THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 31

What are you up for? Whether it's British musical hall comedy, World War II intrigue, post-World War II intrigue, or a hoary TV remake of a hoary 1927 movie, we've got you covered!

O-KAY FOR SOUND (1937): A TV Guide description of the British comedy O-Kay for Sound would probably read, "Six out-of-work zanies mistaken for wealthy investors run riot at a movie studio." Any further description is superfluous. But let's try.

O-Kay for Sound marks the screen debut of The Crazy Gang, a proto-Monty Python for the working class, made up of a trio of comedy teams (or double acts, as the Brits call them). The movie's throughline -- movie studio head Hyman Goldberger has 24 hours to keep his studio from going bankrupt -- allows the Gang take over the musical currently in production, which, of course, becomes a rousing success. In between their routines are some song & dance numbers (one in blackface), an extraordinarily violent Apache Dance, and lone American Fred Duprez using a comedic Yiddish accent as Goldberger. Just how funny it is depends on your acceptance and understanding of semi-prehistoric humor. 

One thing you likely won't understand is the Crazy Gang itself, as their accents, slangs and references made their movies impossible to release in the US. All you can do is figure out the individual team's styles and hang tight. Naughton & Gold are low-class Scots who ridicule the upper class. Nervo & Knox are rough house. Flanagan & Allen (the best of the three teams) share rapid-fire, pun-filled conversations and sing wistful tunes. The Crazy Gang's funniest routine in O-Kay for Sound, a lampoon of British military melodramas, was likely straight from its original stage version at the London Palladium, and is the movie's highlight. Just as Animal Crackers is the closest we'll ever come to seeing the Marx Brothers on Broadway, so O-Kay For Sound gives us an idea of what an evening in the company of the Crazy Gang was like. Just don't expect to understand more than one out of four of their jokes. (If you're up for a drinking game, take a shot each time Knox runs his forefinger under his nose before wiping it on the jacket of whoever's standing closest to him.)

BONUS POINTS: During a row, Knox says, "You know what you can do!", to which Nervo replies, "Yes, but it's impossible." Or was it Nervo to Knox? Or Naughton to Gold? Or some other combination?

THE HOUSE ON 92ND ST. (1945): In the days leading up to World War II, German-
American Bill Dietrich works undercover for the FBI in New York in order to infiltrate a suspected German spy ring. Under the tutelage of his American handler Inspector George Briggs, Dietrich is assigned to prevent the enemy from getting the top-secret Process 97 formula (a/k/a the atomic bomb) and to find out the identity of the ring's leader, known only as Mr. Christopher. Over time, his Nazi contact Elsa Gebhardt discovers that he's no more Nazi than Mickey Mouse, and deserves a rodent's fate. He's saved in the nick of time by Briggs and half of the NYPD, who also discover the not-so-mysterious Mr. Christopher at the scene.

Based on a true story, The House on 92nd Street is perhaps the earliest documentary-style police procedural, and probably influenced The Naked City. Its use of genuine undercover footage of Nazi spies in New York and abundant location filming give it a you-are-there feeling. If that wasn't enough reality, J. Edgar Hoover, always ready to endorse a project that put a good light on the FBI, allowed cameras into the agency headquarters and let employees play themselves. You can tell who they are: they look ordinary and move stiffly, even when sitting down.

Lloyd Nolan, an actor I've come to enjoy in his 1940s roles, does the NYPD proud as Insp. Briggs -- smart, no-nonsense, always ready with a good idea. I wasn't familiar with top-billed William Eythe (Bill Dietrich); if I've seen him elsewhere, he sure didn't make any impression on me. It's the spies who command the screen here. All homely except for Signe Hasso as the ringleader, these folks were born to play Nazis whether they wanted to or not. It was the best way to stay employed in the USA during wartime if you were of German extraction, that's for sure. Entertaining and well-made, The House on 92nd Street is a good place to visit some dark night.

BONUS POINTS: Speaking of Naked City, Harry Bellaver, one of the stars of the TV series of the same name, is a Nazi undercover spy here, while Man from UNCLE fans will recognize Leo G. Caroll as the traitorous Col. Hammersohn. 

