Michael J. Hayde's BETTER LIVING THROUGH TELEVISION

R.I.P. Harry Morgan

2011-12-07T19:54:00.013-05:00

Officer Bill Gannon has finally retired. Others around the web will write about Col. Sherman T. Potter, but I choose to pay homage to Mr. Morgan's second-best remembered role.

I interviewed Mr. Morgan in 1998 for my book, My Name's Friday. Until that time it had never occurred to me that simply writing a book about Dragnet might be credential enough to speak with some of its participants.

Back then, Kenneth Starr's investigation into President Clinton's indiscretions was in full bloom, and during a press conference, Mr. Starr made a comment that, like Sgt. Joe Friday, his interest was for "Just the facts, ma'am." "Let's don't have politics, let's don't have spin... let's let those facts come out." A writer from the National Enquirer thought it would be make a good story to get opinions about this from people involved with Dragnet in some way. He contacted Harry Morgan and, as I'd announced on badge714.com that I was writing a book on the show, he contacted me. When our interview was over, he graciously gave me Mr. Morgan's telephone number.

I think it took me at least a week to work up the nerve to dial it, and two or three messages left before we finally connected. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what to expect. I hadn't seen him on screen in quite a while, and the last time I did, I thought he'd looked pretty wan. I wondered if age had dimmed his faculties in some way.

I needn't have worried. The man was an absolute delight. He shared some marvelous anecdotes about working and socializing with Jack Webb, and even remembered doing some of the earliest Dragnet radio episodes. (Seek out The Big Book from 1950, where he portrays a scoutmaster attending a seminar that Friday and Romero are giving on keeping pornography out of schools.) He was well-aware that he'd been Webb's second choice (Ben Alexander had just been hired for Felony Squad), and considered Webb's acting and directing styles "fascinating." He was also free with his opinions about different aspects of the show. My favorite quote was this one:

Jack and I wore the same clothes for the whole damn series. The same suit, the same shirt, the same tie, the same... well, maybe not the same underwear. But nobody ever said, 'Jesus, don't you guys ever change clothes?' It's funny how little an audience will notice.

Since confession is good for the soul, I might as well explain that Mr. Morgan did not "write" the Foreword for my book. I asked him if he'd be interested in doing so, and he graciously declined. However, when I asked if I could compile some of the more pertinent quotes about his work with Webb, and use that as a Foreword, he was agreeable. I sent him a draft; he made one correction, and that was that. When it was published, I mailed him four copies of the book: one for him and one for each of his three sons.

Interviewing Mr. Morgan, and experiencing the gracious way he treated me, gave me the confidence to seek out other folks who'd appeared on Dragnet or in Webb's movies, or who worked behind the scenes. As it happens, those interviews really made the book as successful as it was, and I'll always be grateful to Mr. Morgan for the jump-start.

In particular, though, I'm grateful that Harry Morgan said "Yes" to Jack Webb when Ben Alexander had to say "No." Thanks for being Bill Gannon, Harry.

"Okay, Rudolph... Full Power!"

2010-12-17T18:53:00.014-05:00

Mister Magoo's Christmas Carol debuted two years' before, but Rankin-Bass's Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is the earliest Christmas special I remember. "The most famous reindeer of all's" story premiered on December 6, 1964 as an entry in General Electric's Fantasy Hour, a series of color specials that aired on Sunday afternoon. Someone has posted the original opening and commercials (featuring Santa's elves) from that first appearance to YouTube:

The closing includes a couple of nice shots of the voice cast. Jerry Beck, at his invaluable blog Cartoon Brew, has identified them. The first photo shows, from left to right, Janice Orenstein (Clarice), Paul Kliegman (Donner and the reindeer coach) and Paul Soles (Hermey). From left to right in the second photo: Soles, Billie Mae Richards (Rudolph), Carl Banas (Head Elf and Spotted Elephant) and Alfie Scopp (Charlie-in-the-Box).

I'd forgotten that this wasn't a prime-time entry, but its popularity ensured that it would become one for Christmas Future. It received a lot of press back in 1964, and more than one reviewer opined that we would see Rudolph annually... as indeed we have.

To all my readers: May you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy and Prosperous 2011. And to quote from the Christmas special I didn't see first, May God Bless Us, Every One.

TV Needs Cartoons!

2010-10-22T22:39:00.051-04:00

Here's a relic from TV's Golden Age that survived well into the cable/satellite era:

In this digitally restored hi-def world, title cards from defunct TV film distribution firms are all but extinct. Ironically, the fact that they lived this long just demonstrates the apathy that subsequent owners held toward their animated property. Cartoons were so trivial, it mattered not they were heralded with company names that not only weren't yours but also long-since shuttered. In the case of Associated Artists Productions (a.a.p.), it was bought by United Artists Television in 1958 (and actually became u.a.p. in trade ads). UA held the pre-'48 Warner Brothers and all theatrical Popeye cartoons, which had been a.a.p.'s most profitable prize, right through its 1981 merger with M.G.M., until Ted Turner acquired most of the library five years later. Even after Warners got their cartoons back in the '90's, the antiquated openings weren't excised until the studio's home video division started work on the Looney Tunes Golden Collections.

