Comedy Legend Jack Benny: His Daughter Joan Shares Rare Memories in an Exclusive Interview
While the audience loved Jack Benny as a performer, Joan adored him as a father and grandfather
Jack Benny was one of the most beloved comedians of the 20th century, a master of timing, self-deprecating humor and the long pause that could make an audience roar with laughter. His legacy spans vaudeville, radio, television and film, and his persona as the miserly, vain, yet somehow endearing everyman connected with millions of people. But to Joan Benny, he was simply Dad.
In this conversation with Joan (who passed away in 2021 at the age of 86), she paints a picture of a man who was not just a comedy legend but also a kind, loving father and grandfather. And she admits that when she thinks of him, it’s not necessarily the television icon that comes to mind—it’s the radio star. To her, his radio show was the peak of his comedic genius. Even years later, when she revisited those old recordings, she found herself laughing just as she did as a child. That humor, that brilliance, had lost none of its power.
The Jack Benny Program had an extraordinary run, first on radio and then on television. It debuted in 1932 as part of the Canada Dry Ginger Ale Program before transitioning into The Chevrolet Program and eventually The Jack Benny Program. It became a staple of American entertainment, running on radio from 1932 to 1955 and on television from 1950 to 1965. The show was known for its sharp writing, brilliant supporting cast—including Eddie “Rochester” Anderson, Mary Livingstone (Benny’s real-life wife), Phil Harris, Dennis Day, Don Wilson, and Mel Blanc (“The Man of a Thousand Voices”)—and Benny’s impeccable comedic timing.
On radio, The Jack Benny Program revolutionized comedy. It introduced running gags, self-referential humor, and a unique structure where the star of the show was often the butt of the jokes. It also, one could argue, laid down the groundwork for what we would come to know as the sitcom.
When Benny made the transition to television, he adapted seamlessly. His visual gags and deadpan expressions only enhanced the humor. The television version retained many of the same cast members and continued the tradition of sharp, character-driven comedy. It remained a success throughout its 15-year run and is still regarded as one of the finest television comedies of its era.
In the following exclusive interview, Joan Benny provides insight into her relationship with her father, the differences between the on and off-air Jack Benny and much more.
Woman’s World (WW): When you think of your dad, what comes to mind?
Joan Benny (JB): When I think about him, I think about radio. I love the radio show and I actually really liked it better than the television show. The radio show was so funny and I listened to it not long ago. Well, I say not long ago, maybe 10 years ago when I was asked to do an interview about him and somebody gave me the tapes of his old radio shows. I hadn’t heard them since I was a child and I was laughing my head off.
WW: It’s so odd there isn’t awareness these days of some of the great comics of the past.
JB: Well, I agree with you about that, but, as they say, time marches on. But I also remember when I was a child, my father and George Burns were talking about vaudeville and, of course, I was too young to have seen vaudeville. But the way they talked about it, I felt like I was really deprived of something.
WW: In reflection, what was your relationship with him like?
JB: Oh, it was a very good one. I absolutely adored him and have often said he was the nicest man I’ve ever known. And I think anybody who knew him said that, that he was a truly nice man, which is apparently rather unusual for comedians. Do you remember the name Abbe Lane? She was a singer with Xavier Cugat and she was on the bill with my dad. I got to know her and she said, “Your father was so unusual. I’ve worked with every comedian in the business and they are all totally insane, but your dad was the best.”
WW: With the success he had on stage, radio, TV and film, how did he keep his feet on the ground? He was so famous.
JB: Yes, he was. There was even a magazine article, I believe it was in 1938, that said the most recognized voice in America was, first, Jack Benny and, second, FDR. Somebody else told me when I was writing my book that in New York when it was hot—this was before air conditioning—and if you were a kid playing on the street, the windows were all open and he said you never missed a word of The Jack Benny Show, because everybody was playing it right out their windows.
But you asked about my relationship with my dad. Well, it’s a little different for people like him. He wasn’t your normal father because the number one priority for him was the show. I’m not sure whether I came in first or second, but I think the show came first, which was fine. We were very close and because my mother didn’t like to go out much, I went with my dad to all the baseball games and, when I was a little older, I traveled with him when he went to different cities to play concerts.
On top of that, he was a great grandfather. He adored his first grandson, Mike and when I was married and had children, I lived not too far away. He loved to visit friends who lived in the neighborhood, so I saw a lot of him—he would come over every two or three days, just stop by for a cup of coffee and to see his grandchild.
WW: Why do you think he appealed to so many people for so many years?
JB: He said in an interview that he had all the foibles and so many things that normal people have, and they identified with him. The on-screen persona of the miser, the somewhat pompous, somewhat put upon person—all the things that he was on that show—he said was a reflection of the population in general. People identified with that and they also knew, in spite of his radio and TV character, that he was a nice man. And he came across as being a really nice person.
WW: Would people who knew Jack Benny from different mediums be surprised to meet the real him?
JB: I don’t think they’d be the least bit surprised. He was exactly what people assumed he was. He came across as a very gentle man—and he was. In fact, I think his gravestone even says something like that: Here lies a gentle man. That’s the best way to describe him above everything else—a gentle man.