TOKYO JOE (1949): Former Army pilot Joe Barrett returns to Tokyo in order to buy back his old bar and reunite with his ex- wife, Trina. In need of some fast money, he's forced to partner up with vice lord Baron Kimura in a literally fly-by-night transport company, which is to smuggle in Kimura's old partners in crime, now in Korea. To sweeten the deal, Kimura threatens to release proof that during War, Trina went all Tokyo Rose on shortwave radio. Which is true -- otherwise, the government would have taken away her daughter... whose father is Joe... and who will be killed if he doesn't do the job.

The only thing more cynical than Humphrey Bogart's character Joe Barett is the way Tokyo Joe tries to shoehorn elements of Casablanca into its story.  A cynical American who owns a bar in a foreign country, and whose ex is now married to another man, is reluctantly turned into a hero at the climax. There's even an old love song ("These Foolish Things") to haunt him ad nauseum. Now replace exotic Northern Africa with post-war Japan, a sexy Swede with a Russian who's about as sensual as an empty bottle of rice vinegar, and her Nazi-hunting husband with a lawyer. Oh yeah, real romantic.

Created by Bogart's Santana Productions, Tokyo Joe was hyped as the first American feature shot in post-war Japan. But the leads stayed behind on the comfy Columbia Pictures lot, so it's Bogart's quite obvious stand-in walking the streets of Tokyo and riding rickshaws. (His judo stunt double is even less believable). As Trina, Florence Marly, more wooden than a cigar-store Russian bottle blonde, should have been replaced by her stand-in. And while Alexander Knox isn't the dishiest actor in the world, he seems to be the type of guy who would marry Trina (Bogart sure doesn't). The best of the supporting players is Sessue Hayakawa as Kimura. Quiet and mildly threatening at all times, his occasional "Ah so" to Joe is amusingly sarcastic. Had the script focused on their relationship, Tokyo Joe would have made for a darker, more interesting movie. As it is, it would have worked better as a B-picture with a smaller budget, low-rent cast, and a quarter-hour shaved off its 90 minutes. 

BONUS POINTS: In a brief turn, Hugh Beaumont goes toe-to-toe with Bogart as a military official -- and wins! He should have gotten more roles like this. Come to think of it, Beaumont would have been perfect in the lead in my fantasy B-version of Tokyo Joe.

LINCOLN MERCURY STARTIME: THE JAZZ SINGER (1959): The one-hour, videotaped color remake of The Jazz Singer was Jerry Lewis' attempt to turn back the cultural hands of the clock to a time when the idea of a fifth-generation cantor disowning his show biz son was considered the stuff of high drama. The title itself doesn't even make sense here, seeing that the character of Joey Robin (nee Rabinowitz) is a stand-up comic who occasionally sings standards big-band style. This Jazz Singer exists solely to give Jerry a chance to stretch his dramatic acting muscles (which atrophy immediately), while creating a fictional version of his real life, unsuccessful attempt to win the respect of his father Danny Lewis, a one-time, third-rate vaudeville comic and Jolson imitator. Jerry, save it for the shrink!

No cliche is left unturned in Jerry's Jazz Singer,. The "Oy yoy yoy" mother. The wisecracking uncle. And of course, the stern, old-fashioned father who actually says, "I have no son". The story and the characters were borderline hackneyed in the 1927 movie; 32 years later, they were the Jewish version of Amos & Andy, only here the comedy is strictly accidental. Just when you think you've seen it all, the climax redefines the word "tasteless", when Joey Robin, still in his sad clown make-up, rushes from his dressing room to visit his dying father. (To strengthen the Jolson connection, Lewis is one step away from blackface.) As his father dies, Joey takes his place at the temple and sings "Kol Nidre" while still made up as a clown. Such was Jerry's clout in 1959, when he was the highest-paid actor in Hollywood, that nobody said no to any of this.