Associated Artists had acquired the cartoons on March 1, 1956, so the company was an ongoing concern for only two years after the titles were created. Yet the name lived on, year-after-year, decade-after-decade.

In truth, a.a.p.'s cartoon product was the summit of a long, hard climb for animation on TV. Theatrical 'toons of some nature were racing across home screens almost from the start. And they were, for a time, one of television's most desirable commodoties. In April 1953, The Billboard proclaimed: "Stations in general appear to be buying cartoons today at a faster clip than ever before. According to best estimates, there are about 650 cartoons in TV distribution altogether. It would seem that the market could comfortably support as many as 1,000 cartoons, if not more. But at the moment, there is not another foot of cartoon in the offing." In an in-depth article two months' later, Billboard would revise the figure upward to "about 800," but with a qualifyer: 90% of the total dated to the silent era.

When Official Films licensed the original Felix the Cat library in early 1953, it was big news: there were reportedly around 200 titles in the Cat's canon. The problem was, since the films were nearly all silent, not every title was in fit condition for release. Official was only able to scrape together 35 Felix cartoons, supplementing the package with 50 other titles from its existing library. Nevertheless, sales were brisk; Official booked $15,000 from six stations during its first week of marketing.

So which cartoons entertained the first television generation, and who provided them... and why?

To begin with, it's helpful to remember that, in the silent days through the first talkie decade, no major Hollywood production company had its own cartoon division. Animation was handled by contractors, most of whom hired established artists, then aligned with a studio. Felix the Cat was owned by producer Pat Sullivan, who released through Margaret Winkler (1923-25), then Educational Pictures (1926-28) and finally Copley Pictures (1928-30). Walt Disney, after leaving producer Charles Mintz, was aligned with Pat Powers (1928-30), then Columbia (1930-32), United Artists (1932-36) and R.K.O. Radio (1936-56). Mintz was aligned with Universal (1927-29), then Columbia (1929-40). Walter Lantz provided Universal with cartoons after Mintz was released. When Ubbe Iwerks left Disney in 1930 to try independent production, he went with Powers, who subcontracted some of Iwerks' product to M.G.M. and released the rest through his own Celebrity Productions. In 1930, Leon Schlesinger contracted with two other renegade Disneyites, Hugh Harman and Rudolf Ising, then sold their cartoons in turn to Warner Brothers. Harman and Ising would leave Schlesinger in 1933 to release through M.G.M., who in turn dumped Iwerks, who ended up taking on contracted work for Mintz and Schlesinger before giving up and going back to Disney. Paramount Pictures aligned itself with Max (Out of the Inkwell) Fleischer around 1927, then took control of his studio fifteen years later. Amadee J. Van Beuren had been in the cartoon business since the early 1920's and his studio's work was distributed by Pathe, which later merged with Radio Pictures and the Keith-Orpheum theater circuit to become R.K.O. Radio; when that studio signed Disney, Van Beuren closed up shop. Paul Terry had been a Van Beuren contractee, went independent in 1928 and released his "Terrytoons" through Educational Pictures, then went directly to Educational's distributor, 20th Century-Fox.

Now, if you thought that was confusing, let's discuss what happened to the cartoons!

Two batches - the substantial Van Beuren backlog, which included Terry's work for the company, and the less-sizable Iwerks canon - had passed through various hands after those companies folded in the 1930's. Commonwealth Film and Television Inc. got the Iwerks films, as well as a good chunk of the Van Beurens, albeit mostly the silent ones. Unity Television Corporation got many of the Van Beuren talkies, such as Cubby Bear and (the human) Tom & Jerry; so did Official Films for their home movie division, although this didn't stop them from offering them to TV, along with The Little King and Rainbow Parades (retitled "Merry Tunes" for b&w broadcasting). Sterling Television got ahold of the most ancient silent 'toons - the Mutt & Jeffs and Bobby Bumps' and Out of the Inkwells that had been sold to theaters on a states right's basis back in the late teens/early twenties, and signed a distribution deal with the granddaddy of cartoon production, John R. Bray (first employer of Fleischer, Terry and Lantz, among others), who'd discontinued theatrical animation by 1921!

The earliest batch of post-1940 cartoons to reach the air were the Superman shorts produced by Fleischer and Paramount's Famous Studios between 1941-43. Superman's parent company, National Comics, had acquired the shorts contractually, then sold them to Flamingo Films in May 1951, when the latter company licensed the distribution rights for a forthcoming Adventures of Superman TV series. When the live action series got a nationwide sponsor, Kellogg's cereals, Flamingo had to pull the cartoons from TV until a suitable sponsorship arrangement could be made (see article), lest the character become exclusive to two competing products.

