Hello, Molly

Molly Picon stopped growing when she was a kid and topped out at around four foot eight – four-eleven standing on her tiptoes, she liked to say. The biggest thing about her was her impish Betty Boop eyes. But she packed a lot of energy and spirit into that miniature package. She could and would do anything to amuse an audience – sing, dance, do a somersault, climb a rope, crack jokes, wear blackface or boy’s knickers. She played gamins, waifs, soubrettes well into her matronly years. The one thing she wouldn’t and maybe couldn’t do was to hide or even just tone down her essential Jewishness to appeal to the goys in the mainstream audience. It sets her apart from many other Jewish entertainers of her day. Whether she was performing in Yiddish or English, on Second Avenue or in Hollywood, there was never any question that Molly Picon was Jewish. Very Jewish.

She was born Malka Pyekoon on the Lower East Side in 1898, in a fourth-floor back bedroom of a tenement on Broome Street near Bowery. Her mother was a seamstress who’d escaped the pogroms near Kiev as one of a dozen children. Her father was an educated man from Warsaw who was never happy doing an immigrant’s menial labor in America, so he did as little as he could. He also turned out to have a previous wife back in Poland he’d never legally divorced. He drifted in and mostly out of Molly and her sister Helen’s lives. Decades later, when Molly became well-off and world famous, he’d drift back into hers, to borrow money.

Their mother and grandmother picked up and moved the girls to Philadelphia, where Mom became a seamstress at a Yiddish theater and took in boarders. Later she’d run a small grocery store. The story of how Molly got her start in show business – like many of the tales in her charming and irrepressibly schmaltzy memoir Molly! – is too good not to be true. When Molly was five her mother, who made all her daughters’ clothes out of odds and ends, stitched her up a fine outfit and took her on a trolley headed for amateur night at a burlesque theater, the Bijou. On the trolley a drunk challenged the little girl to show him her act. She sang and danced in the aisle. Charmed, he passed the hat and collected two dollars. At the Bijou the audience tossed pennies on the stage while she performed. She also won the first prize, a five dollar gold piece. Her grandmother was astonished at the ten dollars she’d earned – roughly a week’s wages for an adult worker. When her mother said she was going to start taking her around to all the amateur contests, her grandmother said forget the theaters, there weren’t enough in Philadelphia – just keep taking her on the trolley.

Boris Thomashefsky’s brother Mike ran Philadelphia’s Columbia Theatre. He soon put Molly and Helen in a Yiddish production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Helen as Little Eva, Molly in blackface as Topsy. Molly, billed as Baby Margaret, continued to act through her childhood. She dropped out of high school in 1915 to tour small-time vaudeville in a female quartet, the Four Seasons. In Boston in 1918 she visited a Yiddish theater group who performed one night a week at the Grand Opera House, a large but no longer grand theater in the South End that staged wrestling and boxing the rest of the week. One of the young actors she met there was Muni Weisenfreund; ten years later he’d go to Hollywood and become Paul Muni.

Jacob Kalich, who ran the theater company, came (like Weisenfreund) from Galicia, a province on the Austro-Hungarian empire. He’d studied to be a rabbi but then fell in with traveling Yiddish theater troupes. He’d slipped into America without a passport and speaking no English in 1914. Kalich hired Molly away from the Seasons, they fell in love and were married the next year in the back room of her mother’s grocery store. According to Molly’s memoir, her mother stitched her wedding gown from a stage curtain.

Yonkel, as Molly called Kalich, wrote parts and whole plays specifically for his new wife. One was Yonkele, an operetta in which she wore boy’s clothes and sang, danced and did her somersaults as a kind of Yiddish Dennis the Menace. Kalich was unsuccessful in trying to get one of the Yiddish theaters on Second Avenue interested. On the Lower East Side as in American theater generally, leading ladies tended to be stately Lillian Russell grandes dames, not petite gamins in knickers.

