O Lord God, Creator of the Cohens, the Kellys, and the Murphys;
Author of the scenario of reality, from which we all play our parts, some of us so badly that we get hell for our performance and others brilliantly enough to achieve stardom;
Director of the drama of the ages, which begins with the sublime curtain-raiser called Genesis, unfolds with the dreams, sighs, and sins of mankind, culminates with the Atonement on Calvary and ends endlessly with the unspeakable visions of the Apocalypse;
Source of the silver screen of existence, which Hollywood ingeniously reflects with a silver screen of its own on which appear the animated shadows of thespians, whose fine art makes fiction seem truth, so differently from many of us poor preachers who succeed only in making truth seem fiction;
We thank you, O Lord, for this occasion that brings some of the best representatives of Cinemaland into our midst. Help us to honor them fittingly. Bless them for shedding the gleams of their gifts into our darkening times. Save them—tonight—from Bourbon Street. Inspire the mighty industry that sponsors them. And, in fine, smile beneficently on the box offices of the land, breathe into them a second spring and let there be the financial flow that is so vital to the maintenance of an enterprise without which our daily lives would be so definitely drabber. Amen.
The one man who could hold a candle as a letter writer to Father Murphy was Gene Fowler, another friend of many years. I loved him as much as I loved Agnes, his wife of nearly half a century. Gene and I knew each other well when the urge remained, but the ability in both cases had departed. I doubt whether he put a dull word on paper, whether it was a book, a three-thousand-word letter, or a post card.
After a dinner party for Gene and Agnes, for instance, he wrote:
My dear Handsome:
It doesn’t require the prompting of Emily Post or that other authority on etiquette, Polly Adler, to cause me to write a note of appreciation.... As I dined and sat beside two of my beloved women, I forgot my white hair and certain other elements of my physical decline. For the moment I was once again in the saddle (figuratively of course) and Life seemed new. Upon shaving this morning, I had to see the realities once again, and I must confess that I abhor all mirrors.
He gave the years a run for their money, slowed down sometimes by illness but stopped only once, by a final massive heart attack.