His career might have ended after one film, except that Viola Ueberroth had another “idea.” This was that Bobby should play Bobbitt, and she went and told Papa Baer just that. Emil Baer—or “Papa,” as he was called—had been persuaded by his wife, Heidi—his “Mama” Baer—to invest what little capital they had saved in buying the rights to the Bobbitt books, which, though they were not known in America, were extremely popular in England. Until Viola approached him, Emil Baer had been turning out cartoon musical shorts featuring puppets animated in stop action. Baer Comix was located in small quarters near the old Monogram lot in Hollywood, and Papa Baer was far from successful. His dream was one day to make a full-length puppet feature with one of the Bobbitt stories, but it was Viola’s notion that instead of puppets he use live actors, and to this end she brought Bobby Ransome to Mr. Baer’s attention. Since brother Sam had, at Viola’s suggestion, put the boy under personal contract, and could also lend a hand with the financing, it was proposed that the movie could at last be made.
The Bobbitt books told of a London wartime waif discovered in a bombed-out ruin by a warden during an air raid. It became a famous introduction: the child stumbling from the blitzed ruins after the Luftwaffe has flown over, innocently asking, “’Oo put out th’ lights?” He strikes a match, and in its glow, surrounded by a total wartime blackout, is Bobbitt’s face, the winsome, heart-tugging face that was to become known to millions. His parents having been killed in the raid, the child is taken in by the kindly and rich Lord Wickham and his family, and brought up under the tutelage of the butler, Alfie, and the nanny, Missy Priss—Willie Marsh and Nellie Bannister respectively. “Popping up out of thin air,” and accompanied by his friends, Bobbitt experiences all sorts of magical adventures—flying on an Oriental carpet to Baghdad, discovering a treasure in an enchanted forest, jousting with a knight at Camelot—after which adventures all three are restored safely to the Wickham manor in East Devon. The rest of the casting was seen to perfectly: Cathleen Nesbitt played the grandmother, Mary Astor Lady Wickham, Reggie Gardiner Lord Wickham, Angela Lansbury the upstairs maid, Gladys Cooper the aunt, and Richard Haydn the eccentric uncle who invents the contraptions that whirl Bobbitt from place to place. Since it was discovered that Bobby Ransome had musical talents as well, each picture featured several numbers, many of which made history—“Lotsa Pluck,” “Gonna Dance Off Both My Feet,” “Ditto,” “Hokum and Bunkum and Bluff,” “Really Truly True,” and “For Old Times’ Sake.”
The first, modestly budgeted picture earned back its cost in the first week of play dates, and theater owners began clamoring for the “little tyke” to make personal appearances. The box-office child-star tradition had already been established: Jackie Coogan in The Kid, Jackie Cooper in The Champ, then Shirley Temple, Judy Garland, Deanna Durbin, Freddie Bartholomew, Mickey Rooney, and now the country had a new star, Bobby Ransome.
While plans were rushed for the second Bobbitt story, the flesh-and-blood version was sent on a whirlwind cross-country tour, making stage appearances. Nothing like him had been seen, it was said, since the child prodigy Mozart played at Versailles. In blue serge shorts and an Eton collar, with his dimpled knees and mop of blond curly hair, with his great big Bobbitt smile, he ran out on stage and proved a phenomenon, wrestling with the too-tall microphone, joking with the audience, and in no time he had them all in his hip pocket. He played piano and accordion, he sang the songs and did the dance routines from the picture, he walked on his hands, did imitations of William Marsh as Alfie, of Clark Gable as Rhett Butler, of Fess Parker as Davy Crockett, of Eddie Fisher and Johnny Ray, and when he finished with an impression of Charles Laughton reading the Twenty-third Psalm there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
