Off to See the Wizard... Or Not: An Editorial

Several weeks ago, at the recommendation of an old friend, I purchased tickets for my wife and I to see the special theatrical "Wizard of Oz 70th Anniversary Hi-Def Event." The applicable theatre nearest our home was the Regal Fairfax. The one-time showing was this evening at 7:00 pm. I left work a little early, took my wife to an inexpensive Chinese restaurant situated directly under the theatre, and went "off to see the Wizard."

The theatre (okay, the auditorium known as "Theatre 9") was just about full. At about 6:58 pm, the lights dimmed slightly and the "Hi-Def Event" began with a special introduction by TCM's Robert Osborne.

Only Mr. Osborne didn't look particularly "Hi-Def." In fact, Mr. Osborne came on rather slowly, moving and speaking in fits and starts. Some of the attendees laughed, but most were booing. Eventually, Osborne's voice became clear, even though his body was stiff and his lips weren't moving... but then, his physical presence made a mad rush to catch up to his vocalizing. The crowd settled back.

But things still weren't right. Mr. Osborne's movements were rather jerky and most un-Hi-Def like. As a regular viewer of NCIS, I began to wonder if this "event" was being transmitted via remote from a Marine unit in Iraq. After about two minutes, Mr. Osborne yielded to a mini-documentary about Oz hosted by Angela Lansbury, and she too moved and spoke in the same halting manner. It all looked like a Netflix DVD that had gone through the mail a few too many times.

About ten minutes into this travesty, I (and several others) went to the box office to inform a manager. (My contribution was to advise him to brace for a clamor of unhappy, refund-seeking Oz-ites should the actual film be as poor as the mini-doc.) When I returned to Theatre #9, several people were exiting, and the screen was almost blank... almost, except for a little digital clock and taskbar at bottom that probably looks a lot like the one at the bottom of your screen right now. My wife told me that they stopped the show shortly after I'd left, and that the next thing that popped up was a "Windows (Vista, XP, whatever)" logo, at which people laughed and snapped pictures with their cellphones. That image vanished, then everyone saw an "HP" logo. Presumably the special "Hi-Def Event" equipment was being rebooted.

After about a ten-minute wait, the program started over. And nothing had changed. Mr. Osborne made his slow-motion entrance, followed by words leaving his immobile face until his body rushed to catch up, followed by his herky-jerky movements preceding those of Ms. Lansbury. Whatever the problem was, it hadn't been corrected. This time, they turned it off about five minutes in.

After another five minutes of waiting, a manager came in with a roll of free admission passes (not good for IMAX or "Special Events" like this one), and told us "they" were still trying to correct the problem and would "skip ahead" to the movie once it was fixed. While he was still passing out passes, the film began. Leo the M.G.M. lion began a roar that stopped and started and stopped and started... basically the poor beast moved in one-quarter time. My wife turned to me and said, "I can't sit through this anymore." Reasonably satisfied with the passes ("At least we can see Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs later this week"), we left at about 7:40 pm. As for the many who'd dropped 20-ish bucks on popcorn, drinks and candy, I doubt they were as pleased.

My friends, I have seen the future of theatrical screenings... and right now it sucks.

Obviously, I can't speak for everyone who turned out in theatres nationwide to view this thing. Perhaps the Regal Fairfax finally got it going just as my wife and I hit the stairway to the parking lot, and everyone who remained had a wonderful Wizard of Oz time. But I'm more than a little annoyed that nobody seemed to have tested anything beforehand to see if it worked. Was the HP equipment with "Windows whatever" capable of rendering a flawless Hi-Def show in a theatre, or was it better suited for PowerPoint presentations at my day job? To be honest, what little I saw of the opening titles (which, granted, are in sepia) looked no better or worse than the standard commercial DVD that I own... except that my DVD actually plays.

Everyone has had a bad experience in a movie theatre. The picture goes out of focus, the framing goes askew, or the film jumps and suddenly the soundtrack is the sprocket holes. One time, at a showing of Toy Story at the local second-run house, the picture turned upside-down for the length of about a reel. (My daughter, suitably traumatized, refuses to patronize that theatre anymore.) But these problems are rare and usually fleeting; in any case, there are employees that know how to fix them. Tonight, the manager freely admitted that others were in charge of this "Hi-Def Event" - and whoever these specialists were, they hadn't been able to correct the problems after some forty minutes.

