Eddie Cantor Looks at London (1935) 🇬🇧

"Punillo," I said politely, but firmly, "I'm going to interview you." We always call him Punillo. Sounds funny, doesn't it? But it's a name full of sentiment for the Cantor family. It's our pet name for dad — mother's in particular.

Years ago in vaudeville he used to appear on the same bill as a trained dog act. There was a cute little Mexican bulldog in the group. His name was Punillo. He had a thin, narrow face with great big brown eyes. He looked just like dad. We've called dad Punillo ever since.

"Punillo," I repeated less politely but more firmly, "we've got to get down to this interview. Your public…"

Firmness was necessary, I'm telling you. Dad was wandering round this room murmuring brokenly something about three thousand autograph books, a hundred reporters and Et tu, Marjorie. (Some Latin wisecrack he picked up in Roman Scandals, I guess.)

"Besides," he added, "you can't interview me. you aren't tough and you haven't got a big notebook. All reporters are tough and have big notebooks. Ask Sam Goldwyn. Oh well, take girls, for instance."

"But," I objected, "people aren't interested in your views on girls. At the proper time and the proper place, no doubt, but at the moment the public, for some reason or other, is anxious to hear your impressions of Britain. You've been here. You know."

"Oh, yes. I know the answer to that one. You say, 'I think your policemen are wonderful.' Seriously, though, you can tell them that our visit has been a revelation.

"I started acquiring hitherto undiscovered relatives with my first screen success and the number has progressed in ratio with my prosperity, but I did not know I had so many real friends here.

"So far as I am concerned, the legend that British people are cold and unemotional is shattered for ever.

"Britain, or London, at least, has changed a great deal since I was here ten years ago. And I don't mean the Belisha beacons in the streets.

"The most striking feature is the air of prosperity that is in evidence everywhere. You seem to be running your affairs better here than any other country. America is still riddled with racketeering, graft and public fakery.

"The French are a wonderful people. They are riding on a fine train, but they keep changing the driver.

"I didn't go to Germany. The Nazis said The Kid from Spain would 'brutalise German youth.' I couldn't improve that joke. Now, about girls…"

"Just a minute, Punillo. I think a lot of people are interested to know if you have any plans for working in Britain."

"You can say that I should like to make pictures in England very much indeed, but I am under contract to my good friend Sam Goldwyn for three years, and by that time people might not want me to. If I'm not here again as soon as possible, however, it will not be the fault of Eddie Cantor. And next time I will stay three or four months."

Dad says that he is going back to work — for a rest. But you don't have to take that seriously. He has enjoyed every minute of his visit. And he did find time to stock up his wardrobe. "I think," he says, "that the men's shops in London are the best in the world. Now, about those girls…"

"Well, what about them?"

"Well, I believe that girls are very necessary; in fact, I might even say that at times they are important. But so is inflation, going off the gold standard, good beer, and pot roast with potato pancakes.

"I like girls — all except amateur interviewers; in fact, I married one. I met her in my arithmetic class, and since we married, how we have multiplied! (There are seven of us: Mother, Marjorie, Natalie, Edna, Marilyn, Janet, and myself — so far.)

"My idea of a fashionable girl is a girl that knows the difference between the four seasons: pepper, salt, mustard, and vinegar."

Dad will have his little joke. All the same, I must say that any way you look at it, Eddie Cantor is a grand boss. But he's even grander as a father.

He isn't with us as much as an ordinary parent might be with his family. Perhaps that's why I think of him as such a good friend as well as a father.

However, when he's away from us, he's still with us. He writes us beautiful letters. They're full of good advice, and written just as if he were talking to us. I sometimes think I would like to collect those letters and publish them. They're most interesting.

And they'd be as helpful to everyone as they are to us — his family. If I ever do publish them I'll call the book "Punillo."

Just because I am Eddie Cantor's daughter, don't imagine that the job of being his secretary is an easy one. It has its compensations in amusing moments, but in the main it is work. I handle his appointments, making dates for the people he wants to see, and excuses to those he doesn't want to see.

That's where I'm most useful, as I know pretty well, at least better than another girl would, just whom he wants to see. I take care of his mail — personal, business, and fan.

I handle the filing of his music orchestrations. I also keep a file of jokes for him which I started long ago. That is important, because it requires a knowledge of what makes a joke go around the world.

Each mail brings us new assortments of songs and story plots which aspiring young composers and writers send to dad. You'd be surprised what pretexts people use to get to dad with material.

As I sat typing in the office one day, a youth whom I had never seen before came in, approached dad's manager, whose desk was next to mine, and tried to get him to accept a manuscript.

"I'm sure Mr. Cantor will at least look at it," he insisted. "You see, I keep company with his daughter Marjorie, and he'll read it just as a friendly gesture."

I didn't let the lad know that I was Marjorie, even though he was standing there, almost fact to face with me. It would have been too cruel.

Then there are the souvenir hunters. Some want a button, an old necktie or a fingerprint. Others are satisfied with just autographs.

Dad sets aside an hour a day for signing pictures. Once, however, be was out of town and I presumed to sign a picture for a little girl.

Some time later she wrote back her thanks and said that her penmanship teacher had told her the writing on the photo was that of a fine man, one with a family and lots of character.

Dad fretted a great deal at first about the title for his new film. He always makes suggestions for titles for his pictures. This one was hard to title because the action takes place in a great many different places.

Someone suggested Son of the Sheik. This was ruled out because it might violate the memory of Rudolph Valentino.

Eddie Cantor, in London, with Mrs. Cantor, Natalie, Edna and Marjorie.

Collection: Picturegoer Magazine, February 1935