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The Retort Mechanical. Perfectionist Berle works at his supporting company so long and hard that in recent weeks there has been no time for a dress rehearsal; before the studio audience enters there is not always a chance for NBC janitors to sweep up a litter of sandwich wrappers, crushed coffee cartons and remnants of some of the 15 to 20 eight-inch cigars that Berle mangles daily. At the last minute, the impresario gets around to learning his own lines. But memorizing is his neatest trick, and it lies at the heart of his talent.
Although the Berle office holds a file of 850,000 indexed gags (with duplicates on microfilm in a bank vault), he carries his own file in his head. His mind works like an I.B.M. machine: a situation arises, something clicks and the right gag, insult or retort flips from Berle's mouth on cue, with reinforcements right behind it. This hair-trigger efficiency has made him the nightclubs' deadliest squelcher of hecklers and a dangerous foe in a battle of wits.
It has also given him an undeserved reputation for clever ad-libbing. Comic Berle, who went through the eighth grade of Manhattan's Professional Children's School mostly by correspondence, is not an original wit, nor is he in a class with such impromptu quipsters as Fred Allen or Groucho Marx. He rarely invents his repartee; he selects it quickly and efficiently out of stock. But its flow is so fast, aggressive and well-timed, and it is driven with such mugging verve, that it can stun most opponents into silence.
As a kid in vaudeville, young Milton developed his memory hand in hand with his considerable talent for mimicry. He would stand in the wings, soaking up lines and gestures; after watching a performance a few times he could give a letter-perfect recital of a role, complete with gestures, inflections and pauses. Once, in Atlantic City, teen-aged Milton startled Ethel Barrymore, then making two-a-day appearances on the same bill, by doing her whole act for her.
Thank You, Mother. When Milton was between twelve and 16, he teamed in a big-time act with Elizabeth Kennedy, now 41. With adolescence, he began to sprout like a weed, fought a squeaky voice and grew round-shouldered trying to carry conviction as a boy in blue knee pants. He would get to the theater early to join the tumblers in practice and learned flips, handstands and comic bouncing on a tram-polin. Fascinated by magicians, he almost ruined a disappearing woman act by getting into the trap door to see how it was done.
He would complain when the stage manager waved him off after only five bows; backstage noises while he was on would send him off railing like a prima donna at old, established stars. Sometimes he threw a tantrum at stagehands for no reason, but usually ended with a gag that left them laughing. Years later, at a nightclub, he broke into tears after a drummer mistimed a cue in his act. He had the man fired, later rehired him and now carries his own drummer—the same man—with whom he conducts a running feud.