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Shuffling Jokes. Leslie Townes Hope was born in England, and his family moved to the U.S. when he was four. He was one of seven sons of a possessive mother who had all the boys competing with one another for her affections, the winner being the one who got to go into downtown Cleveland with her on Saturdays. Something like this lingers on in Hope's relationships with his writers. He watches over them as if they were children. He always knows where they are. No retreat in New York, Europe or the Far East is so secluded that Hope can't track down one of his writers who happens to be hiding there. And he always has a favorite.
Just before a performance, Hope changes his tie, keeps shuffling and changing jokes, and squeezes his chief writer's arm until the man's fingers turn numb. Then onstage he bounces on the balls of his feet. His eyes sparkle when the audience laughs. If he hits dull spots, he never takes it out on his writers afterward. Once when an ad agency executive began complaining after a show, Hope told him: "Look, if you've got any ideas, go home and write them. If they're any good, we'll hire you. Otherwise, keep out."
Bounce & Glitter. He looks 45, and, in the words of one of his writers, "he thinks he is 19." He diets, drinks very little, and doesn't smoke at all. Advancing age frightens him. So he seldom stops to think about it, zipping around golf courses or around the world, giving the winged chariot a run for its money. This has made him a transient in his own home. He jokes that the towels in his bathroom say HERS and WELCOME STRANGER. His wife spends most of her time working for Catholic charities. They have four children. The oldest, Anthony, is a student at Harvard Law. Gradually, over the years, whatever there was of the man behind the image of Bob Hope has disappeared. Hope has always insisted that the brittle, wisecracking, naive, play-it-loose, quick-lipped, harmlessly leering joker—the fellow who has been delivering all those after-dinner gags all these years—is the real Bob Hope. The audience before him is a blank wall, against which Hope tosses jokes that bounce and glitter for a second, then are forgotten. He has never wanted to go deeper, into his dience or into himself, and he hasn't.
No Deeper. "Deep down inside, there is no Bob Hope," says one of his friends. "He's been playing Bob Hope for so long that everything else has been burned out of him. The man has become his image."
His image is so much more than an image that it is in many ways an example. He is never bitter, as Mort Sahl or even Jack Benny can be. His wisecracking toys with the limits of tact and taste but never crosses the line. He won't knock other stars, and he won't listen to gossip. He is loyal to old retainers, some of whom have been hanging around him since vaudeville days. He is a kind of universal uncle, likable and humane. Everywhere, that is, but on a golf course. There he is an amiable, hard-eyed, all-American savage. You can wait until snow forms on your head before he will give you a putt.