For roughly seven years - from 1948 through '54 - that was the state of the cartoon on TV. There were a couple of primitive made-for-TV animated shows, namely Crusader Rabbit and Jim & Judy in Teleland, but no one was in any hurry to invest in TV cartoon production on a grand scale, not when puppet shows like Howdy Doody and Rootie Kazootie were doing just fine. Although one New York area station was making a strong case to the contrary.

Robert Paskow was the film programmer for WATV, Channel 13 in Newark, NJ. WATV usually ran seventh of the seven NYC-area VHF stations in ratings, a poor signal being the least of its problems. But one Channel 13 show was outpulling everyone else, even NBC's Howdy Doody: Junior Frolics, a cartoon program. Paskow began buying up all the cartoons he could get his hands on months before WATV made its May 1948 debut. By '53, he held about 650 titles; no other station in the U.S. had more. Paskow was such a good customer, he received permission from the distributors to edit their negatives, removing racial gags and adult imagery, which helps explain why so many silent cartoons that survive today are incomplete.

Film industry titans, poised for a theatrical exhibitor backlash, watched closely in the fall of 1954, when Disney dipped his toes into TV with a weekly series on the ABC network, Disneyland. Of course, Uncle Walt turned to his cartoon library from time-to-time in order to fill that hour. Disney suffered naught from his TV excursion, and studio execs quickly discovered that widescreen had lessened the demand for pictures filmed in the standard aperture ratio; in short, theater owners couldn't care less if TV bought up the old films. That December, there came a break in the animation dry spell. In separate deals, Columbia and Universal parted with some of their black & white material. Hygo Television bought Charles Mintz's Krazy Kat and Scrappy cartoons from Columbia, which totaled 156 titles, and Motion Pictures for Television got 179 Walter Lantz cartoons, mainly Oswald the Rabbit, but also Pooch the Pup, Willie the Mouse and Meeny, Miney & Moe. Paskow snapped up the Hygo package for Junior Frolics before the ink on the press release had dried.

Two months later, Guild Films acquired 191 Looney Tunes from Warners. These were the black & white Schlesinger titles from 1930-43, mainly featuring Porky Pig, Bosko, Buddy and a handful of Daffy Duck. Warners' asking price was $1.2 million dollars (half up-front, half due in two years) plus 40% thereafter. Guild, which netted over a million in sales after the first year, didn't suffer on their end. More importantly, the deal marked Warner's entry into television.

Finally, in December 1955, the dam burst. U.M.&M. - which was a combine of two movie advertising sales forces (United Film Service and Motion Picture Advertiser Service) and one TV film distributor (Minot TV) - bought Paramount's pre-'48 backlog of short subjects, which included 614 Fleischer and Famous cartoons (all except Popeye the Sailor, which was withdrawn pending further negotiations with King Features Syndicate, who owned the character... sound familiar?). Within a single year, the cartoon marketplace had doubled... but the best was yet to come.

Associated Artists Productions got Warner's pre-'48 color cartoon library as of March 1, 1956, along with what was then considered the prize: the pre-'48 WB features. The company also got the live action shorts, but never saw a need to distribute them, so profitable were the first two packages. Moneys earned by a.a.p. in the first half of the year enabled them to sew up the Popeye rights during the second. Bugs Bunny was cool, but the Sailor Man took TV by storm. Suddenly the highest-rated local kid's shows were those that included Popeye. In effect, a.a.p. had doomed everybody else's cartoon libraries, for only they had the stars. Nobody cared much about U.M.&M.'s Screen Songs, Color Classics or Noveltoons, and their only true "celebrity" - Betty Boop - was 99.9% black-and-white (and the best of her work was too risque for most kiddie shows). The monochrome issue eventually caught up with all the other distributors, although Popeye's star power carried his b&w output well into the '80s.

By the late 1950's, the writing was on the wall. As major studio features killed the haphazard movie packages of TV's first decade, so too did big cartoon stars doom the animated shorts of ancient days. M.G.M. put their backlog into syndication. CBS bought Terrytoons outright. Kellogg's picked up Woody Woodpecker and other Lantz stars for nationwide saturation over ABC in '57, and two years' hence, Mattel got the post-1949 Famous cartoons that had been sold to the Harvey comic book company, also placed on ABC. The final bell tolled in 1958, when M.G.M.'s former producer-director tandem of Joe Barbera and Bill Hanna contracted with Columbia's TV unit, Screen Gems (which had introduced its own cartoon backlog the year before, with relatively few takers) for a made-for-TV cartoon show, Huckleberry Hound. That led to a plethora of spin-offs and successors, including made-for-prime time cartoon sitcoms: revolutionary then, commonplace today.

But with this bounty came complacency, then neglect. Cartoons were moneymakers, sure, but hardly worth the kind of tender care that classic feature films were getting. Stories circulate about 16mm prints gathering dust in station closets because the 100 or so titles that were making the on-air rounds were good enough; no need to overtax the film guy. And the only signficance that the "a.a.p." intro held was the likelihood of seeing the zany Bugs and Daffy, not the suave rabbit or greedy, scheming duck of Saturday mornings.

