Swing (Feb-Dec 1952)

THE CREAM OF CROSBY 77 gpeciab'zes in flaming foods. Byfield was I once sitting in the Pump Room with LuT cius Beebe who was a little perplexed by the abundance of small fires leaping up from samovars all over the room. "Why all the flames?" he inquired. "Well," said Byfield, "the customers like it and it doesn't hurt the food very much." Similarly, the Shriner formula satisfies the requirements of this game called television and it doesn't hurt Shriner very much. The comedian strolls out in front of the cameras and starts talking about, say, the local postmaster. "We didn't mind when he read all the mail but when he got to answering it . . ." Presently, this leads into a story about a local lady who • is long on genealogy but short on cash. "She'd be in the 400 if we had that many people here," says Shriner. Her daughter IS in love with the son of a man who is in the reverse position, awash with money but unlimned in the social register. That, of course, is a story that has been told before. You might say it's the basic rtory of all time which isn't to be held against it. Presently the characters appear and the task of getting these gene-crossed lovers together assumes dramatic shape. While they're acting out their problems, Shriner wanders in and out of the proceedings, using the "Our Town" technique as narrator. That is, he's sometimes invisible and unheard, sometimes part of the plot. The plots are likely to lead you all over , town — into the local barber shop, the . hbrary, the city council, and a lot of front porches— and you meet a good many of the townsfolk on the way. The stories themselves are, I'm afraid, rather sticky with sentiment but they are relieved and , enlivened by Shriner's comments about his town — -"Our town got a college, too. Sort of made up for not having a high school." — and about its people. "Being dumb like that he almost had to get rich or he couldn't make a living." In anyone else's hands this assignment would be either pretentious or silly but Mr. Shriner is heavily endowed with good } looks, charm, a wonderful sense of timing, J, and a grin that would melt an iceberg at fifty paces. Sentimentality that might ordi' narily be a little trying becomes instead touching and, at the same time, amusing. My enthusiasm for Mr. S.'s comments are not entirely untempered, though. Lately, conceivably because he burns up an awful lot of material, Mr. Shriner has been uttering jokes which are not unlike those of any other comedian, jokes on which the fingerprints of gagwriters are clearly visible. I suppose it was inevitable that the writers would gather around Mr. Shriner but I hope he keeps them decently in hand. Incidentally, the comedian does his own commercials which are as deft and funny as any you'll find on the air. The sponsor is Arrow shirts and Mr. Shriner likes to ramble through the factory where the shirts are being made, talking away about the materials and the women employees: "These girls have been here a long time. Well, they lose one now and then. Girls go on making shirts for men this way — they get so they want to meet one." I don't know if it sells any shirts but it's certainly nice on the audience and the sponsor deserves a nice little kiss for permitting it. What Uncle Miltie Needs THE Milton Berle show has been pretty dreadful this year. Uncle Miltie is not entirely to blame either. He is an enormously energetic and gifted fellow; several times he has done wonders of improvisation with terribly tired material; he has worn at least as many wigs, baggy pants and funny jackets as last year — perhaps a few more. Still, some sort of spark is missing. What the Berle show needs, I think — and what occasionally it seems to be grop