After a child was stillborn in 1920 Kalich distracted Molly with a new project. They sailed for Europe. His plan was to make her a star (and improve her Yiddish) in the theaters there, then return in triumph. They started in Paris, where Yonkele was a hit, then toured it around Europe for two years. In her memoir she says they did three thousand performances, almost surely an exaggeration, but they did keep busy, and her star kept growing. She made her first Yiddish-themed silent films in Vienna starting in 1921, playing a sassy soubrette or a boy. When they were in Bucharest hundreds of university students shouting anti-Semitic slurs rioted in and outside of a theater where she was performing. They may have been put up to it by the Romanian National Theatre, which was losing business to Picon. It was time to come home.

Jews around Europe had been writing their American relations about the wonderful new star. Kalich’s plan had worked. By 1922 the Second Avenue Theatre near Second Street was happy to host Yonkele and anything else Kalich put together, as long as it had Picon in it – Gypsy Girl, The Circus Girl, Schmendrick, Oy is dus a Madel (Oh, What a Girl!). Picon played to houses packed not just with Yiddish-speaking Lower East Siders but with celebrities like Greta Garbo, Mayor Jimmy Walker, Albert Einstein and D. W. Griffith. Griffith was on the downside of a long career by then and tried, without success, to raise money for a film starring Picon. Flo Ziegfeld and his wife Billie Burke (the good witch in Wizard of Oz) came over from Broadway to see Molly perform. Afterward, Yonkel and Molly took them to a Jewish restaurant, where the waiter covered the table with plates of pickles, sauerkraut, fried steak, radishes slathered in schmaltz. The very goy Burke asked the waiter if she might have some vegetables. What, he snorted, pickles and sauerkraut aren’t vegetables?

Picon was such a star that Kalich got the idea of renaming the theater the Molly Picon Theatre. When their packed performance schedule there permitted, they toured Yiddish theaters around the country. Later, Jews who had fled Eastern Europe for South America organized a tour for her there. She would also tour South Africa.

She returned to vaudeville in a big way, headlining at the Palace in Times Square with Sophie Tucker. Picon sang half her songs in English, Tucker sang half of hers in Yiddish, and they triumphed. When Picon played the Palace in Chicago, Al Capone (who had started out on the Lower East Side himself) bought out the first three rows. After the show he took Picon and Kalich out to dinner. At his request she sang “The Rabbi’s Melody” (a big hit on Second Avenue) and, she claims, he “cried like a baby.” For the rest of her career she introduced it as “the song that made Al Capone cry.”

The crash of 1929 ruined Picon and Kalich along with everybody else. They scrambled to get back on their feet. They took over the grand Yiddish Art Theatre on Second Avenue and renamed it Molly Picon’s Folks Theatre. In 1936 she and Yonkel sailed back to Europe to film a Yiddish musical in Poland, Yidl mitn Fidl (Yidl with a Fiddle). She plays a penniless girl who disguises herself as a boy to join a band of traveling musicians. Location shooting took place in Kazimierz, the once grand, now bedraggled Jewish zone in Krakow. They recruited the whole neighborhood as extras for a big wedding scene that took days to shoot. Few if any of the locals, deeply Orthodox and very poor, had ever seen a movie. They marveled at the food that kept appearing as scenes of the wedding feast were shot and reshot.

Yidl was a hit with Yiddish audiences worldwide. It inspired one of Hollywood’s great eccentrics, director Edgar G. Ulmer, to shoot a couple of his own Yiddish films in America. Ulmer, another Jewish immigrant from the Austro-Hungarian empire, had started his career in Hollywood directing the 1934 Karloff-Lugosi vehicle The Black Cat for Carl Laemmle’s Universal Pictures. On the set he met and stole the wife of one of Laemmle’s nephews, for which the mogul reputedly banished him from Hollywood. Ulmer drifted to New York. When he saw Yidl drawing big crowds on Second Avenue he started a small Yiddish production company, Collective Film Producers, and filmed Grine Felder (Green Fields), recreating the shtetl in a field in New Jersey on a shoestring budget. Ulmer spoke no Yiddish himself, so he hired the Second Avenue star Jacob Ben-Ami as co-director and go-between with the cast of Second Avenue actors. The movie went on to be one of the most praised in the history of Yiddish film. (Ulmer later went back to Hollywood and a now-celebrated career as a Poverty Row maker of lowest-budget B’s, ranging from brilliantly idiosyncratic noir like Detour to zero-budget sci-fi like Beyond the Time Barrier.)