As for all those other cartoons - the ones animation historians like Leonard Maltin, Jerry Beck and Michael Barrier grew up with - most of them vanished into the mist of memory, waiting only for budget-line home video to bring them back to the marketplace, mainly in worn, choppy, faded prints that had once held the rapt attention of Junior Frolics viewers... and many, many others.

UPDATE: Many thanks to those of you who shared this site on Facebook and elsewhere... never have I had an essay read by so many in so short a time. Also, I was remiss in not adding the following: To those cartoon enthusiasts that want to see what those old films looked like when they were entertaining theater audiences back in the day, these two resources are essential: Inkwell Images and Thunderbean Animation. Both have done outstanding work in restoring long-neglected titles and come highly recommended.

Here a Nyuk, There a Nyuk, Everywhere a Nyuk-Nyuk!

2010-09-27T14:29:00.010-04:00

I've only written two books, but apparently that's celebrity enough for the privilege of mingling (mangling?) with the upper-echelon of high society. To wit: I met these three fine gentlemen at last weekend's Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention in Hunt Valley, Maryland:

I'm thinking of having them rennovate my home... I'm sure they know what they're doing.

Coming this season on BETTER LIVING THROUGH TELEVISION: Uncle Miltie, Groucho, a lengthy look at early TV's use of very old movies, and other stuff that will hopefully strike your fancy as much as mine.

Many thanks for the (literally) thousands of you that have discovered this site while searching for Dean & Jerry, Arthur & Julius, Chaplin, Superman, Adam Cartwright, Joe Friday and that cute kid from the aspirin commercial (who was astonished when I told him I get hits on that 2006 post EVERY DAY).

'Til we meet again "In the Sweet Pie & Pie."

The Infamy of Redefining "Infamous" - An Editorial

2010-08-04T11:04:00.005-04:00

This posting has little to do with television, only slightly more to do with radio and everything to do with vocabulary.

For the past two days, I've been arguing with a baseball journalist about the meaning of "infamous." Apparently its definition has changed over the years. Once upon a time, "infamous" referred to something or somebody that smacked of infamy... and "infamy" was something of an evil, vile or criminal reputation.

We've all probably heard or read President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's address to Congress on December 8, 1941, when he declared a state of war between the United States and the Empire of Japan due to the latter's sneak attack on our naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The address began with these immortal words: "Yesterday, December seventh, nineteen forty-one: a date which will live in infamy." It was covered by all the radio networks as well as newsreels.

Most of us have heard this at least once in our lives; one can barely escape it when the History Channel decides to focus yet again on World War II. And, by the then-standard definition, what Roosevelt was saying was that the events of December 7th would take their place among the most evil and treacherous deeds known to history.

The events of December 7th were infamous. So were the events of September 11, 2001. Going backward in time, so were the sinking of the Lusitania, the mistreatment of Union soldiers at Andersonville, and the Spanish Inquisition (Monty Python notwithstanding).

A cheesy and inappropriate swimming pool situated in a major league ballpark is not "infamous," at least not by the original meaning of the word. But, as I said earlier, apparently the definition has changed. Today, "infamous" can be defined as something or someone that is famous for negative reasons. Dictionary.com ("an Ask.com service") uses this more modern definition, as does Wiktionary. Merriam-Webster’s is closer to the original meaning, although it, too, can be construed in the new way.

Language can evolve over time, no question. And I suspect "infamous" has evolved due to the exposure of President Roosevelt's address: without knowing its true meaning, people have heard the phrase "date which will live in infamy" and assume FDR is saying that December 7th will be remembered - or "infamous" - forever. There's a reason "fame" is embedded in "infamy" and "infamous," but it's due entirely to the unspeakably evil nature of the deed or person that it is describing. By lowering that standard to merely something that was a bad idea - in which case New Coke could be "infamous" - the power of the phrase "date which will live in infamy" has been diluted. Roosevelt's address has been defanged for modern audiences.

I confess that I'm guilty of misusing the word that way; in My Name's Friday, I referred to Jack Webb's 1958 LP "You're My Girl" - in which he recites the lyrics of several romantic ballads in that wonderful Sgt. Friday style - as "infamous." There was nothing inherently evil about Webb's album, although I'd wager a few die-hard Sinatra fans would debate the point. "Notorious" would have been a better choice.

I know better now, which is why I climb onto the soapbox and argue with fellow authors, sportswriters, and anybody else about this unfortunate - but not infamous - use of the word.

Another Super-Myth Busted!

2010-06-20T00:12:00.017-04:00

Here's a news flash: George Reeves made dozens of personal appearances during his years as TV's Superman. HOLLYWOODLAND (2006) would have you believe that he hated doing them and in fact feared for his life... unwilling to perform in costume because some over-zealous child might be packing his dad's pistol. In fact the film actually depicts this mythical event, misleading viewers into thinking it did happen.

To be sure, Reeves appeared one-on-one in hospitals and schools dressed as Clark Kent, but this was for a strategic reason. As he told a reporter in 1957, "On these visits, I don't wear the suit with the muscles because the kids want me to do all sorts of things, like jumping out of windows. But I can't fly.... We have to be careful not to destroy any illusions."