The cast is a mishmash of Yiddish theater (Molly Picon as Joey's Mama), movies (Eduard Franz as Cantor Rabinowitz, the same role he essayed in Danny Thomas' 1952 Jazz Singer), burlesque (Joey Faye as Joey's manager), light opera (23 year-old Anna Maria Alberghetti as the singer who gives Joey his big break), and Jerry's regular co-stars (Del Moore as a hot-headed agent). While this production of The Jazz Singer was quickly forgotten, it continued to have its effect elsewhere. In 1965, Gary Lewis wore make-up very similar to his father's on the cover of the album Everybody Loves a Clown, while Jerry himself would don it once more in his unfinished Holocaust drama The Day the Clown Cried. Good Lord, didn't his people suffer enough?

BONUS POINTS: Once you realize that Alan Reed (Joey's uncle) was the voice of Fred Flintstone, you keep expecting him to yell "Yabba dabba doo!" in Yiddish.

 

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TV SHOW OF THE DAY: "THE TONIGHT SHOW" (AUGUST 29, 1962)

 In the six months between Jack Paar's departure and Johnny Carson's takeover of The Tonight Show in 1962, NBC filled the gap with guest hosts. Some, like Joey Bishop and Groucho Marx, were a good fit. Others, such as Art Linkletter, were questionable. Meaning bad.

Then there was Jerry Lewis, who, despite floundering on TV since his break-up with Dean Martin, won huzzahs as a lively, engaging interviewer. With Paar's former sidekick/ announcer/pitchman Hugh Downs playing straightman for two weeks, it seemed that Jerry had at last found his coaxial calling: late-night talk show host. 

One of Jerry's episodes, from August 29, 1962, is unique for a couple of reasons. It appears to be the oldest surviving Tonight Show, as well as the only complete print from its original 11:15 p.m.-1:00 a.m. timeslot. And with only three guests, that leaves a lot of time for Jerry to be Jerry. Sound good to you?

As if to prove preparation was unnecessary at this hour of the night, Jerry abstains from a monologue and instead spends the first seven minutes riffing with Hugh Downs and bandleader Skitch Henderson, rarely finishing a sentence without launching into his rocket launch-loud nasal squawk or doing some slapstick. He's like AI comedy software, spewing out every joke, gag, and stunt ever created, without a programmer to edit 90% of the material. It's a relief when he introduces Nancy Dussault, his favorite kind of singer: pretty, young in age but old in personality, and not rock & roll. Never seen again on the episode, she was probably grateful enough that Jerry let her finish "Make Someone Happy" without him yelling, "Hey laaaaaaaaaady, that's what I'm dooooooin'!"

A quick break promoting NBC's crack news team follows, and Jerry returns when, for the first time, you notice just how blindingly white his fingernails are -- like, did he dip them in a can of paint before airtime? After a brief parody of "Try a Little Tenderness", some sleight of hand with a matchbook, smoking the first of several cigarettes, and more incessant braying, Jerry spends at least 30 minutes engaging in memory tests with Hugh Downs, which begins tediously and goes downhill from there. It's astonishing that as late as 1962, viewers at home were still so fascinated by late-night TV that they actually stayed up late for this kind of thing. And to remind you this was a more innocent time, Jerry recites Hugh's Social Security number from memory not once but twice on live television. 

It's only when approaching the end of the first hour(!) that the second guest
(after Nancy Dussault) is introduced with the respect Jerry accorded the greats of mankind: Jack Carter. For the next five minutes they tap dance, shoot cap guns, roll up their pants, yell, run around the set, juggle, and generally behave like 5 year-olds when their parents' backs are turned. Then they sit down and spend the next 40 minutes cracking each other up the way only two self-absorbed comedians can, never letting the other finish a story without interrupting with their own purportedly brilliant remarks, while Jerry punctuates the "interview" with further "outrageous" behavior. Going by the audience's reaction, you'd think they're witnessing an historic moment in comedy, egging them on until you're ready for one of these guys to keel over with a coronary -- which the other would have made fun of.

By now, it's 12:45 a.m. and this thing still has 15 minutes to go. So thank God and the talent bookers that a pre-Laugh In Henry Gibson closes the show. Shy and charming, Gibson recites his off-kilter poetry in a soft Southern accent so sincerely that viewers probably accepted him as the real deal rather than the stand-up comedian he was. (He was born James Bateman in Philadelphia; Henry Gibson was, like Andrew "Dice" Clay, a character its creator eventually morphed into full-time.) Although Jerry's over-the-top reactions distract from Gibson's engaging performance, his obvious appreciation for him is one of the show's few sincere moments.