And that, more or less, was how Bobby Ransome, the little lad from Ireland, became a prince of Hollywood; known as “America’s Fantasy Child,” he was the most angelic, best behaved, most loving child imaginable. In the glare of enormous publicity he became the hero of children all over the world. Now he was “The World’s Fantasy Child.” People seldom called him “Bobby,” for always he was “Bobbitt,” or sometimes “The Gainsborough Boy,” as Viola had dubbed him after their first meeting in the tea shop. A craze began that swept Davy Crockett from popularity, replacing his coonskin hats on youngsters’ heads with the little Bobbitt cricketer hats, while their elders sported Alfie’s striped butler vests on campus. Two new catch phrases entered the language. In the midst of his wonderful adventures Bobbitt was always asking, “But is it really truly true?” and was assured that it was. The line caught on; everyone imitated Bobby’s engaging speech defect, and at cocktail parties they said, “But is it weelly twooly twoo?” In Bobbitt and Missy Priss, the nanny scooped him up for a hug and said, “Bobbitt, I love you.” Said he, gazing out of those saucerlike eyes, “Ditto.” They wrote a song, “Ditto,” which Bobbitt and Missy Priss sang together; it climbed the Lucky Strike Hit Parade in weeks and remained there so long that Dorothy Collins and Snooky Lanson were hard pressed to find new ways of presenting it. With the release of the third film, Bobbitt’s Flying Carpet, Bobbitt had become Big Business. Gone was Baer Comix, and Baer Productions was now flourishing in a more elite location in Panorama City, with the happy cognomen of Shady Lane Studios. It was a new, CinemaScoped, stereophonicked Bobbitt, and Bobby Ransome’s smile grew as wide as the screen itself. Everything, in fact, Louella and Hedda grew more saccharine, the public grew more eager, Bobby’s fans more fanatical, Samuel Ueberroth more important, William Marsh more famous, Bee Marsh more ecstatic, and, most terrifying, little Bobby just grew.
What, Papa Baer was heard to wonder, would happen when his voice changed? No one dared answer, no one dared think. “Please don’t let Bobbitt grow up” was a plea that became a prayer. Bobbitt was not an adolescent, he was a child, with a child’s heart and mind and imagination, and everything possible was done, every sort of chicanery practiced, to keep him that child. His hair was left long and boyishly curly, he was made to wear the Eton collar he had made famous, the little velvet suits and patent leather shoes that were his trademark, and he lived in the fantasy land he had been catapulted into, in a castlelike house that was every child’s dream palace.
Pictures of Bobbitt were everywhere. His face was on all the movie-magazine covers, his image on everything from balloons to T-shirts. There were Bobbitt dolls, with Bobbitt costumes—fireman, policeman, cowboy, marine, knight in armor, regimental guard—there were Bobbitt plates and mugs and breakfast bowls. There were Bobbitt lamps, Bobbitt boats, Bobbitt planes, Bobbitt trains, and “Bobbittmobiles.” There were Bobbitt flying carpets, Bobbitt tops, Bobbitt phonographs. There was a Bobbitt dollhouse. There were Bobbitt comic books, sweatshirts, blue jeans, sneakers. There were Bobbitt camping outfits, Bobbitt sailing outfits, Bobbitt race car outfits, all with the “official seal” of Shady Lane Studios.
The final accolade came when Norman Rockwell painted him in the same costume and pose as Gainsborough’s famous “Blue Boy” for the Saturday Evening Post. Life and Time followed with cover stories. Total wordage of his interviews mounted into the millions. And what did Bobbitt say? “I’m so happy.” For the millions, he lived out all their hopes, dreams, and ambitions. He had been down in an atomic submarine, had been up in the Goodyear blimp. He had put his foot and hand prints in the forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, between Joan Crawford’s and Betty Grable’s. He had been invited to Eisenhower’s second inauguration, where he was presented with cuff links bearing the presidential seal, and photographed in the rose garden with Ike and Mamie. He was made a tribal member of the Sioux Nation, and a Kentucky colonel. He was guest of honor at the Seattle World’s Fair. He had been on Jack Benny and Perry Como and Bob Hope, had made eight guest appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show. He headlined the Christmas pageant at Radio City Music Hall. He was invited to the Command Performance Gala at London’s Palladium, where he sang and danced with Britain’s most celebrated actors, Olivier, Gielgud, Coward, and Rich
ardson.
