The widely expanding popularity of the incredible Danny Kaye will reach the flood level, no fooling, when the comic's new Samuel Goldwyn film, "The Kid From Brooklyn," presently gets out on the nation's theatre screens. So let this be an unsolemn warning: look out for the inundating wave. For whatever cause the gent has given for delight in his two previous films is repeated with drums in this new musical, which came to the Astor yesterday. As a mousey milkman turned boxer by a freakish twist of fate and thrown in the ring with beetling bruisers whose passion appears to be to kill, Mr. Kaye has the best opportunity that he has yet had upon the screen to show his superior talent for broad and beguiling burlesque. And he takes full advantage of it in classically clownish style. Not since Charlie Chaplin made his several turns in the ring has such a bewildered boxer been seen upon the screen—well, unless you include Harold Lloyd in "The Milky Way," on which this film was also based. In the bright glare of Technicolor arc-lights and under the withering gaze of ranks of roaring fans, Mr. Kaye gives assorted demonstrations of precisely how not to box. At first he is the terrified tornado slithering wildly along the ropes, groping in desperation to get away from the murder that seems bent. And then, after several dour opponents have secretly "gone into the tank" at the behest of Mr. Kaye's nefarious manager, he puffs up with bellicosity. Around and around he dances with nimble and complicated grace, jabbing his dukes and generally mugging like a super-charged Maxie Baer. Of course, comes the final disillusion when he faces the uncorrupted champ! Mr. Kaye in these scenes is funnier (for our money) than he has ever been. Not to slight him, however, of a full go at that brand of erratic mimicry for which he is uniquely famous, Mr. Goldwyn has given him a chance to do a thing called "Pavlova," a musical fable about ballet. And although it is not too smartly written, Mr. Kaye knocks it off frenetically. The pride of the night clubs and the soirees is capably demonstrated here, but it looks as though Danny is destined to tend toward the slapstick on the screen. Let's hope, though, that he will keep some vestige of the polished and piquant pantaloon. Unhappily, there must come moments when Mr. Kaye is not on the screen and those are the moments in this picture when the pace perceptibly drags. Mr. Goldwyn has tried to correct this with the not unaccelerating charms of Vera-Ellen, Virginia Mayo and a phalanx of gorgeous Goldwyn girls. But despite Vera-Ellen's racy dancing in a trick number to "Hey, What's Your Name?" and in a flowery bouquet called "Josie"—and despite Miss Mayo's two pretty songs—the show hits a lower, routine level when Mr. Kaye isn't anywhere to be seen. Even the low-comedy cut-ups of Walter Abel. Lionel Stander and Eve Arden fail to inflate the blithesome spirit when they aren't conjoined with Mr. Kaye. In short, the show is uneven. But then, what could you expect? Science and Mr. Goldwyn haven't yet found a balance for Danny Kaye. THE KID FROM BROOKLYN, screen play by Groves Jones, Frank Butler and Richard Connell, from the play "The Milky Way" by Lynn Root and Harry Clork; adapted by Don Hartman and Melville Shavelson; music and lyrics by Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn; words and music of "Pavlova" by Sylvia Fine and Max Liebman; directed by Norman Z. McLeod; produced by Samuel Goldwyn and released through RKO-Radio Pictures. At the Astor. Burleigh Sullivan . . . . . Danny Kaye Polly Pringle . . . . . Virginia Mayo Susie Sullivan . . . . . Vera-Ellen Speed McFarlane . . . . . Steve Cochran Ann Westley . . . . . Eve Arden Gabby Sloan . . . . . Walter Abel Spider Schultz . . . . . Lionel Stander Mrs. E. Winthrope DeMoyne . . . . . Fay Bainter Mr. Austin . . . . . Clarence Kolb Fight Announcer . . . . . Jerome Cowan Radio Announcer . . . . . Don Wilson BOSLEY CROWTHER New York Times 19 April 1946

My parents had a friend who lived in an apartment here. I called her "Aunt Jo" because she had no children or family. Aunt Jo worked as a dispatcher for the Mayflower moving company. We would visit her about once a week and I'd walk around the neighborhood. It was in her apartment that I first wrote my name, and I did it in yellow crayon. Aunt Jo had a few toys and such for me to play with, the only one I remember was a very creepy clown doll. I never liked that thing--and that was long before the movie Chuckie. Sometimes my dad would take me across the street to the Mrs. Baird's bread factory. They gave me a tour and showed us how the bread was made. I always thought I was pretty important since most kids only saw a bread factory on Mr. Rodgers'. Sometimes I would go looking around the neighborhood on my own. Behind the apartment there was a railroad overpass where the vagrants would hang out. The would always have a campfire burning up under there and no one seemed to care. I stopped and talked to one once and he was real nice. A few years ago I ran a call to the bridge where a guy had hanged himself. He was graveyard dead. One night someone "mugged" aunt Jo as she was about to go up the steps to her apartment. I don't know if she was raped or not, my parents only said she was "mugged". Whatever happened it put her in the hospital for a few days. No one was ever caught. It scared her so bad that she moved out of here and went to live in a security high rise apartment building. We saw her a few times after that and then she got real sick with cancer and died. My parents always thought that somehow the attack had brought about the cancer. Some years ago I ran a call to Jo's apartment. It was strange how much I recognized the place was even though it had been more than 20 years since I was in there. The call was for a 13 year old kid who had smoked some pot. He said he had done it once before, but this time it felt "different". He just didn't feel good. He thought he should go to the hospital. He insisted we take him.