An Irishman's Diary By Karl Whitney The Irish Times, Monday 27th August 2007 - - - - The steps of a small tenement house on the Upper East Side of Manhattan may not have looked like much, but to me they were a place of pilgrimage. I had flown into New York a few days beforehand, and though I had not gone to the city planning to visit number 179 East 93rd Street, I found myself drawn towards it one afternoon while strolling across Central Park from my flea-bitten hotel on the back streets of the Upper West Side. It was November 2006, and New York's unseasonably warm weather had a sting in the tail: once the sun dipped behind the buildings, shadows were cast across the streets and the temperature dropped sharply. I made my journey east, around Central Park's reservoir, wrapped tightly in a scarf, coat and woolly hat. The house had once been the home of the young Groucho Marx, one of the great comedians of the cinema, and one of the most recognisable figures of the twentieth century. Cutting a cartoonish figure with his trademark glasses, cigar and greasepaint moustache, Groucho, born Julius Marx, died thirty years ago, on August 19th 1977. A census taken in June 1900 records the presence at number 179 of the Marx family, including the parents of the Marx Brothers, Sam and Minnie – both immigrants from Germany. Then, of course, there were the Brothers themselves, then named Leo, Adolph, Julius and Milton, but later to be known as Chico, Harpo, Groucho and Gummo. Gummo was to leave the act fairly early on, becoming a clothes salesman, and later an agent in Hollywood. Another brother, Herbert, who was later to be called Zeppo, was born in 1901. Under the stewardship of their indefatigable mother Minnie, the Marx Brothers were to become a celebrated act on the Vaudeville circuit. They subsequently became stars on Broadway, starring in the comedy musicals 'I'll Say She Is', 'The Cocoanuts' and 'Animal Crackers' in the mid-1920s. They made their film debut in a screen adaptation of 'The Cocoanuts' in 1929. My journey across Manhattan was nourished by my long-standing interest in the lives and art of the Marx Brothers. I had first seen them on television as a child, and their anarchic performances in films like 'Horse Feathers' and 'Duck Soup' made a big impression. Over the years I've seen every film they've made, and read countless biographies in an effort to explain the strange kinetic magic they worked onscreen. In their time, the Marx Brothers were one of the most highly praised of comedy acts: Salvador Dali wrote a surreal script for them, 'Giraffes on Horseback Salad', which the brothers politely turned down; the not-unforthcoming George Bernard Shaw, when pressed for a list of his preferred actors said that 'Cedric Hardwicke is my fifth favourite actor, the first four being the Marx Brothers'. Although the visual gags of his brother Harpo were cheered by members of the literary Algonquin Round Table, Groucho was the Marx Brother most likely to draw the attention of the intelligentsia, with his razor-sharp repartee and freewheeling word association. Behind the greasepaint and permanent leer, Groucho was bookish and intellectual. He had some ambition as a writer, and though he only wrote one filmed screenplay (1937's 'The King and the Chorus Girl'), his short humorous writings were published occasionally by American magazines such as The New Yorker and College Humor. Indeed, Groucho's ardour for the life of the mind led him to maintain an affectionate and respectful correspondence with the poet T.S. Eliot. After the Marx Brothers' film career stalled, finally, with 1949's Love Happy (in which a young Marilyn Monroe sashayed across screen in a brief, early role) Groucho turned to broadcasting, carving out a hugely successful career as the host of the quiz show You Bet Your Life, where he bantered amiably, and often caustically, with ordinary Americans as they attempted to win cash on live network television. Standing on East 93rd Street, I took photos of the building, close-up and from across the road. I was alone, but wanted proof that I had been there. An African-American woman, pushing her child in a buggy, walked by, and I asked her if she'd take a photo. I handed her my camera. She parked the buggy carefully, and braked it against the slight incline of the street. She took the photo, and was on her way. At the time I could vaguely recall a photo of two of the Marx Brothers, both aged about 10 years old or so, standing on the steps of a house, wearing oversized coats that were obviously hand-me-downs. One of them was holding a dog in his arms. Were these, I wondered, the same steps on which I was now being photographed, muffled from the encroaching cool of the evening by my snug clothing? I have the photo of the young Marx Brothers in front of me at this moment, and even now I can't tell for sure. But at that moment the thought that this could be exactly the same place warmed me, and keeps me warm still. © 2007 The Irish Times -------- Journalism | Home | About