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stantly, obviously laboring under the delusion they've got something red hot in the way of novelty along this line. Poor tykes, little do they realize that Messrs Hoot Gibson, Eddie Polo, Buck Jones and William S. Hart were galloping to the rescue of the luck' less lass, or the stage to Cayuse Bend, long before the present authors were even a tentative project in the eternal cosmic scheme of things.
erupting into an organized bedlam of foot-stomping and ribald sneering.
When calamity overtakes the drama on teevy, an artistic message replaces the crackled slide. The public is informed that due to technical difficulties our heroine's battle for her honor may be heard but not seen. Then one sits and stares at the blank gray rectangle which glares back just
I
T IS reassuring to observe that television hasn't deviated one tittle (whatever that is) from the good old streaky originals. The picture jitters and wobbles all over the screen with commendable fidelity to tradition. There are pleasing moments when the film runs completely amok and the audience is treated to an eye-slashing barrage of flickering black lines. These unfortunate lapses never seem to come at moments when somebody is trying to sell me something. Instead they hit just when things are livening up; and the western hero is emerging spotless and serene from a frenzied chase through the sagebrush, or a bitter free-for-all in the Last Chance saloon.
But a genuinely radical departure has been achieved by the electronic wizards in the matter of what to do when the picture goes clear off the deep end. In the nickel-show era, when the picture began fan-dancing and then zoomed up into the stratosphere, the operator crammed a crude slide into the projector which read "One moment please, while the operator changes reels." This usually appeared upside down. It gave the kids in the front rows another excuse for
as blankly. The dialog booming out of the vacuum produces a jolting illusion that one is hearing menacing voices in a haunted Scottish castle.
Nobody stomps his feet or indulges in jeering catcalls. Mocking a video tube is like looking down a well — there's not much future to it.
THOSE commercials! Radio, with age, has achieved both dignity and decency along this line. But on teevy, fantasy runs rampart. Coffee cans swirl out of space, cartoon figures cavort madly out of medicine chests and baked bean cans; rockets zoom to burst into a grinning pitchman who is strictly a flower from a old bouquet.
This character is as sleek as an eel in a swamp. With his too-too sharp double-breasted suit, often embellished by a discreet flower in the lapel, he somehow manages to resemble a moderately successful boot