Then he got his Oscar, a special statuette awarded to him for the best juvenile performance of the year in Papa Baer’s production of Peter Pan, in which he made a greater success than ever playing the fantasy boy who lures the Darling children to Never Land and meets Captain Hook, played by William Marsh in one of his best-loved roles. But while Peter Pan might remain a boy forever, not so Bobby Ransome. “America’s Fantasy Child” was ten when he made Bobbitt, fourteen when he did Bobbitt Forever, the last in the series of books. The fact was undeniable that Bobbitt had reached the “awkward age.” In desperation, Papa Baer ordered a new character to be created, “Flying Rodger,” who, as some wag put it, never got off the ground. Bobby was temporarily “retired,” while scriptwriters were put to work fashioning a suitable vehicle. It was eventually called Bobbitt in Love, and Viola had found a lovely young Irish girl to play the love interest. She was called Pretty Kitty Kelly, but the movie proved only one thing: audiences weren’t interested in Bobbitt’s First Screen Kiss; they wanted more magic carpets. Bobbitt sat out a second period of “retirement” while another vehicle was found. Again Viola waved her magic wand. Since her tag of “the Gainsborough Boy” had enjoyed such wide usage, a script was turned out by a top team of screen writers, and an expensive production called The Blue Boy was mounted. Announcements followed this initial display of enthusiasm stating that the cost of the film had become suddenly prohibitive, then the project was abandoned.
Thereafter Bobby Ransome and Aunt Moira departed for Europe, where an English production, Bonnie Prince Charlie, was marked for filming, with Bobby Ransome as the young Scottish prince. It, too, never saw a foot of film exposed.
And there it was. The End. Time alone had put the quietus to the career of the lovable tyke whose face had appeared above a single match flame in the darkness of an air raid; the flame had burned out and in no time he was forgotten. “Ditto” passed out of the popular slang, and “But is it really truly true?” was considered pure corn. Kids were now wearing astronauts’ helmets, Bobbitt caps being as passé as hula hoops. As far as Bobby Ransome was concerned, it seemed it wasn’t really truly true at all.
Since he had mentioned that he was spending the weekend at Southampton, Nellie Bannister was surprised when her telephone rang that Saturday afternoon and she recognized the voice of Bobby Ransome.
“’Tis me, Nellie—Robin,” he said. His plans had changed, he was staying in town. Was she free for dinner and could they just talk? Of course she could. Her friends were dropping by for The Belle Telephone Hour; why didn’t he come and meet them and afterward they could slip away quietly by themselves.
He arrived casually dressed, in blue jeans and a flowered shirt and sneakers, and proceeded to charm and captivate the Belles. Nellie had told them what a sweet, gentle child he had been; the amazing thing being that he still was. Nothing seemed to have touched him, he wasn’t at all conceited about either his past or his present. As Nellie had pointed out to Naomi, it was never required of him to act endearing; he simply was.
The Belles watched him carefully as Nellie showed him the apartment, the two budgerigars in the cage over the spinet piano, her collection of porcelain figurines, and the pictures of her family: her son and daughter, who both lived in Tucson; her grandson, Roger, who was close by in Garden City, where he operated a flying school; his wife, Nancy, and Nellie’s three great-grandchildren, Karen, three, Linda, four, and Roger, Jr., who was six. Ah, said Robin, just Bobbitt’s age. She didn’t immediately understand him, but he brought out his wallet and gave her some snapshots to look at. Who is it? she wanted to know. Surely not … Robin nodded. My stars, said Nellie, think of that! She could scarcely believe her ears when he told her he had married his movie sweetheart, Kitty Kelly. It was like a storybook romance.
Nellie felt the tears start in her eyes as she saw the dear little face: Bobby’s own son. What should be more natural than that Kitty should call him “Bobbitt,” though his real name, like his father’s, was Bobby. Nellie couldn’t decide which of them little Bobbitt looked more like: surely he had his father’s eyes, certainly his mother’s mouth. But was it true, she asked, that Robin and Kitty had really fallen in love? Robin nodded; they had been married in London, and spent much of their time at Castle Baughclammain, the Ransomes’ ancestral home at Galway. The house looked out on the bay, and Bobbitt had his own horses to ride, just as Robin had had ponies when he was a child in Hollywood.
Robin brought out his wallet again to show pictures of Rose, as he called his mother, a beautiful, sophisticated woman, handsomely coiffed and dressed. Around her neck was a diamond chain, at the end of which was suspended the Ballymore emerald, a gem almost as famous as the Hope diamond. Nellie found Lady Ransome a trifle lacquered for her own taste, but she could see why Robin was proud of her. A light seemed to spring into his eyes as he spoke of her, almost a kind of worship, but with an edge. Rose was radiant, she was dazzling, but Nellie felt Robin’s disapproval of her and his resentment that she had given him so little time when he was growing up, something he was determined not to do with his own child.