He rarely lost his temper. I mean, there were times when he really lost it, but that wasn’t very often. He was—well, I guess the phrase is happy-go-lucky. And he loved his fans. He loved signing autographs. He loved being famous.
There was a time he went to a country in the Caribbean where no one knew him. They didn’t speak English, and he spent the whole day there without anyone asking for his autograph. He was on the next plane home.
WW: Did he feed on that kind of attention?
JB: Like I said, he just liked being famous, and he loved signing autographs. He loved talking to his fans. He was sweet.
WW: He had a close friendship with Eddie ‘Rochester’ Anderson. How big a deal was that at the time?
JB: Well, first of all, you have to understand—it was a very different time. It’s interesting how people don’t always take that into consideration. People look back now and say, “Isn’t it awful that minstrel shows existed?” But at the time, they were incredibly popular, and no one thought of them as racial or terrible. It was just of its time, and times have changed.
My dad had no racial prejudices whatsoever. I grew up in a house where the only thing that mattered was talent. It didn’t matter what church you went to, what color your skin was—none of that mattered. If you were talented, that mattered. And Rochester was talented. He was wonderful in the role he played on the show, and that was all that mattered.
I don’t think my father ever thought about the color of his skin. And I think people were perfectly fine with it. If you remember, my dad’s relationship with Rochester was one where Rochester always got the best of him. That dynamic was fine.
And of course, one of the most popular radio shows at the time was Amos ‘n’ Andy. My father always said it was the best-written show on radio. And if you’ve ever listened to those episodes, they were really funny—brilliantly written. Of course, Amos ‘n’ Andy were both played by white men, but again, it was of its time.
WW: How tough creatively was it for him to sustain that show for so many years, first on radio and then on television?
JB: As far as I know, he just did it because that’s what he had to do. A lot of people get burned out doing something for so many years and they’ll sit there and say, “Well, I don’t want to do this anymore,” but it seems like he was very happy to do it well. And he was also very lucky because that character that he created made the transition very easily from radio to television. Unlike other radio shows that couldn’t.
JB: We have to talk about George Burns. What was his superpower that he made your father literally fall on the floor laughing?
JB: Have you got three hours? George Burns was the funniest man I’ve ever known. And he and my dad—well, they were joined at the hip. They adored each other, and it all started way back in vaudeville.
My father had a wonderful sense of humor, and when he first met George—who we’ll call Natty, because his real name was Nathan Birnbaum—they instantly hit it off. Natty was a big fan of my dad’s. They were both in vaudeville, but at the time, my father was the bigger star.
One of them called the other on the telephone—back when phones weren’t what they are today—and in the middle of the conversation, the line suddenly went dead. For some reason, my father thought George had hung up on him deliberately, and he found that hysterically funny. So he called him back. And George later told me, “Well, you know, if your dad thought that was funny, that was good enough for me—because I thought your father was great.”
So George did it again. And again. And before long, it became a running gag—hanging up in the middle of conversations just to get a laugh. From there, it escalated into other pranks. Together, they weren’t just funny—they were pee-your-pants funny. If you were in the room, you’d be on the floor laughing.
There are so many stories of what Natty did to my father to make him laugh. One of my favorites is when George walked in, sat down and just stayed completely quiet. My father suddenly started laughing. George said, “Jack, what are you laughing at? I didn’t do anything.” And my father said, “Yes, but you didn’t do anything on purpose.”
That’s the kind of relationship they had. When they got together for dinner at our house or George’s house, it was just non-stop laughter. And the better you knew them, the funnier it all was.
WW: You co-wrote the book about your dad, Sunday Nights at Seven, right?
JB: Well, my father actually wrote an autobiography, though it was ghostwritten by someone—I don’t even remember the name. But it was never published. It ended up tucked away in a closet somewhere and didn’t come to light until after my mother passed away. I had forgotten all about it. But when it resurfaced, I read it and saw that it wasn’t really a full-fledged autobiography—it was more like bits and pieces.
After my father died, I was approached about writing a book, but I thought, “Who’s going to read a book about a nice man? It’s not Mommie Dearest, nobody’s going to read this.” So I didn’t do anything with it.
But then, when I rediscovered his manuscript, I thought, “Maybe there’s something here.” I didn’t know what at first. Then, I got a call—either from Warner Books or an agent, I don’t remember exactly—telling me I really should consider writing a book about my father.
That’s when it hit me—I could combine his autobiography with my version of what life was like with him. I’d alternate chapters: one from his manuscript, one from me. That way, I could blend our two perspectives into one book. And it worked. I really think it worked well.
WW: What was the experience like having to get into his head while exploring your own?
JB: I had a writer I met through my agent, and we got along well. I asked her to be my co-author, and she’s the one who helped edit my father’s manuscript. I had tried to do it myself, but I realized I was too close to it—I just couldn’t. So she edited my dad’s book, while I wrote my parts, and together we merged the two stories.
For example, when I read his chapter about going overseas to entertain the troops during the war, I thought, “What was I doing during that time? What was it like when he came home?” I remembered meeting him at the train station and the things we did together after he got back. And that’s how I wove our stories together—his memories and mine, side by side.
Conversation
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