Red Felbinger of Paramount News…aka “The Sassiety Reporter” looks back on 1932

Well, Happy New Year to you. And here’s hopin the headache and motorman’s glove taste is gone when you lamp this. Well, mebbe we’re all set for a fresh start in ’33, but afore we burns down that bridge let’s go back and have a bonfire on ole ’32 and see what milestones them 666 Knights of the Celluloid plastered on the screens and then into newsreel morgues for posterity.

To me ’32 sure looks like anythin but a depression when lampin over what them hombres what juggles tripods for newsreels did that year. Their escapades go like this for me.

They starts off the year with a high class weddin on January first — Emile Montemurro was the brave lad what caused us to go out the first day of the new year and git the old headache all over again. It wuz a grand weddin anyways.

Then in the middle of January we makes history at the annual Cary Ski meet which we covers every year. This one was unusual as it wuz the first one the ole timers kin look back on and remember where you didn’t freeze your pants on to you in about 20 below. It wuz a regular California afternoon and we didn’t have to drink that Swedish punch we had to guzzle other years — a mixture of gin, moonshine and strong black coffee — in order to keep warm.

Then right in the middle of the month our own original Don Juan made history. Orlando Lippert in person fell in love with the sweetest kid the Lord ever breathed wind into. This love wuz the real thing accordin to Lippert at the time.

February wuz swell for yours truly. It took me down to New Orleans, where it wuz warm, for the Mardi Gras. And I met a lot of ole time friends while down there — among them Tracy Mathewson, Ed Dyer, Webber Hall.

Then back to Chicago just in time for the annual March Blizzard. And the night the big wind was twirlin the snow into the lenses of the rest of us 666ers Lippert ups and announces he has found a new Honey, and wuz he in love this time! He broke up with this one jest about the time the gang wuz settin up down at South Bend the 1st of April to shoot the fightin Irish going through the Spring workout. Eddie Morrison, Red Felbinger and Tony Caputo predicted loud mouthed how them Irish wuz set to smear Southern Calif, the comin fall.

Durin this month a gang of crankers with wings wuz zooming in formation up at Selfridge field with the First Pursuit Squadron of the U. S. Air Corps shootin some high class formation stuff above the clouds.

This army of winged sharpshooters included Montemurro, Caputo, Lippert and Bob Hollahan. They stuck to handcrank Akeleys standin in the open cockpits of ships that flew at greater speeds than 190 miles an hour.

Then the sunshiny month of May dragged the gang south to Churchill Downs to make the pan from the roof on the annual Kentucky Derby. It was another unusual story this year because for once the sun shone and the gang could stop down. Also the whole gang wuz bettin on Burgoo King right on the nose.

A couple of days later these same sport historians wuz kneelin in the street of a small town in Michigan named Holland, makin odd angles on a ole Dutch scrubbin contest. Jack Barnett wuz leadin the odd angle contest on this one, and then he ran out of film and had to quit.

Memorial Day ended the merry month of May for the gang down at the 500-mile auto grind. Up at the north turn at that benzine derby the gang flirted with death and wuz rewarded with some fancy crack-up pictures.

This gang included Charlie David, Urban Santone, Phil Gleason, Eddie Morrison, Tony Caputo and Ralph Saunders.

And while these daredevils are glued to their cameras down at Indianapolis, Orlando Lippert pops up at the Omaha balloon races and announces he finally has met THE little woman. What a Honey, etc., etc., and wuz any of them other guys ever in love like he was?

Then the beautiful sunshiny month of June opens up in the Windy Village. Everythin wuz nice and green in the parks. People marched to the city beaches. Couples spooned in the parks. Life wuz swell in the month of June in Chicago.

Chaos in Ches’s

At least that’s what that gang of 666 newsreelers read daily in them papers what was tossed to us as we lived in our hot sticky perches out there in the Stadium at the Republican and Democratic Conventions listenin and shootin night and day as politicians read off reams and reams of speeches on what’s wrong with the country and preached on givin us good beer — while we sat there with our tongues hangin out wishin we wuz over at Ches’s Place hoistin a cool one or two.

The gang finally got out of the Stadium and dashed down to Ches’s Place jest in time to see the G. men raidin the joint and haulin out the good ole worn mahogony bar. And the way them G. men tossed our beloved bar aboard the wreckin truck wuz sacriligeous.

Then July rolls merrily in with Ches sportin the new bar with the back bar and its swell mirror. Again life was bearable in the Windy Village. The middle of the month brought us a swell outboard race over on the World Fair grounds and the gang enjoyed shootin again out in the open. Lippert sported a new little blonde babe on this one and then sheepishly announced to this wiggly eared dept he finally wuz in love.

August brought the newsreel gang the first decent fire we is had in the boom-boom town in years. It wuz down in the stockyards, and them film burners sure stepped around gettin some heart warmin shots of the synthetic Nero picnic back o’ the yards.

Then the end of August and the National Air Races down at Cleveland. The air experts showed up at that one, Eddie Morrison, Bob Sable, Caputo, Jack Flangan, Lippert, Jack Barnett and Floyd Traynham. Ole Benny Silverberg came out to the field to swap lies with the gang. And the assignment ended rather sadly as ole Al Wilson, Hollywood stunt flier and a real pal of them 666ers, cracked up fatally. Okeh Al — the boys aint for- got you yet and never will !

September — Labor Day — Detroit. The annual Harmsworth Trophy race is on. Only this year they holds it at dawn, and what a bubbly-eyed gang of 666ers tumbled out of bed at 3 A.M. for three days to make fast pans of Gar Wood sneakin up from behind to whiz by Kay Don and keep the ole trophy on his mantlepiece back at Crayhaven.

Then October — and more of that June baloney. Political speeches and more political speeches and more. Trips following the President through the Middle West. Arguin and fightin with Secret Service men for them precious Presidential close-ups. Six-sixty-sixers poppin up in this town and that meetin ole pals from the east on the campaign trains.

Then November with its frost and football, with Saturday mornins spent hawlin heavy equipment to the tops of press box roofs at the big stadiums. Mobs of friends you never knew you had before botherin you for passes to the games. Notre Dame pushin ahead beatin one team after another. Boy, how them 666ers knew Southern Cal. would be a pushover. Lippert sportin a new gal down at the games. Love’s young dream finally.

Then December and that slow Satiddy afternoon we settled down to a radio and finally got the dope. Southern Cal. was smearing our beloved Notre Dame. Then the return of Norman Alley from his daring assignment with the Flying Fambly. And the little black book Norm let us read that he carried with him containin the diaries of four brave guys.

And then the approach of Xmas — only a few shoppin days left — and the startlin announcement by Lippert that he wuz through with wimmin — for good. There aint no such thing as love, says the Don Juan of the newsreel industry.

And so to bed with another ole year worn down and survived by the ole gang. All the big sidelights of it on celluloid and canned away for posterity, but with plenty of the celluloid left to run through magic boxes in ’33.

What will ’33 bring? What big stories will bust? What gang will pop up to cover them? Anyways new faces — always old faces poppin up where ya least expect them. New lies by the gang. Old lies dusted off, after hours. Newsreelers, always pluggin. Work, more work.

The newsreel game. “What a lousy racket.” And how them hombres love that ole racket of theirs.