At county fairs, parades or department stores - where crowds could be controlled - Reeves willingly suited up. By 1955, when he began making these visits, Adventures of Superman was in production only for about seven weeks out of each year, and the extra money was welcome and relatively easy. Usually he spoke about safety and did a few judo falls, then handed out 5x7 pre-autographed photos, similar to the one seen at top.

In 1957, he tried something a little more ambitious: a full-fledged tour with a band of musicians, Noel (Lois Lane) Neill and national judo champion Gene LeBell, who portrayed "Mr. Kryptonite" (you can see his costume at the Super Museum in Metropolis, Illinois). As Clark Kent, Reeves sang and played stand-up bass with his combo; Neill sang as well until she was kidnapped by the super-villain, leading to a thrill-packed rescue by the Man of Steel. The show was a little too ambitious for its day... Reeves lost a lot of money when crowds failed to turn up during the tour's theater and civic auditorium dates.

A snippet of silent color footage from Reeves' appearance at the Indiana County Fair in Indiana, Pennsylvania, on Friday, August 24, 1956, can be seen on YouTube. The four-minute home movie mainly consists of excerpts from Wild Bill Cody's Western Show, but about 38 seconds in, you can see Clark Kent posing with Cody's 5-year-old daughter Mary Alice, followed by Superman handing out photos to a line of kids in front of the "Kiddie Kapers" stage upon which he'd just performed. The heavy-set man with his back to the camera, moving the kids along, is Reeves' manager, Art Weissman. Hopefully there's more filmed footage from Reeves' many Superman appearances to eventually be rediscovered and uploaded.

"Wild Bill Cody" was actually actor and circus performer Fred Penniman, who put together the Western Show with his wife, Mamie Alice. The pair can be seen in the film doing their knife-throwing and whip-cracking acts. In a tragic irony, Mrs. Penniman died when, during an appearance in Pittsburgh, a 9-year-old boy picked up one of two rifles used in the act, and asked his mother if he could play with it. The mother assumed they were stage props, but in fact the guns were real and had been loaded by Mrs. Penniman just moments before. The young boy pulled the trigger and a bullet struck and killed the 40-year-old actress, wife and mother.

This happened on June 7, 1959. Nine days later, George Reeves would also be fatally struck down by a gunshot.

Charlie Chaplin: Lost and Found

2010-06-07T12:08:00.020-04:00

Few things are more satisfying than watching an early Charlie Chaplin comedy... except for discovering one that's been lost for about 95 years.

The blogosphere is abuzz with the news that Slapsticon - a four-day silent comedy festival held annually in what is practically my back yard, Rosslyn, VA - will be screening a previously unknown and undocumented comedy in which Chaplin appeared during his first few weeks at Keystone in early 1914. According to the press release, "The print of A THIEF CATCHER was discovered earlier this year by Film Historian / Preservationist Paul E. Gierucki, current head of restorations for CineMuseum LLC, and one of the 'Godfathers' of a group of Comedy Film Historians known as the 'Silent Comedy Mafia' who help to organize the yearly Slapsticon festivals." A frame grab from the film can be viewed here; it's clear that Chaplin had already adopted his "little tramp" mustache and makeup.

Via some websites that host old newspaper pages, I've come across a few vintage images for this film. The one at the top of this post is actually for a reissue release in May 1915, from the Syracuse (NY) Journal. Here are some other ads for the 1915 reissue:

If the newspapers of the day can be considered a barometer, Chaplin's name was singled out from among his fellow Keystone players starting in May 1914, after he'd been in films about four months. His work in a two-reeler called Caught in a Cabaret - released on April 27 and which, until this discovery, was thought to be Chaplin's 12th picture - made audiences take notice; from that point on, Chaplin's films were usually promoted as such by the studio. By 1915, Charlie Chaplin was a known - and much anticipated - film favorite. The issue of the Portsmouth Ohio newspaper that yielded the blurb above listed four other Chaplin Keystones in various theatres during that same week. Even though Chaplin was by then working for the Essanay Company and turning out a new release every 3-4 weeks, patrons couldn't get enough and Keystone kept the pipeline filled with reissues. In 1919, a company called W.H. Productions reissued the Keystones and created new titles for most of them. This flooding of the marketplace is why nearly every Chaplin film survives, while the legacies of other Keystone stars (such as Charlie's brother, Syd) are incomplete.

A Thief Catcher was Chaplin's second, or third, or possibly fourth film. Its release was listed in this ad from the February 14, 1914 New York Clipper, a show business periodical:

This would make A Thief Catcher Chaplin's fourth Keystone to be released; his third, Mabel's Strange Predicament, was issued on February 9 and the next one, Between Showers, came out on the 28th. Chaplin's first film, in which he hadn't yet created his famous mustache, was shot during the week of January 5; his second release, Kid's Auto Race, was filmed in Venice, California on Saturday, January 10. Mabel's Strange Predicament was also started during that first full week of January, then presumably finished from Monday, January 12 through the morning of the 14th. That Wednesday afternoon, rain moved into the Los Angeles area and didn't depart until the 27th. It was a monumental, record-shattering series of storms, and suburbs such as Edendale, where the Keystone Studios were located, were particularly hard-hit. In fact, Between Showers makes use of a massive puddle, a remnant of the rainfall.

