my gal and squeeze her, and listen to her squeal, goin’ to the barn dance tonight? Got my dancin’ boots on but nowhere to go in my Sunday best, Don Messer

Marlowe replies:

Kid, I’ve seen joints where the piano player never said a word all night and still ran the place like a ward boss on election day. The sign outside says Don Messer’s Jubilee. Not Marg and Charlie’s Maritime Yak Society. That tells you who owns the barn and who just borrows the hay bales.

Sure, Marg gets the sparkle and Charlie croons like a man who’s been gargling with more than a little drop of brandy. That’s their department. They intone. You fiddle.

And when you play, the sound travels farther than a Bruce Marsh pitch for Lime Jell-O Marshmallow Cottage Cheese Surprise during a commercial break on a Wayne and Shuster Sunday night special. From Tweedside to Tofino they hear it — through the hiss of rabbit-ear antennas and the clatter of somebody’s dad adjusting the vertical hold.

If you’re really aching to say something, this always sets hearts aflutter and cholesterol through the roof: “Hey moms, why not try this tasty treat? Just melt Kraft miniature caramels over baked Kraft ballpark franks, cover with Kraft corn relish ….”

Then, next episode, drop the goofy grin and stare into the camera like you’re mulling that chintzy offer to join the Carlton Showband on The Pig and Whistle.

Dead air scares television producers worse than Gordon Sinclair asking Elaine Tanner whether she bleeds in the pool during her periods. Boy, did they get letters from the hinterland over that one! Someone will jam a microphone under your chin before Charlie finishes rhyming “floozy” with “boozy.”

Until then, keep the boots polished. The dance is already yours. Especially since Gordie Tapp departed for Hee Haw and Tommy Hunter was knocked for a loop by the Debbie Lori Kaye paternity scare. (Turns out he really was a travellin’ man, followin’ the breeze, travellin’ here and travellin’ there, gatherin’ memories. She let him. Wander. Let him. Wander. Just a-travellin’ on his way.)

Marlowe, mon cher!

Quelle surprise when Madame Benoît, the doyenne of Quebec cookery, invited me to bury the hatchet in our longstanding feud by joining her for some on-set tourtière, her signature dish. Quelle surprise encore plus grande when I realized that along with the spiced mixture of ground pork, beef and veal, in among the pommes de terre I was also tasting hints of ma p’tite Suzie, who kept emitting muffled squeaks for help in English. Because we were live on air, all I could think to do was to share a bilingual bite with Louise. Mais dites-moi honnêtement, qu’aurais-je dû faire? Ici Radio-Canada Télé, Hélène Baillargeon

Marlowe replies:

Live television is toujours a tightrope stretched over a vat of gravy. You keep smiling and hope nobody underneath starts shaking the rope. On Chez Hélène, with Madame Jehane Benoît at the stove, the rope is already buttered.

If you really heard Suzie squeaking inside that tourtière, you had two choices: shout murder and turn the broadcast into the first non-FLQ-related hostage crisis in Radio-Canada history … or keep chewing politely and let the show go on.

You chose the professional route. Well done. No pun intended.

Besides, cooking shows have always had their secrets. Half the country still suspects Graham Kerr’s “cooking wine” on The Galloping Gourmet came out of a bottle with a cork and no recipe attached. Charlie Chamberlain used to stop by after the show just to suck the corks. He called it voice training.

En tout cas. Next time the filling starts speaking English, tilt your head and ask the control room for subtitles twice as big as any of the English spoken words. The last thing you need right now is the Office québécois de la langue française down your throat. Along with those bite-size bits of Suzie.

P.S. Don’t want to unduly alarm you, sweetheart, but I notice Madame Benoît has a lamb curry on simmer. When did you last see Louise?

Dear Marlowe,

Help! Help! Living in a book bag by the castle window all those years was bad enough. But ever since Jerome and I appeared in that ill-advised comeback sketch at the Geminis in 2007 — which, let’s face it, no more than 14 viewers witnessed anyway — we’ve been locked in Mr. Dressup’s tickle trunk behind the Polka Dot Door with Casey, Finnegan and bunch of crap from the Uncle Bobby and Friends set. And I do mean crap. Mostly empty vodka bottles and that creepy cardboard cutout Bimbo: The Birthday Clown. Could you maybe mention to Fred Penner that the big speckled giraffe and I are willing to take a massive pay cut?

Please call me before the cow jumps over the moon, Rusty the Rooster

Marlowe replies:

You’re writing from inside the tickle trunk of Mr. Dressup with Casey and Finnegan, surrounded by junk from Uncle Bobby and Friends? That’s not a children’s show — that’s a police evidence locker.

Here’s the angle: trunks open when somebody needs nostalgia. Producers get sentimental every decade or so. When that lid creaks, you make your move.

Until then, strum that harp of yours loud and often. Have Jerome play his recorder. Preferably something annoying, like in the old days. When the noise finally drives a stagehand crazy enough to investigate, slip out, straighten your felt, and head straight for Raffi. Tell him you work cheap and you travel light.

In show business, kid, survival is half the act. If Penner or Raffi aren’t interested in having you cats back, give Maggie Muggins a dingle. I hear Mr. McGarrity is off his meds again and Fitzgerald Fieldmouse has been hanging out with The Notorious P.I.G. Wilbur, formerly known as Roy Bonisteel. That always gives Al Hamel and the other suits hives.

Dear Marlowe,

Normally a backbench member of the governing party wouldn’t get involved in something like this, but I’ve always had a maverick streak and am prepared to do the right thing even when it isn’t politically expedient. I’ve been wrestling with an ethical issue lately and could use some advice since what has been unfolding in Kensington Market is well outside my bailiwick of Greater Moose Falls. But golly. First Al Waxman is married to Fiona Reid. Then he’s with Rosemary Radcliffe in Season 4 and courting Jayne Eastwood in Season 5. And this guy solves other people’s problems while also running a convenience store? When does he find the time to stock the potatoes? I’m anxious to get going on this because rumour has it that crusading coroner Dr. Stefan (Steve) Wojeck is already sniffing around.

Quentin Durgens, M.P., not to be confused with Nick Adonidas, L.S. (Log Salvager)

Marlowe replies:

You’re trying to apply parliamentary logic to television. That’s like measuring fog with a yardstick.

Chick magnet Waxman runs a store, fixes neighbourhood problems and still finds time to keep company with three broads. The reason is simple: TV weeks are elastic. Problems appear on Monday and vanish by Thursday. Besides, they don’t call him the king of Kensington for nothing.

If Ottawa worked that way — as it kind of did when P.E.T. was running the show — you’d have the budget balanced and three romances before Question Period. (Except for the balanced budget part.)

My advice? Leave Kensington Market to Waxman and Wojeck. Stick to Moose Falls. In politics, a man juggling that many plots inevitably winds up in front of the LeDain Commission, Emmett Hall or Norman DePoe.

And DePoe, a proud alumnus of Lorne Greene’s Academy of Radio Arts, never asked a question that stayed answered.

Got a problem that smells like Knowlton Nash’s bare elbows in the studio lights? Send it along.

Write to: Philip Marlowe c/o Lotta Hitschmanova Unitarian Service Committee 56 Sparks Street Ottawa 4

Bring a thick skin and a fresh set of rabbit ears. In this business, you’ll need both. 🕵️‍♂️📬