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"JEAN SHEPHERD'S AMERICA," a 13-part, half-hour series, apparently will have its moments. It is not much like anything else on public television - or network television either, for that matter - and it is not so much America we are watching as it is Mr. Shepherd. His sensibilities are what count. They may not be as interesting as he thinks they are, but sometimes they are amusing. The series begins on Channel 13 at 10 tonight.
In tonight's program, "Mosquitos and Moon Pies," Mr. Shepherd visits the Okefenokee Swamp, drifting about in a flat-bottomed boat and musing. This is mostly free associa¬tion, although it is shaped by the per¬sona Mr. Shepherd has adopted for the program. He is Swamp Man.
Thus the opening: mist arises from dark, still waters; mysterious sounds are heard. We do not see Mr. Shep¬herd, but we hear him, speaking in a husky, slightly breathless, voice:
"Two o'clock in the morning" ¬more mysterious sounds - "in the most ancient, primitive swamp on the continent" - long pause - "dark¬ened like velvet, the sound of things crawling in the night."
And so on. Then Mr. Shepherd, still unseen, recites a long poem about life, death and primordial impulse. Finally we see him, in baseball cap and dark glasses, poling the flat-bottomed boat. "We are all swamp men deep down," he says, "deep down where the memories lie."
Anyway, it's clear our guide on this trip isn't Charles Kuralt. Mr. Shep¬herd projects a vague menace. Some cable-television preachers also do this. They are not really scary, but they do mean to be a little intimidat¬ing. Even when Mr. Shepherd shifts from his Swamp Man voice to a more conventional narrator's voice, he's bullying us a bit. This is part of his ap¬peal. We are supposed to know a real person is speaking, and not just an¬other pretty face.
Nonetheless, there's chutzpah here, too. Mr. Shepherd may be insisting that we listen, but that doesn't mean he always has something to say. He sits in the boat, for instance, and re¬calls a fragment from his boyhood. He and Schwartz seined for crayfish. Then they boiled and ate them. He says that took courage.
"For those five minutes," Mr. Shepherd asserts, "me and Schwartz were truly one with primeval time."
Well, maybe, but it still isn't much of an anecdote. Mr. Shepherd's ram¬blings, called "sensual essays," aim for flavor and mood. Sometimes Mr. Shepherd scores; sometimes he sounds like an all-night disk jockey, working too hard at his job.
"At P.J. Clarke's," he growls (it is nighttime and he is Swamp Man again), "the martinis are flowing, the ice is crackling." Mr. Shepherd chuckles, and says that there he is, surrounded by bullfrogs and alliga¬tors, feeling a stirring in his soul.
"Goodbye, civilization," he says. "I've had enough of this TV baloney. I ain't never coming back."
Swamp Man fades from view then, while we see a bright moon and hear a long howl. Martinis may not really flow, ice surely doesn't crackle (it clinks, or else it just sits there qui¬etly), and when Swamp Man refers to "The Thing from the Black Lagoon" he doesn't mean "thing," he means "creature." On the other hand, at least we're listening.
Much of this, meanwhile, is accom¬panied by fine photography. The alli¬gators look especially good. The series, a reprise of the "Jean Shep¬herd's America" that public televi¬sion presented in 1971, will be seen on Tuesday nights through July 9. It is produced by Creative Television As¬sociates and WGBH in Boston.
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