Mixed into this show biz salmagundi are the legendarily dopey Tonight Show bumpers, along with network commercials, promos and PSAs (Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice, L&M Cigarettes, a Smokey the Bear spot that I somehow remember). This being the network feed, there are no local commercials; instead, we see a black screen while hearing Skitch Henderson's band, which is actually kind of interesting.

But people weren't tuning in for L&M jingles and "We'll Be Right Back" slides. Of all the Tonight substitute hosts that year, Jerry Lewis got the most attention, all of it positive, even from TV critics who had cooled toward him as a solo act. Just what was it that created such a turn-around?

Watching over 60 years later, it's difficult to say. Jerry's anything-for-a-laugh style is no different from what he had been doing since becoming part of the most popular comedy team of the 20th century. Perhaps his unrelenting "zaniness" was a 180-degree change from the lowkey Jack Paar (and all the subs). Seen today, though, it demonstrates how badly he needed Dean Martin to rein him in with the occasional glare of disapproval, a well-placed slap to the face, and adept ad-libbed wisecrack -- none of which Hugh Downs was capable of or allowed to offer. 

But in 1962, Jerry's two week Tonight duties made enough of a splash for ABC to offer him a live, two-hour Saturday night talk show. Debuting the following year, enough time had passed for viewers and critics alike to decide that maybe they had been overly generous with their earlier praise. Thirteen weeks later, The Jerry Lewis Show Live was over, and his Tonight Show stint forgotten. It was fun while it lasted, depending on your tolerance level.

And if you're interested, Hugh Downs' Social Security number was 290-07-2129. Memorize it and recite it back a week from now. Jerry would be proud of you.

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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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THE BIG MOUTH

Last August, Jerry Lewis screamed "Laaaaaady!" for the last time. The following day, I wrote a tribute of sorts, but only recently discovered that I left it in "draft" mode, rather than publishing it. This is probably something Jerry would have done in a movie (had there been laptops in 1962), leading to all sorts of contretemps with the likes of Keenan Wynn or Phil Harris. 

So here it is now, a year later, lightly re-written and updated.

In the beginning was Jerome Levitch
of Newark, New Jersey.

You never thought Jerry Lewis was funny? That he was morbidly sentimental, juvenile, thoughtless? Driven primarily by ego, anger and cigarettes? Possessed the worst possible aspects of show business, personal philosophy, and fundraising?

I totally understand. In fact, I agree. I once spent a good 30 minutes on the phone with a friend as we watched, in horror, an HBO special taped in Las Vegas starring Jerry Lewis and Sammy Davis, Jr., another entertainer who didn't always understand the concept of "cool it for a second, will ya?" Much of what we saw was singularly, astonishingly appalling.

And I liked the guy. So much so that seeing Jerry in the Broadway revival of Damn Yankees 20 years ago is still a highlight -- make that the highlight -- of my theatergoing experience. And getting his autograph afterwards? I'm still shaking.

Maybe you have to be a guy from my generation to understand. And even if you are, you likely never cared for him. Again, I get it.

As far as the French were concerned,
it was Qui est Dean Martin?

It used to be the highest of compliments to say the French liked someone or something often unappreciated in their American homeland -- Josephine Baker, Charlie Parker, film noir, Jim Thompson. But somehow, when it came to Jerry Lewis, that compliment became a side-of-the-mouth insult. Jerry Lewis -- oh yeah, big in France. And Germany. And Italy. And Spain. And the Netherlands.

 In fact, Jerry won eight "Best Director" awards throughout Europe, where he also appeared in movies and TV specials that never aired in the U.S. 

Yes, that Jerry Lewis.

The critical acclaim heaped upon him on the Continent must confound American critics -- or, to be precise, American critics of his generation. Upon Lewis' death, movie columnist Richard Brody wrote "The French were right: Lewis is one of the most original, inventive, and, yes, profound directors of the time."  Brody's critiques of Lewis' movies make for fascinating, eye-opening reading. And they can be found in -- get this -- The New Yorker, not exactly a magazine for the National Enquirer crowd.