Somewhere in there, as the press release affirms, A Thief Catcher was shot... possibly even before Kid's Auto Race.

In keeping with the earliest days of Chaplin's career, newspaper ads from 1914 simply list the film as a "Keystone Comedy" with no players mentioned - even though Keystone's then-reigning star, Ford Sterling, was heading up the cast.

And so, if you've ever wanted to acquaint yourself with the world's finest film historians, you won't get a better opportunity than at the Rosslyn Spectrum Theater on the evening of July 17, for many of them will be surely be attending this monumental screening.

And finally, if any of the "Silent Comedy Mafia" happen to be reading this... could this be the next "lost Chaplin" discovery?

Video On Demand a'la 1965

2010-05-15T14:27:00.018-04:00

I marvel at technology, and sometimes cower from it. Does anybody really believe that instant gratification 24/7 is good for the human psyche? If I want to see a favorite show, movie or cartoon, like as not I need only pop in a DVD and -voila! - it's there. If I don't have it, odds are it's on YouTube. Last month, I converted and downloaded 14 Hootenanny episodes (8 complete & 6 partials) onto my Ipod. From the moment VHS entered my life in 1983, finding at least one Hoot was one of my two Holy Grails; now I almost take them for granted, seeing as how they're in my shirt pocket! (The second Grail was The Johnny Cash Show, and thanks to a friend I have all 58 of those.) Nearly all the great Warner Brothers cartoons are out, along with the best of Max Fleischer's Popeyes, all the Three Stooges shorts with Curly, the Little Rascals, Adventures of Superman, the Chaplin Mutuals... pretty much everything that made the best video memories of my childhood. Even, heaven help me, Diver Dan.

And yet... as Mr. Spock so aptly put it, "Having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true." And so most of what I own sits on a shelf gathering dust, and I find that I watch these shows about as often as I did when they were making the rounds of the local station schedules. And, truth be told, I don't enjoy any of them as much as I did the rinky-tinky little toy that I cherished from Day One: Kenner's Easy Show Projector.

This is me at 6 years old, opening and caressing that little blue darling on Christmas Day 1965. My cousins had Kenner's earlier Give-A-Show Projector, which was basically a slide show. The images were in color, but they didn't move, so who cared? Where were the sight gags? The action sequences? The Easy Show ran real movies projected on a wall! Yes, they were in black-and-white, but so was our TV set. Sure, if you wanted brightness, you were limited to a postage-stamp sized image. But then, I'm not getting much bigger on my Ipod now!

Three things made the Easy Show cool:

1) It was film. There's something about handling film, holding it up to light and seeing all those separate images that pass through a shutter and merge with your brain to make magic. I was always careful not to let it get tangled, although as time passed and Kenner used cheaper stock, that became more difficult. And threading the projector was a point of pride. My friends used to struggle, but I - the least coordinated kid on the block when it came to sports - handled it like a pro.

2) It was versatile. Being a hand-cranked projector, I could run the film as fast, or as slow, as I wanted. One of my favorites - I must've bought one annually for as long as it was available - was the Superman episode "Beware the Wrecker." I'd crank the takeoff s-l-o-w-l-y. . . then run it backward and do it again, over and over, until it snapped. (Which is why I bought one annually.)

3) It was affordable. Each new film cost about .79 cents, so whenever I got a dollar each from my grandfather and uncle, it was off to the store for a new cartridge or two.

So, yes: video on demand has been part of my life since age 6. In theory, I didn't ever have to wait until 3:30 pm when Bugs Bunny and Friends came on if I wanted to enjoy Bugs Bunny and friends. But the limitations of the Easy Show - small, silent, flickering b&w images - ensured that I would still be parked in front of the set at 3:30 pm. No need for that today thanks to DVD technology, which explains in part why Looney Tunes, Superman, etc., aren't on commercial TV anymore. No longer there for our heirs to discover on their own after school... we have to introduce the kids to our childhood favorites; always risky, and usually unsatisfying for all parties.

Have we gained or lost something in the last 45 years?

Martin vs. Lewis, T.K.O. (June-July 1956)

2010-03-24T01:13:00.025-04:00

November 13, 1955: The day after Jerry Lewis unexpectedly played a benefit performance as a solo – one specially requested of the team by Paramount’s chief, Y. Frank Freeman (the man who’d rescued the pair from the ire of the IRS), and despite Dean Martin’s verbal assurances that he’d be there – Martin & Lewis made their final starring appearance on the Colgate Variety Hour. Again the pair trotted out a specialized tune meant to reassure viewers, this one based on “Two Lost Souls” from Damn Yankees:

Dean: It’s Jerry and Dean, and no one in between,
Jerry: Like let’s say Gallagher and let’s say Shean.
Dean: Of course we complain; we fuss and strain,
Jerry: But after the fussin’ there’s always us’n.

