TV SHOW OF THE DAY: "TELEVISION PARTY FOR MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY" (1953)

Sporting one of the worst titles in the history of the medium, Television Party for Muscular Dystrophy, airing live on ABC-TV Thanksgiving Eve 1953, is a two-hour "spectacular" hosted by Martin & Lewis with only the occasional mention of MD to spoil the fun.

Technically, the "party" is really for the mailmen who would spend Thanksgiving making their usual rounds collecting donations for the MDA instead of taking the day off like all good Americans are supposed to. Such was the power of a crooner and a simian-like comedian. 

Eddie Cantor introduces himself to people who
don't recognize him out of blackface.

To start things off, Eddie Cantor, the Rebbe of 1950s show business, introduces Martin & Lewis with a solemnity usually reserved for a bris. Likely realizing Dean disdained any hint of sentiment, Eddie offers him a simple handshake, while wrapping Jerry in a bearhug. Cantor knew that Lewis, while only 27, was at heart an old-timer who thrived on emotion as a lush does Ripple. 

Before it became the same old song and dance.

The team's first moments onscreen are a little hesitant, relying on uncertain adlibbing, but they soon find their groove. No matter what was happening between them behind the scenes, Dean and Jerry here aren't just funny but exhilarating -- there's good reason why people who experienced them live found it difficult to explain the team's impact on audiences. Seventy years after the original broadcast, they remain a powerhouse act, operating on the berserk delight of overthrowing show biz norms for their own amusement. If the audience enjoys it, so much the better. 

Songwriter Sammy Cahn looks upon Dean with
awe -- as well he should.

In addition to comedy, Dean gets three songs to himself, including the sublime "Christmas Blues", which should go down as his best musical performance of '50s television, long before his cool demeanor devolved into cynical laziness. While much has been said about Dean keeping Jerry in check, the opposite is equally true: Martin was never funnier or, by the end of his career, more professional than during his years with Lewis. 

Other than Spike Jones & His City Slickers laying carnage to "The Poet and Peasant Overture", no other act on Television Party approaches Martin & Lewis' style. Phil Harris sings "Minnie the Mermaid" in the proto-rap style he'd already been doing for 20 years. A toupeed Phil Silvers plays clarinet while using a piano accompanist as his stooge. It's amusing, but nothing like the overwhelming Bilko persona that was still a couple of years away.

Danny Thomas makes ready to offend two
nationalities with one hat. But it's all in good fun.

Continuing the nightclub vibe, Danny Thomas tells stories about Callahan who was "seven parts Irish and one part vodka", and Antonio the Italian immigrant with only one problem: "The English language, no matter how closely written to the paper, means nothing to him." (Oddly, there's no degrading bit about Yakhoob the Lebanese Christian.) After receiving an avalanche of yocks, Thomas detours into Seriousville with a God-bless-America homily and a serious newsflash to the audience that he's deeper in debt now than when he was starting out in the business. And you know what? He kills here. Different times, my friend, different times. 

The man who wouldn't be Dean, no how, no way.

The Television Party isn't all chuckles and chortles. A nervous Vic Damone is OK but no threat to the other Italian-American co-hosting this shebang. Carol Richards is memorable only for including the rarely-heard opening verse to "Over the Rainbow". For you youngsters out there, Anna Maria Alberghetti offers a couple of operatic pieces that belie her 17 years, making parents across America wonder why their kids couldn't be this nice. And in the most fascinating part of the show, the serious Jerry gets into the act, unsteadily warbling the treacly "With These Hands", while the goofy Jerry occasionally rears his head, as if unsure if this number is a good idea. It's a real-life version of The Nutty Professor's climactic moment a decade later when the title character's two personalities uncontrollably sneak out behind each other.

You got a problem with the mail service? Take it
up with Bill. I dare you.

Despite all those entertainers, nobody but nobody makes an impression like Bill Doherty, the union rep of the Letter Carriers of America. Looking like he just stepped off the set of The Irishman, Doherty seems to beg viewers to take him for a labor boss who allows guys named Momo, Skinny Sal, and Handsome Harry to handle the union pension fund. And you sure as heck better clap your mitts for the mailmen behind him who sing "Sentimental Journey" in what sounds like one part harmony split four ways -- or else.

I bet Dean loved posing as a mailman.

The two comedic, musical, emotional, exhaustive hours of Television Party for Muscular Dystrophy didn't much impress TV columnists. It's hard to understand why. Dean & Jerry do their Dean & Jerry shtick to more or less perfection, and the guests are pretty much what you'd expect in 1953. (Maybe super A-listers Jack Benny, Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra were busy with Thanksgiving plans like everyone else.) Outside of a complete, so-so 1954 appearance at the Copacabana captured on 16-mm film, the Television Party is probably the best way to get an idea of what they were like in their uninhibited nightclub setting (minus what Variety would call their "occasional swish humor"). Like the wise man said, you hadda be there.

The only network logo created with Play-Doh,
a hubcap, and stencil set.

A couple of things may stick out for contemporary viewers. One is the original ABC-TV logo, which looks like a malnourished pterodactyl being struck by lightning. Another is that the Television Party was simulcast on radio; it's easy to picture listeners at home wondering what the hell the studio audience was laughing at during the numerous sight gags. (They definitely missed Dean pulling an exquisite Jerry-esque pratfall.) If anyone doubted the new medium was overtaking radio, this program should have ended the argument. 

But what really lingers in the mind is the moment Jerry reminds us of the great strides afoot in the MDA research labs. Scientists, he says, have promised that they could wipe out MD in three months. All they need is nine million dollars' worth of radium. 

Hey, mailmen, don't make any plans with the family next Thanksgiving. You've got a ton of collecting to do!

 

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