San Francisco Chronicle - (Sunday)
Williams gave ‘Peter’ a manic twist
Items have been culled from The Chronicle’s archives of 25, 50, 75 and 100 years ago.
1993
Dec. 11: Robin Williams, backed up by 100 men with musical instruments, aimed his trusty popgun and fired brilliant machine-gun bursts straight and true at the hoary old beast. The wolf never knew what hit it. What the comedian and the San Francisco Symphony Youth Orchestra did over the weekend at Davies Hall to the tale of a boy in search of a little target practice was an absolute delight. Not even the orchestra, playing prestissimo, could keep pace with Williams’ manic improvisations. Animal calls, pantomime and the voices he kept frenetically pulling from his Russian fur hat. During Williams’ narration of Prokofiev’s 1936 musical tale, the comedian somehow worked the voices of Elmer Fudd, Peter Lorre and Groucho Marx into the plot, and made them all belong. He got enormous, floor pounding laughs out of such unpromising lines as, “Early one morning, Peter opened the gate and went into the meadow”— after pantomiming what can happen to the bottom of shoes in a meadow. He turned Grandpa into a hawking Yiddish grump, the hunter into a southern redneck, the duck into an Olympic diver. He made the cat hiss more convincingly than any cat ever did. He transformed the wolf into a flea-scratching chowhound who stalked maestro Alasdair Neale, nearly bringing the music to a halt while the conductor cracked up.
1968
— Steve Rubenstein Dec. 13: Bus boys scurried about clearing tables as the Grand Ballroom emptied and Orenthal James Simpson signed more autographs and chatted with friends. It had been quite a night for the 21-yearold USC Heisman Trophy winner, regarded by many as the best college football player of all time. Earlier a large crowd, perhaps the biggest in the nine-year history of the Northern California chapter of the National Football Foundation and Hall of Fame, had turned out to honor 22 young scholar athletes. However, it was the magnetism of Simpson that had attracted them in the quiet adulation, generally accorded to Hollywood stars or venerable statesmen. He was honored by the chapter, the mayor’s office, the Port Authority and the Chamber of Commerce, which prompted one wag to remark that any of these plaques would get him a cup of coffee anywhere in the city if he had 15 cents. Cyril Magnin, the mod merchant Prince representing the mayor, had something more concrete. He gave O.J.’s mother Mrs. Eunice Simpson and O.J’s wife, Marquerite, gift certificates to “my favorite store.” Now Simpson relaxed, obliging the autograph seekers. He reflected on his days — and genuine love — of San Francisco. “During my travels people ask me if I’m from Los Angeles. I say, ‘No I’m from San Francisco, the greatest city in the United States.’ ”
— Tim Gartner
1943
Dec. 10: Havoc wreaked by the gale-strong winds and the resultant fires caused damage in Bay Area counties that will run into millions of dollars. It was the worst windstorm in decades. Speed of the gale, which screamed out of crystal clear skies, was measured variously from 50 to 74 miles an hour. Golden Gate Park was littered with fallen trees and limbs and smashed flowerbeds. Particularly hard hit was the Panhandle. Crews were out early to clear the park roads of debris. Scores of fire alarms were turned in, giving firemen their busiest night in years. Early yesterday the rare 10-1 emergency call was invoked, ordering all firemen to stand by, keep motors warm, as the high-speed winds blew unabated. Hundreds of plate glass windows were cracked and shattered. At Hunters Point, 14 small boats — cabin cruisers and sailboats — were sunk at their moorings when hundreds of logs broke loose from a navy boom anchored in the bay and were swept ashore by the waves. A Coast Guard patrol boat had to take refuge in Yacht Harbor, where damage was extensive, the wind smashing floats. Waves broke over the Marina seawall. All floats, catwalks and the Sea Scout pier at Aquatic Park were washed out. Fourteen Sea Scout craft were sunk, as well as six school cutters.
1918
Dec. 11: “No lunch, no music.” Following this ultimatum by the palace Hotel Orchestra last night, the musicians, in the middle of the second supper dance, suddenly stopped, put away their instruments and fled into the Palace bar, leaving a room full of dancers stranded on the floor. It transpired that the sudden strike was caused by the fact that the hotel management had just informed the orchestra that the usual midnight luncheon, which has always been given the musicians by the house, would no longer be served. Meanwhile the guests waited impatiently for an orchestra, which seemed to find the good cheer at the bar more alluring than a supperless night of playing, while the managers held a hurried consultation in the lobby. Five minutes later the management declared the strike officially off and the midnight supper officially on. The musicians returned, and what is possibly the shortest strike in history had been won.
Johnny Miller is a freelance writer.