The All-American Wisecracker

By E. Graydon Carter

Leading with his chin, Hope celebrates his 80th birthday

In its sheer vastness and excess, Bob Hope's three-year-old, 25,000-sq.-ft. home in Palm Springs, Calif., is not the gesture of an old man content to dwell quietly among yesterday's memories. Climbing the cascade of black marble stairs under the house's wide-vaulting arch, a visitor might be on some gigantic Academy Awards set, a gleaming desert mirage. Actually, the place is a kind of hotel. Even when the owner is on the road, friends check in for a few days. On this afternoon, however, the sound of Crosby-esque bubabooing from another room indicates that the host is at home.

In he strides, wearing golf shirt and cardigan, wildly checked pink and green slacks and white lounging loafers. Forget the puffy, propped-up television image. On the eve of his 80th birthday, Hope looks fabulous. The hair that on his specials can appear fake is a rusty auburn on top and full and white on the sides. "It's thinning," says Hope, smoothing it back, "but it's all mine. I got a hair guy who tints it a bit for television. Otherwise the lights shine right through it. This fellow has a way of pushing it forward to give me a little more hairline too."

Hope is more excited than he has been in years. He doesn't give a hoot that he's about to turn 80, but all the fresh attention makes him feel on top again. Last week the Senate celebrated his birthday and this week NBC is devoting an entire prime-time evening to a lavish tribute from Washington's Kennedy Center. The President and Nancy will be there to honor Hope and his wife of 48 years, Dolores. So will the third generation of pretty young TV women--Cheryl Tiegs, Christie Brinkley--who have smiled their way through Bob's corny on-screen advances. To a former vaudevillian who still works civic arenas littered with last night's hockey programs, this is class.

Jim Lipton, the producer of the special, has sent over the script, and Hope's staff of four writers has come up with some jokes for his monologue. As he rehearses the material for his visitor, it becomes ever clearer that although the rapid-fire rhythm once clocked at 44 jokes in four minutes has slowed, the style endures. Hope is still the All-American wisecracker. His only living peer among comedians, George Burns, 87, found himself a new guise: the worldly-wise old geezer. Hope does not change: he leads with his chin and the little golf swing he taught Johnny Carson and lives off his one-liners.

"Hey! How's this one?" he asks. " 'This is three hours from the Kennedy Center, or as it's known at NBC, The Winds of Washington.' " The eyes whip over the pages. "Howzabout this? 'Security is really tight in the President's box. One agent checked me for bombs and threw out half my monologue.' " Hope's memory is as big as his desert mansion. Today's one-liner is stored away for use as tomorrow's ad lib. "Pseudosmart. That's the way I describe my stuff." says he. "I want the audience to enjoy it like I do."

He has the attention span of an eight-year-old. Fifteen minutes of work on his material and he's getting antsy. The Palm Springs spread is, like Disneyland, made to be toured, and Hope is soon whisking the visitor over his domain, stopping one minute to show off a photo of George Patton urinating into the Rhine, and in the next parading the wonders of his clothes closet, a room about the size of a C.E.O.'s office. There are a wall of shoes and long racks of blazers, slacks and other 19th-hole formal wear. "I wear them all," says Hope, solemnly fondling a pair of dark-green trousers covered with small mistletoe emblems. "I wear these at Christmas."

A round of golf with Film Producer Bob Bremson breaks up the afternoon. Bremson, although an old friend, is deferential to Hope, and the comedian warms to the attention. For on the course the visitor is reminded that this is Hope's game; all other players, ex-Presidents and Las Vegas headliners included, are simply along for the ride. Although he now shoots in the high 80s, Hope still has the picture-book swing he had when he was a four-handicap player. "You know what I'd really like to do this year?" he says, for a brief moment thoughtful. "I'd like to get my golf game back. I'd be really happy if I could break 80 again."

The constant in Hope's day is his nightly walk. He heads for Palm Springs' main drag, which is teeming with teen-agers at 1 in the morning. It is the vaudevillian's instinct that the moment you are off the stage the audience begins to forget you, and so Hope works even here; he window-shops and scratches autographs on cocktail napkins, all without breaking his stride. Hope confesses that he's "slowing down a bit. I still need the laughs and the adulation, but I guess I can get those from my specials."

Amid his endless patter of "Howya-dooin's," the giggling of three teen-age girls catches Hope's attention. Chirping and darting looks at one another, the youngsters ask him the way to a local nightspot. Hope savors the moment, then points the direction. As he watches them wiggle off into the night, he nudges his visitor and whispers out of the side of his mouth, "What do you think? You want to go dancing?" -- By E. Graydon Carter This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.