A Letter from Groucho Marx, or the Intricacies of Hospitality

I recently rediscovered my copy of The Groucho Letters: Letters from and to Groucho Marx, a hilarious volume which contains exactly what it says on the tin.

Among the many missives is this gem, addressed to Warner Bros. executive Ben Kalmenson. (Something of a studio major-domo, Kalmenson was a year away from being promoted to executive vice president of Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc. and would eventually be named president in 1966.)

TO BEN KALMENSON

July 15, 1955

Dear Mr. Kalmenson:

            You hardly know me but I have heard about you for years and you are generally considered one of the shrewdest and ablest men in the film industry.

            The reason I am writing this is that my wife’s sister is married to Howard Hawks. She is coming to spend a month with me in September and if you could give me an approximate idea of the gross of “Land of Pharaohs” [directed by Mr. Hawks] it would help me to create the proper social climate.

            For example, if the picture should make a net profit of say, $2,000,000, she would have the large guest room. Included in this is a tub and shower, private commode, and steaks from Elgee’s Meat Market.

            If the picture, on the other hand, loses money, there is a room over the garage that we have been using for storing moleskins and betel nuts (we always keep a supply of betel nuts on hand in case any natives drop in from Universal Studios). There are no toilet or bathing facilities in this room and the only exit is through a trap door.

            She will be fed, of course. No one starves in my home. Obviously there won’t be any steaks from Elgee’s, but she will get sufficient nourishment to keep body and soul together. A sample meal, for example, would be mildewed haggis, lamb fries and a steaming cup of chicory.

            I would appreciate an early answer to this for I will need time to grease the trap door.

            Thanking you in advance, I remain,
                                                                     Respectfully yours,
                                                                                                     Groucho Marx