Dean: Ah, we’re two lost souls, each wedded to each,
Jerry: We go hand in hand, in all kinds of weather.
Dean: On the bottom or top,
Jerry: A hit or a flop,
Both: It’s both together.

But not for much longer. Eighteen months after Lewis had proclaimed “never in a million years” would the team split up, the only goal they shared was in desiring the swiftest, surest way to do just that.

The obstacles, however, were formidable. First, they owed producer Hal Wallis four more pictures, and after the Three-Ring Circus debacle, Wallis had a stipulation included in their contract: Martin and Lewis could only appear in films as a team, no matter who produced them. Second, the pair would net $4 million in 1955 (grosses were in the neighborhood of $20 million), and that kind of money was awfully hard to walk away from. Third, and most especially, neither man was 100% confident of his ability to go it alone.

Certainly Dean, if he’d put any stock into what critics had to say about his talents as an actor (“a competent straight man”) or singer (“he shouldn’t oughtta listen to any more Bing Crosby records”), would never have risked working outside the profitable confines of Martin & Lewis. But he’d just scored his second big smash, “Memories are Made of This,” which would sit comfortably at number one on the Hit Parade at the start of 1956. More importantly, he was being openly courted by two studios for solo roles: Warner Brothers offered him The Pajama Game with Doris Day, while MGM wanted him for an original story, Ten Thousand Bedrooms. With all this looming, the thought of cavorting alongside the human monkey was becoming unbearable.

For his part, Jerry shrewdly recognized how important their personal relationship was to their success. Without that undercurrent of love and admiration supporting their antics, it was only a matter of time until, as he put it, “we’d get knocked through the ropes like Joe Louis.” Believing the relationship could be salvaged, Jerry conceived the idea of doing a contemporary take on the Damon and Pythias story: two men whose friendship is tested when one lays his life on the line for the other. To drive the point home, Dean would play Mike Damon, sympathetic policeman and Jerry would be Sidney Pythias, juvenile delinquent. This would be their next York picture, after finishing their current assignment for Wallis, Hollywood or Bust.

Unfortunately, Lewis assigned the writing of “Damon and Pythias” to his pal Don McGuire, the man who wrote Three-Ring Circus. McGuire’s opinion of Martin didn’t bode well for the project: “Dean was a terrible actor. He could barely talk. Jerry was the guy who made him a hit, made him funny.” Still, McGuire strove to create a story that gave both men “a close relationship;” meanwhile, Lewis campaigned with Freeman for the opportunity to direct the film.

If Jerry harbored any hope that the script would touch Dean’s heart and possibly rekindle their friendship, it was dashed almost as soon as Martin got hold of his copy. The next day, he let his partner know that he would in no way play a uniformed cop, claiming it was “low class.” Realizing that Martin didn’t read the script beyond his costume requirement, Lewis blew his stack: “Then we’ll have to get somebody else.” “Start looking, boy,” Martin retorted and stormed off.

Not too long after this, the pair reported to work on Hollywood or Bust, only speaking to each other when cameras rolled. For the first few weeks, Lewis sabotaged the production, intentionally blowing lines and breaking character; partly to retaliate against Martin, but mostly with the intent to force Hal Wallis to renegotiate – or release them from – his restrictive contract. The gambit failed; director Frank Tashlin, no doubt with Wallis’ blessing, simply threw Lewis off the picture, forcing the comic’s hand.

Chastened, Lewis returned to Hollywood or Bust and, in his words, “tried for the miracle.” “You know, it’s a hell of a thing,” he suddenly said to Martin during a break. “All I can think of is that what we do is not very important. Any two guys could have done it. But even the best of them wouldn’t have had what made us as big as we are.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, I think it’s the love that we had – that we still have – for each other.”

Martin thought long and hard about what he had to say, then said it. “You can talk about love all you want. To me, you’re nothin’ but a (bleep)in’ dollar sign.”

And that was it. Both men knew: it was over. Jerry went straight to Y. Frank Freeman for permission to make “Damon and Pythias” (which would eventually be titled The Delicate Delinquent) with another costar. The news broke on June 18.

Still, Dean and Jerry faced a month of confirmed personal appearances, which they met through sheer force of will. There were some rough patches, one of them being a Today Show appearance on June 26 (“Dean and I [could] hardly bear to look at each other,” remembered Lewis fifty years later; the kinescope bears him out). Serendipitously, their nightclub engagements were due to conclude on July 24 – exactly one day shy of ten years since their official teaming at Atlantic City’s 500 Club.

Those with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo of Dean and Jerry Incorporated – Hal Wallis, NBC – were forcibly persuaded to renegotiate contracts. At the insistence of Freeman, Wallis permitted them one solo film each. Not until 1957 did he agree to let them meet the balance of their contract individually, thus getting six pictures for the price of three. NBC considered suing to keep the pair together, then discovered to their chagrin that their five-year deal was contractually with York Productions, with no stipulation that the company deliver Martin and Lewis as a team. The following year, Dean negotiated his own NBC deal and sold his share of York to Jerry, who in turn sold the company and their piece of the York films to Paramount.