So, if you attended a screening of this event anywhere, please post a comment and tell me your experience. Did the film run without incident? Did everyone have a good time? Was it worth the ten bucks? And, if you were at the Regal Fairfax, at what time (if any) did the show finally get rolling?

As for me, I have a message for the folks at Warner Bros. and Turner Entertainment: the next time you want to present The Wizard of Oz "exactly as it was seen in movie theatres seventy years ago," as Mr. Osborne laboriously told us (twice), a genuine IB Tech print will do just fine.

The Restless Ballad of Pernell Roberts, part two

(Pernell) makes the whole show look bad. He’s so unprofessional. He complains that he’s just one-quarter of a character. Well, a lot depends on how much character you put in.

Lorne Greene, 1964.

Near the close of Bonanza’s 5th season, the network entered into negotiations with the cast for a contract renewal beyond season six. The four stars were then making $4,500 per episode, and three of them tasked their manager to seek a minimum of $6,500. The fourth, Pernell Roberts, had no intention of renewing for any price.

When negotiations were over, the manager returned with a surprise: not only had he secured $10,000 per episode for each of the three returnees, he also got them a 100% residual for the first rerun. For the 33 episodes of the 1965-66 season, each man would make a minimum of $660,000. When the contract ended in 1970, the three were comfortably in the millionaire class.

By the time the press unearthed these financial details, Roberts was long gone. And when he’d turn up in the road show company of some play, or in a guest shot on The Big Valley or The Wild, Wild West or Mission:Impossible, journalists would remind him – and us – of the big payday he’d scorned.

“The last two years I have spent in a state of resignation, serving my time to the end of the contract,” said Roberts as season six began production. “I’m getting out as soon as it is contractually possible, which is next February (1965). The others in the cast decided to renew their contracts. That’s their business.” To a Look magazine reporter, Roberts clarified what “state of resignation” meant: “I don’t read (the scripts) anymore. I just get on, ask somebody for the lines and say them. That’s all the attention this kind of operation deserves.” Asked if he was worried about looking bad as an actor, he scoffed, “You can get up there and put out one tenth of what you’re capable of and they all think it’s great. No, I won’t try hard.”

TV Guide’s Dwight Whitney, writing a piece on producer David Dortort, saw the frustration when Roberts declared he wouldn’t memorize a speech for the episode “The Flannel-Mouth Gun,” but simply read it. “What can (I) do?” asked the producer. “He says that Adam Cartwright would make notes.” When Whitney first spied him, the actor was “drawing heavy black lines through the dialogue with a stubby pencil.” Asked what he was doing with the script, Roberts replied, “Trying to get some kind of honesty into it.”

Dortort bent over backward to keep Roberts interested. For season five, he created a romance between Adam and a young widow, Laura Dayton (Kathie Browne), then brought in Guy Williams (Zorro) to portray a new character, Ben Cartwright’s nephew, Will, who would presumably pick up the slack once Adam wed. The plan backfired. Roberts publicly declared he “didn’t have any feeling about a bride one way or another,” faithful viewers were aghast, and – most especially – Lorne Greene, Dan Blocker and Michael Landon didn’t cotton to the idea of another Cartwright. Dortort had no choice but to unravel the romance: Laura and Will fell in love and left the show.

In January 1965, as Greene, Blocker and Landon celebrated their lucrative future, Roberts asked Dortort for an early release, so he could audition for Tyrone Guthrie’s repertory theatre group in New York City. Dortort granted the request, which is why Adam doesn’t appear in the season’s final five episodes. “The problems, all his rudeness, his impossible conduct and lack of professionalism,” Dortort told TV Guide, “I would forgive all that if he would come back. He is that good.”

Unfortunately for Roberts, Guthrie turned him down. Neither man ever commented on the matter, but Guthrie would’ve had to have been deaf and blind to be unaware of Roberts’ attitude and misbehavior on Bonanza and didn't share Dortort's capacity for tolerance. Instead, Roberts settled for the role of King Arthur in a small tour of Camelot, followed by road show versions of Edward Albee’s Tiny Alice, William Gibson’s Two For the Seesaw, and the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical The King and I. After a year away from Bonanza, he was forced to accept guest shots in The Virginian and The Girl From U.N.C.L.E. “because I have to make a living like anyone else. It’s the business that I’m in and I don’t have to appreciate the artistic level of what I’m doing.”

So it went for another 13 years.