So it shouldn't be surprising that tributes poured in by the monkey-barrelful from the baby-boom generation of comedians. You'd expect them from Gilbert Gottfried and Jim Carrey. But what of Margaret Cho and Richard Belzer? Or, for that matter, Samuel L. Jackson, Cher, Penn Jillette and Mark Hamill? What do they see that American cineastes don't? Plenty.

Even the world of adhesives was influenced.

Years ago, Chris Rock said his three influences were Dick Gregory, Woody Allen, and Jerry Lewis. Sound bizarre? Probably not to Woody, who wanted Jerry to direct his first two movies, Take the Money and Run and Bananas.

Again, that may come as a shock, even to me. Last year, TCM ran a 24-hour Jerry Lewis film festival. I watched the first and final movies he directed, The Bellboy (1960) and Smorgasbord (1983). Over the course of nearly a quarter-century, he appeared to have made absolutely no "progress" in the art of directing.

Of course, you can say the same thing about Charlie Chaplin, Stan Laurel, and, yes, Woody Allen, because their particular style works best for comedy: long takes, unfussy editing, no close-ups. In fact, it wasn't until I saw Midnight in Paris that I realized just how much Woody was influenced by Lewis. Jerry himself could have directed it, and it would have looked pretty much the same. 

And yet, all anybody wanted to ask him about was working with Dean

I'd say there was some truth here.

Martin. For all the self-professed "love" for his former partner, it must have been profoundly irritating at times to be so closely identified with a period that took up only a decade in a career that lasted over 70 years. Perhaps on some level, Americans realized Martin & Lewis were the bridge between "establishment" comedy (Jack Benny, Fred Allen) and what came after (Sid Caesar, Mel Brooks), and could never forget it. 

While I always enjoy watching Martin & Lewis' television appearances, I confess never to have made it through even their more critically-acclaimed movies like Artists and Models or Hollywood or Bust. They always seem constrained by their scripts, whereas they could run wild on live TV.

"Solid"-- as in "constipated".

But I grew up watching plenty of Jerry's solo movies, along with his late '60s variety show -- by then, past his money-making prime. It's easy to forget that there was a stretch when he was the number one box office star, as well as the highest paid actor in movies and television.

I still remember the hype surrounding the debut in 1963 of his Saturday night, live, two hour talk show -- perhaps still the biggest disaster in the history of television, show business, and mankind. His five year "iron-clad" contract with ABC was melted down in 13 weeks.

But this is the same guy who invented the video assist, which revolutionized the way directors made movies. Who, in his last 30 years, made a major switch in careers as a dramatic actor, winning acclaim in movies and TV shows like King of Comedy, Wise Guy, the way-underrated Funny Bones, and his final starring role in Max Rose. The guy who Woody Allen said was the greatest comedy director in movies. The same Jerry acclaimed as a genius across Europe. 

Jerry squared.

Lewis' last TV appearance, at age 91, can be seen on Jerry Seinfeld's Netflix series Comedians Riding in Cars Getting Coffee, taped last year, but available only last week. It's rather moving to see how this elderly man -- who, at 6' tall, would shave a fraction of an inch off the bottom of his shoes, and hunch down just so Dean Martin could tower over him that much more -- is now really hunched over, and whose head can barely be seen over his car seat when filmed from behind.

Jerry comes off during the interview like a grandfather who can drive you a little crazy, but also surprise you with his sense of humor, funny faces, and fascinating stories... while his bottomless supply of anger, self-pity, and, above all, overbearing sense of self-worth percolates underneath, ready to explode at a moment's notice. 

"Admit it -- you're gonna miss me!"

Yes, you can find plenty to love and loathe about Jerry Lewis, as you can most talented, complicated people. But few have had such an impact on one profession. All you need to do is read the introduction to Shawn Levy's terrific biography of Jerry, King of Comedy, to discover his light and dark sides. 

I've heard from people with first-hand experience that plenty of actors and directors with stellar public reputations are, in reality, incredibly difficult, egomaniacal, condescending SOBs. It's to Jerry Lewis' credit that he always gave you the real deal, whether you liked it or not.

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