As the 1930s drew to a close, Picon and Kalich saw that they were playing to the same dwindling and aging audiences over and over. Yiddish was dying out among the American-born children of immigrants, taking Yiddish theater with it. Although they would continue to work on Second Avenue through the 1950s, Picon still playing Yonkele in her fifties, it was clear they needed to work harder to crack the mainstream.

In 1940 she took her first serious roll on Broadway in Morningstar, a short-lived and soon-forgotten drama notable mostly for her spot in it and that of a thirteen-year-old actor named Sidney Lumet. In 1942 she returned to Broadway with a big gamble, her and Yonkel’s musical Oy Is Dus a Leben! (Oh Is This a Life!), the first Yiddish play on Broadway. It was a vanity piece about Molly’s life and their marriage, and they played themselves on stage. The Al Jolson Theatre – where Jolson had taken thirty-seven curtain calls on the opening night of the revue Bombo in 1921 – was renamed the Molly Picon Theatre for the occasion. The Times’ Brooks Atkinson (who later got a theater named for him, too) caught the opening night, when the house was packed solid with fans and Molly pulled out all the stops. They adored her; Atkinson, who was as goyish as Molly was Jewish, thought she overplayed and mugged for them too much, coming off “gauche and coy.” Atkinson was the most powerful theater critic in New York at the time, and his reviews made or broke plays. But his tepid response to Oy Is Dus a Leben! couldn’t overpower Picon’s appeal with Jewish audiences. The show ran for a respectable seventeen weeks, and she claims it only ended when the producers, feeling that they’d shown it to every Jew in New York by then, decided to quit while they were ahead.

During World War Two Picon did many USO concerts, played every military base she could get to, joined in many all-star benefits for refugees. She stands out in a very brief and uncredited scene in The Naked City, the 1948 cop movie inspired by Weegee’s book. She runs a soda fountain at the corner of Norfolk and Rivington Streets. “Got any cold root beer?” a detective asks her. “Like ice!” she replies, then goes into a bit of endearing Yiddishe mamele schtick. After that, while she remained very busy on stage and did some tv, there was nothing much from Hollywood until 1963, when she played Frank Sinatra’s mom in the screen version of Neil Simon’s Come Blow Your Horn. When Frank had signed on they changed Simon’s Jewish family to Italian to accommodate him. Then they hired Picon and changed it back to Jewish. This turned into a problem for Lee J. Cobb, who played the father despite being just four years older than Frank; they gave Cobb old man make-up to age him and put a wig on Frank to make him look younger. Cobb was Jewish, born Leo Jacob in the Bronx, but he hadn’t played Jewish in years. He had to relearn it. It’s not a good movie but it was a box office success and Picon earned an Oscar nomination for her performance.

In 1961 she was in another hit on Broadway, Milk and Honey, a Jerry Herman (Hello, Dolly!) musical comedy about a busload of Jewish widows from America trying to find new husbands in Israel. She was in her early sixties, but still managed to work a somersault into the part. When she left the show to go film Come Blow Your Horn, Hermione Gingold replaced her.

Then Fiddler on the Roof opened on Broadway in 1964. It was a record-setting hit that ran until July 1972. Picon was not in it. The role of Yente the matchmaker went to Bea Arthur. But when Norman Jewison – not himself Jewish, despite the name – put together the cast for the 1971 film adaptation, he studied Yidl mitn Fidl for background and hired Picon for Yente. Inarguably the schmaltziest Hollywood film ever made about Jews, it was the perfect setting for her and remains the role she’s most known for today.

After Yonkel died in 1975 she gradually withdrew from the public eye, puttering around in their home up the Hudson, which they’d named Chez Schmendrick. She wrote her memoir, did a little more tv (Grandma Mona on The Facts of Life) and a couple more movies (Mrs. Goldfarb in The Cannonball Run and Cannonball Run II), and in 1979 toured a one-woman show, Hello, Molly! But her own health was deteriorating. She lived her last decade quietly and was ninety-three when she died in 1992.

by John Strausbaugh