Bonanza, meanwhile, did just fine without Adam Cartwright, which Roberts had predicted would be the case: “I don’t think my absence from the show could destroy it. Those three other men are strong. I’ve heard the arguments that I am ‘destroying the image’ and ‘breaking up a winning combination.’ I don’t believe it. That is a money-oriented kind of thinking that lacks reality. There is another, more human approach that actors are expendable.” The show reached number one in the ratings during Roberts’ final season, stayed there for two additional years, and remained in the top ten through 1971. It took Dan Blocker’s untimely death in 1972 to end the Cartwrights’ saga.

That same year, Roberts turned up in Washington DC in George Bernard Shaw’s Captain Brassbound’s Conversion with Ingrid Bergman. Commenting on the play’s characters, Roberts told reporter Richard Lebherz, “They’re not people. They are without sexuality, without passion. Just dolls. It’s true of so many kinds of drama and plays. That’s why I have trouble relating to the profession because it isn’t relevant. Very seldom is it, anymore.” By then, his greatest joy was overseas travel.

In 1979, after turning 51, Pernell Roberts returned to series television as Trapper John, M.D., a spin-off from the highly successful M*A*S*H. Typically, he had no pretensions about why he took the role: “I wanted the security. It’s called covering your rear-end.” Trapper John ran seven seasons, during which Roberts took other TV roles (including a reunion with Lorne Greene on a two-part episode of Vega$ in 1980), and even appeared twice on Battle of the Network Stars – a show that was, culturally speaking, only a step or two removed from “carnival freak on exhibition.”

So, did Roberts win or lose his battle for “integrity” and “honesty” in his career? No doubt he would say he made the right choices all down the line, possibly even including the one in 1959 that tied him up for those six years. While he'd probably prefer his legacy to be as a fighter of causes (civil rights during the 1960's, better treatment for wounded war veterans in the '70's), it's a cinch that, for better or worse, Roberts will be remembered as Adam Cartwright. Looking back at Bonanza in 1979, he philosophically concluded, “It wasn’t all black. There was good and bad in it (but) the balance wasn’t right for me.” That same year, TV Guide’s Anthony Cook wrote that, for Roberts, acting had eventually become “a convenient form of therapy – a way of re-creating the pyschodrama of his own deepest feelings. ‘And once you finish your therapy,’ he says, ‘you have no more need of it.’”

Possibly he foresaw this back in 1962: “Maybe if I was 45 I would figure I had a good thing here (on Bonanza). The work isn’t too tough and you can go out and pick up good money at rodeos and supermarket appearances. But I’m 33 now and I’ll be 36 at the end of this contract, which cuts that much more time off the years I need to be an actor.”

Roberts, who turned 81 on May 18, is comfortably retired in Malibu.

The Restless Ballad of Pernell Roberts

You only live once, and I’m about half way through it. Well, you find yourself compromising and compromising, and that’s admitting failure in a way. What I want is my freedom. Some people value security more, but I’m the other way. Pernell Roberts, 1962

Back in high school, I’d read a book written in 1967 by a New York man who set up six TV sets in his apartment and watched all the commercial channels (CBS, NBC, ABC and three local stations) for a week. Although I’ve since forgotten both title and author (enlightenment from any knowledgeable reader is gratefully encouraged), one passage concerning Sunday evening at 9:00 pm has stayed with me:

“Bonanza on channel 4. Little Joe, Hoss and Pa. God, I miss Adam. He was the glue in this particular horse factory, and his evil, saturnine way was a pleasant contrast to the Ponderosa good guys. But they wrote ol’ Adam out of the show many moons ago, and we will have to do with Little Joe and Hoss for the action.”

The exit of Pernell Roberts (Adam Cartwright) from Bonanza after its sixth season remains one of the most misunderstood actions in television land. Each year since 1961, TV columnists reported that Roberts was trying to leave; each September for four subsequent seasons, Roberts returned. Everyone assumed it was simply a money issue; either that, or Roberts’ gripes were the sniping of a TV actor with a massive ego problem. Clouding the issue was the fact that his departure wasn’t mentioned on the show. The others would make occasional references to Adam, but where he’d gone and why was never discussed.

Bonanza began 50 years ago come September; NBC’s big, color western intended to sell parent company RCA’s big color TVs. Producer David Dortort assembled a cast of unknowns in the belief that “television makes its own stars.” An indisputable point, but NBC was taking no chances, and filled up the early episodes with important stars: Yvonne DeCarlo, Howard Duff, Ida Lupino, Jack Carson. Consequently, the four Cartwrights bound together as tightly off-screen as on.

