“In
1952, our panel show "I've Got a Secret" Henry Morgan was named in
Red Channels, but for such a frivolous reason that no one -- not even CBS --
took it seriously. Morgan was essentially an apolitical curmudgeon who shot
darts at any pompous balloon he saw floating by. Certainly he was no
"Communist dupe." The closest he came to being duped was by his wife,
who, Morgan told me, was a leftist sympathizer, and it was understood that one
reason Morgan was getting a divorce was his aversion to Mrs. Morgan's politics.
Thus he was listed in Red Channels as a result of a marital connection he was
trying to terminate.
But
R. J. Reynolds took the listing seriously. At least the William Esty agency
did, and I was informed that Morgan would have to go. I'd done previous
business with the two men in charge of the account -- reasonable, decent guys
-- and paid them a visit. They agreed completely that the charge in Red
Channels was nonsensical. But as they put it: "Camel cigarettes don't want
to know from reasons. They're in the business of selling tobacco, and hostile
mail will make Winston-Salem edgy." The account could be at risk. And for
what? For one man? I left that meeting with an ultimatum: dump Morgan pronto or
Reynolds would cancel.”
Burrows was a brilliant comedy
writer known for "Duffy's Tavern" on radio, and he was a co-author of
"Guys and Dolls," the 1950 Broadway hit. But he still couldn't be
used in television. During the war years Burrows had apparently taken part in
cultural activities sponsored by Communists in California. To clear his name,
he appeared twice before the House Un-American Activities Committee. The
committee, after extensive hearings, released Burrows, apparently cleared, from
further questioning. But the mere story of his appearance before the committee
made headlines in the tabloid press, and Aware Inc., a group formed "to
combat the Communist conspiracy in entertainment-communication," and the
American Legion were not so forgiving. So when we booked Burrows on "The
Name's the Same," it wasn't long before organized mail began to roll in. A
sponsor of that program was a privately held Midwestern company, C. A. Swanson
& Sons, makers of Swanson frozen TV dinners.
The mail demanding Burrows's
expulsion continued to escalate. We were receiving upward of a thousand letters
a week. I quietly dropped them in wastebaskets hoping that protest groups would
tire of the battle. No such luck. The mail increased. In addition, the Catholic
War Veterans began to picket the theater in New York where the show was
broadcast. I kept waiting for a call from the sponsor, and it finally came from
Omaha.
"Are you getting mail about
Abe Burrows?" he asked. I conceded that we were. "We're getting a lot
of it back here," he said, worried. "Is Burrows a Communist?" I
replied that to my best knowledge he was not. "In that case, what's the
shooting about?" he asked. I filled him in on Abe's story. "If that's
what it's all about," he said, "forget it. If you feel like it, keep
on using him."