The Press: The Aging Lion

Headline of the WeekIn the New York Daily News:

ROONEY. A PINT, BARESMARRIAGE TO A FIFTH

In his acidulous prime, Gossipmonger Walter Winchell stood second to no columnistfor journalistic terseness, ferocity and cheek. A chronic vendettist, he repeatedly bared his teeth and his quill in Winchell feuds: against Singer Josephine Baker (“pro-Fascist, a troublemaker”). the Stork Club’s Sherman Billingsley (they quarreled over a pack of cigarettes), Ed Sullivan (”style pirate”), the New York Post (“pinko-stinko sheet”), the “fourth estate” (“All those columnists rapping me—where do you think they get their material? They go through my wastebasket”), and everybody (“Look. I want to get back at a lot of people. If I drop dead before I get to the Zs in the alphabet, you’ll know how I hated to go”). Chips, plugs and crusades burdened his shoulders; he told Presidents how to run the U.S. and statesmen how to run the world.

Lost: Tooth & Growl. Against this gothic backdrop, the contemporary Walter Winchell has become virtually unrecognizable. Gentled by his years—or by something—the aging lion has lost much tooth and growl. The gossip content is redolent with secret mergers, splituations and apartaches, sexcess stories about hat-chicks and rot-and-roll singers, nawdy titles (what a fourcabulary! ), pufflicity seekers. Subdued is the shrill attack and jugular slash. There are more handsome compliments (“Hedda Hopper’s attractive hairdo and apparel” ), more sentimental excursions into history (“[George Washington] was the father of our country. Even more—he was a brother to every American”), and more nostalgic poetry (“How long ago and far away you seem . . . As fragile as a whisper in the dark”).

The famed Winchell legwork has slackened to an amble. His Manhattan jungle prowls are intermittent now; he prefers to let his 40-odd faithful squad of Broadway volunteers pump up the bulk of the gossip. When he does walk abroad, he likes to visit the scenes of old triumphs: “This is where I got Lepke.” He is often alone—an isolation the big game he once stalked is pleased not to invade. He was seen alone recently at Rashomon, at the Louis Prima-Keely Smith opening at the Copacabana, and the other night he sat peaceably at Sardi’s, asolitary diner, ignored by first-nighters streaming in to be met by Columnists Earl Wilson, Leonard Lyons and other Winchell competitors.

Gained: Six Pounds. The taming of Walter Winchell may have stemmed from a 1952 illness, which put him to taking things easy. “I’m not the chicken I was,” said Winchell, who is 62. He is in a position to coast: he gets $1,200 a week from his parent paper, Hearst’s New York Mirror, and additional income from his radio newscast, show-business appearances ($70,000 for two weeks in Las Vegas last year), and his column syndication—down to about 145 papers—keeps him in the 91% income tax bracket. The old lion has not only grown mild, but flabby (“I’m six pounds overweight right now”).

For all the complaisance, there are those who still keep a wary eye on the lazing erstwhile king. “Sure.” said Broadway-TV Actor Horace (Naked City) MacMahon, “you’re always hearing people say, ‘Well, Winchell can’t fight any more.’ Maybe so, but it’s like old Sugar Ray Robinson—you know anybody wants to fight him?”