As for the Broadway show, though he was hopeful of getting it on, he could do nothing but wait for word from the producers, who were trying to raise the capital. Meanwhile he was just “in town,” with plenty of time on his hands. Could he see more of Nellie? She held her hands out to him, turning them palms up and down. See, she said, nothing but time on hers, too.
The following night, the Sunday, they went out to the Sheep Meadow to see “Broadway Stars for Children,” a huge open-air benefit for the Orthopedic Hospital, sponsored by a local television station. Nellie had fixed a picnic, and they sat on blankets in the enormous crowd, watching and listening to the host of stars who were entertaining. Afterward Nellie asked Robin if he’d had any desire to be up there; he laughed. No, he said, you’d never catch him on a stage again.
They were together a lot during the next few weeks. He would pop by the apartment on his way to and from the park, or she would meet him there while he played Mr. Thingamabob for the children, and she would sit on a bench and listen to the stories. Later he would walk her back to her apartment, and often stay for The Belle Telephone Hour with Hilda, Naomi, and Phyllis. Nellie found him like a new breath of life around the apartment. She loved his casual dropping in at odd hours and shaking her out of her summer doldrums. She felt guilty that she was taking up his time; he should be off enjoying his friends. But no, he said, he wanted to be with her. She realized it was because she had once been part of another life. That life had ended, but she was there again and between them existed an accumulation of shared memories. In those days she’d been almost a mother to him; now she saw that beneath his gay and charming exterior, he was vulnerable and needed looking after. She discussed it at length with the Belles; they couldn’t imagine what it must be like, having been one of the most famous children in the world. People had fought to be near and touch him then; now, it appeared, nobody even recognized him. But that seemed the way Robin wanted it. “Bobbitt” was a thing of the past, and he even objected to Kitty’s calling their son Bobbitt; Robin himself always called him Bob or Bobby.
For a person who had been so famous, there was nothing jaded or bored about him. Everything interested him, most everything struck him as funny. He was seldom out of sorts, and his gay good spirits, his easy amiability, his diverting talk—never banal, always au courant—never palled. The girls were charmed by his expressive eyes with their look of candor, his beguiling humor and persiflage. He was boyishly eager, yet there was a healthy, mature outlook about him.
Nellie admitted she’d got into a rut, but he kidded and cajoled and charmed her, and she never would have thought anyone could have wooed her away from As the World Turns the way he did. If you lived in New York, he said, you ought to take advantage of what it offered, so East Side, West Side, all around the town they went. She’d always hated shopping, but with Robin it became an event. Saks, Bonwit’s, Henri Bende
l; so many new things in the stores, she had no idea. He took her to Halston’s, where she would never dream of going—and the prices—and found things he said were made for her, less fuddy-duddy, more youthful. She learned she could rely utterly on his taste; he planned a visit to Mr. Kenneth, and though Robin and the hairdresser suggested the white hair be tinted gold, she thought it too daring, and meekly submitted to a blue rinse, quite enough change for one day. When Robin mentioned the new Lehman wing at the Metropolitan Museum, a trip was immediately planned. Afterward they went downstairs to see the exhibition of movie costumes mounted by Diana Vreeland. There was Vivien Leigh’s dress from Gone With the Wind, Garbo’s from Queen Christina, Dietrich’s from Blonde Venus, and Fedora’s from The Player Queen, for which Cyril Leaf had received an Oscar. The costume was magnificent, with its wonderfully exaggerated farthingale, the high collar of starched lace, the velvet and satin brocade encrusted with pearls and diamantes. Nellie said she had never realized Fedora was so small.
It was lunchtime, so they took cafeteria trays to a table by the pool and talked. Because there were just the two of them, Robin was not averse to recalling the old days; inevitably Viola Ueberroth’s name came up, since it was she who’d been mainly responsible for all their successes in the Bobbitt series—Robin’s, Willie Marsh’s, and even Nellie’s—and the clever stunts she had pulled with Papa Baer to get them cast.
One evening Vi had arranged to bring the Baers to the Biltmore Theater in downtown Los Angeles, where Willie Marsh was playing a supporting part in a revival of The Red Mill. Warned ahead of time, when Papa and Mama Baer came into his dressing room, Willie put on his best British accent, he and Bee Marsh charmed the Baers, and he was signed for the important role of Alfie, the butler. His career rejuvenated, he went on to become “The Grand Old Man of Hollywood.”