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The process by which Jimmy Savo, son of a Bronx cobbler, worked his way into the world's most impressive theatrical organization was long and disjointed. Twenty years ago he was a burlesque bum. Before that he had been an amateur in direct competition with Joe Cook, Eddie Cantor, George Jessel, Fanny Brice on Manhattan's lower East Side. In fact, these striplings once refused to appear in an amateur show with Savo because he was so small and forlorn that the audience always applauded him the prize out of pure pity.
Eleven years ago Savo's baggy clothes and shuffling gait began to be seen in such revues as Ritz Revue, Almanac, Earl Carroll's Vanities. Then five years ago Jimmy Savo dropped out of sight. Suddenly last year he popped up again. Almost every month his squinty eyes, bangs and button nose could be found in some glossy smart-chart because Ben Hecht & Charles MacArthur were featuring him in a much-publicized cinema—which has yet to be released. That was the signal for Manhattan literati and humorists to "discover" in Jimmy Savo a new Charlie Chaplin. Even if, as critics unanimously predicted, Parade proves to be theatrical medicine too bitter for bourgeois taste, Jimmy Savo will have the satisfaction of having appeared under the august auspices of the Guild, whose portals have been passed by only one (George M. Cohan) erstwhile song & dance man before.