I am catching up on my loafing at the Met when along comes this flicker which one and all are referring to as "A Slight Case of Murder." I open up my peepers and wonder whether I will feel blow-hot-blow-cold about this one like I am about its co-feature which I have just waded through--an operatic affair dubbed "Romance in the Dark," which has somewhat to do with two Johns called Boles and Barrymore and a Gladys whose last handle is Swarthout. I make a note that I will give that one the bird in my review. Notwithstanding, almost at once comes along a beer baron who is none other than that grand little gee, Edward G. Robinson. I start to take notice; this Mr. Robinson has got the stuff, I decide. The story is a killer. In several ways it is a killer. First of all several gees get killed to help the plot along. Second, I get a few real laughs at this Mr. Robinson who almost fails in the brewery business before he tastes his own beer and discovers what is the trouble with his product's demand schedule. I give the big ha-ha to this Allen Jenkins, who is very much of a laugh and a snarler than whom there is none better. The plot meanders along at just the right pace so I can get in a chortle at all the jokes and still hear the next line, which is a pleasure after all these sophisticated comedies which keep a fellow thinking so hard. This Mr. Robinson is right at home in this spot, and he speaks my kind of lingo, which is more than I can say for some. It is his accent which lures me, I decide. Afterwards I ankle down the street for a beer or two, but I stipulate that it must not be Mr. Robinson's brand. His is not so good.