“(We) found ourselves fighting the star system because of all the outside names being brought in,” Roberts recalled three years later. “We found ourselves, at first, like supporting players. And the producer didn’t have the authority to change that.” At one point in early 1960, Lorne Greene walked into Dortort’s office and announced, in terms more earthy than the following, that the scripts written to date weren’t suitable as toilet paper. Luckily, the ratings also indicated that changes were needed. The main characters became more important, big name actors were forgotten, and by the end of its second season, Bonanza moved into the top 20. Chevrolet was interested in sponsoring the third year in Dinah Shore’s old timeslot: Sunday at 9. Even then, rumors flew that Roberts wasn’t interested in continuing. The rumors were true.

“When NBC turned down my request for a contract release,” said Roberts at the time, “I understood their point of view. They were trying to deliver a neat package to a new sponsor, and I felt some responsibility.” Complicating matters, all four stars were offered a hefty raise, provided they extended their five-year contracts to six. “I had to sign for a sixth year to get a raise, but now I would prefer to be out entirely,” he moaned in early 1962. But in its Sunday slot, Bonanza thrived, becoming the network’s highest-rated series. NBC was loath to risk that success, especially since the show was all theirs.

What, exactly, was Roberts’ beef? “I wasn’t keen to do a series, but I was told there would be some honest writing and that the people producing it had integrity,” he told columnist Hal Humphrey. “What good is integrity if you don’t use it? Bonanza for the most part is bad literature and I’m tired of trying to hide in it.” To Bob Thomas, he added, “They told me the four characters would be sharply defined and the scripts carefully prepared. None of this was put on paper. None of it ever happened.”

Personal appearances at fairs and rodeos also stuck in his craw: “First, there were the petty intrigues of the producers who thought they owned you and threw parties so I could meet all the grandmothers, nephews and cousins. (Then) they have you ride into the ring and titillate the crowds by touching their outstretched hands along the fence. Then the joke telling time in the center, after wading through ankle-deep manure, followed by several hours of autographs. Afterwards, the cowboys, who really resented me for the money and popularity, would make cracks about actors.” Even though it paid “five and six thousand dollars a day,” Roberts made only four such appearances during his six years, refusing to do more. “I am an actor, not a carnival freak on exhibition.”

Concluded the Georgia-born actor who took an early public stand against segregation and the Vietnam war: “Bonanza has touched on some interesting problems, but handled them conservatively.... There has been an obvious effort to play it safe, to make Bonanza a good family show that would offend no one and hit a consistent level of mediocrity.”

Word got out in the middle of season three that Roberts was prepared to jump ship and go on suspension. But NBC played hardball: “(The network) said, ‘Sure, go ahead - if you never want to work again as an actor anywhere.” So Roberts – whose chief complaint about his employers was their lack of integrity – decided to retaliate with an egregious display of unprofessionalism: “I went to the producer and said I guessed I’d stay, but that, to preserve my sanity, I would continue walking through my part.”

NEXT: Consequences

"Adventures of Superman" Seasons 5 and 6

I usually don't use this blog as a promotional tool, but I was definitely honored to have been invited to participate in the special feature of this DVD set (which is due for release on November 14)... and I was knocked for a loop that my name is on the back of the box. I was expecting to be lumped into a "various Superman scholars/authors" notation, but all four of us were actually named. Here it is, courtesy of TVShowsonDVD.com:

As long as I'm getting personal, I should probably explain what's been happening with this blog... or, more specifically, why this blog hasn't been happening much. In short, a number of factors have prevented me from giving this space as much attention as I'd like. My home computer crashed for a time. My scanner stopped working. I got a new computer at work, which doesn't include the program that allows me to make DVD captures. And, most of all, real life keeps getting in the way.

Perhaps, since this is a blog that focuses on old TV, I can resume a full slate (for me, anyway) of posts come the fall. I certainly hope so. There's much more I'd like to say here. Meanwhile, if you're a new visitor, please peruse the previous 6 months of archives; if you're a regular, you could do the same and call it "summer reruns."

And So It Begins: June 6, 1964

Desilu was definitely on a downhill slide when Desi Arnaz sold his half to his ex-wife. During the previous decade, the company had several network series beyond I Love Lucy; these included December Bride, The Ann Sothern Show, The Texan, Those Whiting Girls and the venerable Desilu Playhouse, which gave birth to The Untouchables and The Twilight Zone.

By 1964, Desilu was down to The Lucy Show. Sure, they were renting facilities to Danny Thomas - Sheldon Leonard, producers of Make Room for Daddy, The Andy Griffith Show and The Dick Van Dyke Show... but Lucy certainly didn't own any piece of those hits. Hence the "all-out effort" described above.

Which led to... well, as far as Martin Jurow's contribution, if any, it's lost to time. Jurow's IMDb entry lists only further motion pictures for Blake Edwards during this period: The Pink Panther and The Great Race. Goodman and Klein came up with something called Good Old Days, a family sitcom set during the stone age. A live action Flintstones rip-off, perhaps? The star was Darryl Hickman (as "Rok"); the parents were played by Kathleen Freeman and Ned Glass. The show didn't sell, and the pilot aired on NBC in July 1966, in the days when networks "burned off" their excess waste during the summer months. (Come to think of it, aren't they still doing that?)

Which leaves us with Gene Roddenberry... and we all know what he created for Desilu, don't we?

When the Kids Ruled the Tube

There were times when you'd be forgiven for mistaking TV Guide as a kid's magazine, filled as it was with advertisements for children's programming... and with full-page blurbs more often than not.







All of the ads you see here are from 1956, lifted from New England, Pittsburgh, Baltimore-Washington and New York City editions.

All-in-all, 50 years ago was a great time to be a kid... wouldn't you agree?

George Reeves, Your Candid Reporter

Toward the end of 1955, actor George Reeves, then starring in the Adventures of Superman TV series, came up with an idea for a series of commercials. He and his manager, Art Weissman, formed "Candid Reporter Productions." Reeves' idea was to present himself as the "candid reporter for Kellogg's" (and possibly other products), as he filmed the stars in their homes enjoying, and reaping the benefits of, the sponsor's wares.

And what better subject for the pilot film than himself? Weissman turned the camera, as George began his day with a bowl of Kellogg's Corn Flakes - then the Superman cereal of note. Appropriately fueled, George dons his gi and is ready for a judo workout in his back yard.

This commercial, which never aired, was filmed entirely in Reeves' home. That it was nothing more than a test is evidenced by the fact that George's hair is not dyed for his "candid reporter" introduction; nor is there any professional lighting or editing (although it does contain one lap dissolve, possibly something that could be accomplished in the camera itself). All of the footage - even George's spoken intro - was shot silent and overdubbed later.

The introduction takes place in George's den, and then, when we discover that "our guest star" is himself, we are taken to his bedroom.

Yes... that bedroom. The one where, less than four years later, George Reeves' life came to a sudden, tragic end. This coming Friday will mark 47 years since that fateful event.

There's been a lot of debate (healthy and unhealthy) about that day, June 16, 1959. A man, a hero, beloved by millions, left us under circumstances that were at best suspicious, and at worst nefarious. Some believe that Mr. Reeves found himself caught up in a lifestyle that was spiraling out of control and, in a moment of drunken despair, chose an irreversible escape. Others are firmly convinced that somebody got away with murder that night. Both sides are represented by people who actually knew Reeves personally, and by those who knew him only through their weekly, and later daily, 30-minute visits with his most lasting role. And both scenarios have been postulated by scholars and researchers who have dug deep into the mystery, sought out experts in the fields of criminology, forensics and suicide pathology... and still cannot say with certainty what exactly happened.

A theatrical film, Hollywoodland, is expected later this year; its theme is the death of Reeves, with Ben Affleck playing the actor. Word-of-mouth is that the film won't pull any punches regarding George's troubled last days - the man died with a blood alcohol count of .27, after all - but also shows due respect for his life.

It's a little disconcerting to watch "the candid reporter" footage today, seeing George playing in bed with his pet schnauzer, Sam, then rising up to greet the morning... knowing that one day, in that very room, he would lie on the bed and never get up.

But lately the tide has turned. The tendency now is to put aside questions about death, and celebrate the life of a man who really was something of a Superman. A man who faced the challenge of portraying an invincible alien dressed in "a monkey suit" and did so with dignity and respect for his audience. A man who took the time to visit orphanages and children's hospitals, and bring ailing youngsters face-to-face with their TV hero. A man who, even when the series had ceased production, had the grace to keep his personal life out of the newspapers, refusing to alienate his juvenile followers for the sake of cheap publicity.

This weekend, Woolstock Iowa - Reeves' birthplace - will be hosting a celebration of George's life and career, the purpose of which is to raise funds and attention toward restoring the home in which he was born. Details can be found here: http://www.georgereevesmemorial.com/