Over the years, each man would take credit for initiating the split, which was in essence the truth: Dean’s refusal to do The Delicate Delinquent would spark Jerry’s behind-the-scenes machinations to get them released from Wallis’ iron grip. Each man reached his individual goals: Dean became “a real actor” in such fine films as The Young Lions, Some Came Running and Rio Bravo, while Jerry made so much money for Paramount that owner Barney Balaban famously said, “If he wants to burn down the studio, I’ll hand him the match.”

But it was live television that made Martin & Lewis superstars, so it was entirely fitting that their estrangement came to an end on live TV; in September 1976 during Lewis’ annual telethon for Muscular Dystrophy. The reunion, like the split, made headlines, and raised hopes that Dean and Jerry would again entertain together. It was not to be; Martin and Lewis would publicly reunite only once more, briefly on a Las Vegas stage in 1989 for Dean’s 72nd birthday. By then, life’s ebb and flow had washed away the pain and bitterness for both men, to where Dean could publicly assure Jerry, “I love you and I mean it.” Martin retired in 1991 and died four years later; Lewis continues to do what he loves: make others laugh, cry and cheer.
More than a half-century after their parting, how to sum up the appeal of Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis? Perhaps we should let them do it. Jerry: “Two guys who had more fun than the audience.” Dean: “With Jerry and me, it was mostly just doin’ what we felt. Those were great times.” Indeed they were.

Martin vs. Lewis, Round Two (June-August 1955)

2010-03-07T16:27:00.024-05:00

June of 1955 was shaping up as a banner month for the money-making juggernaut that was Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis. On the 5th, they hosted the final Colgate Comedy Hour. Henceforth, the program would be known as the Colgate Variety Hour, and would be co-owned by NBC and the team’s own company, York Productions. Six days later, their newest film, "You’re Never Too Young" (co-owned by York Productions and Paramount Pictures), would have its gala premiere at Brown’s Hotel in the Catskills, where Lewis made his professional debut as a mere teen.

Since the accord reached in the spring of 1954, interaction between Martin and Lewis had been harmonious, if never quite as cozy as before. Arthur Penn, technical director for the latest season of Comedy Hours, could tell at least one of them was losing interest: "The only discomfort that was ever in evidence was when I would go into the dressing room, and I would see (Dean) drinking." Martin was nursing resentment along with libations, and it wasn’t long before all hell broke loose.

The team’s second, far more damaging feud began literally 48 hours after the completion of their Colgate segment, when Jerry, about to board a train that would take them to New York, was told by their press agent Jack Keller, "Your partner isn’t making the trip." There had been warning signs. When the Brown’s idea was first proposed, Martin rejected it on the grounds that the site played no part in his career. Keller recalled, "He didn't care if he owned a piece of the picture or not. He was being used, he felt, as the tail to wag the kite... being dragged in on Jerry's party." Since he wasn’t interested in suggesting an alternate venue, eventually Martin told his partner, "I don’t give a ---- where we hold it," and Lewis took this as a default approval to open the film at Brown’s.

Arriving in New York, Lewis (accompanied by his wife) rode by car to the hotel, brooding and weeping as he passed billboard after billboard advertising the team’s presence for the June 11 premiere. Meanwhile, Martin was talking to his agent about lining up a solo TV show “where I can sing more than two songs in an hour.” Then, after detailing the dispute with Jerry – along with his individual aspirations – to the press, Dean took off with his wife for a Hawaii vacation.

Lewis managed to get through the premiere, surrounded by over 100 newspaper reporters, with little more than a tearful "No comment" concerning his partner’s absence, and even narrated a Paramount newsreel of the event; but once home, he spent the next several days trying to get out of every contract to which Martin & Lewis were committed, tersely repeating "No comment" to any reporter that asked what was going on.

When Dean returned from his respite, and found that not only were there no offers for his own show but also Jerry was angling for the dissolution of the team, he went into damage control mode. First, he had his attorney fire off a letter to MCA, Hal Wallis, Paramount and NBC that categorized his earlier comments as hearsay: "Gentlemen: Notwithstanding any statements or rumors which you may have heard to the contrary, please be advised that I recognize the existence of an employment contract with you dated September 1, 1954, and that I am and will continue to be and hold myself ready, willing and able to render and perform my services pursuant thereto."

Then, every reporter to which Jerry refused to comment found Dean more than willing to talk: "I don’t want to break up the team. It’s a damn fine living and I want to hold on to it." Or, "What’s the difference if we don’t chum around? To me, this isn’t a love affair; this is big business." And in every case, Martin referred to his partner as "the kid" or "the boy," never failing to point out that he was "ten years older" (actually nine). What had once been a term of endearment from his “older brother” now sounded condescending… and Lewis fumed. Their previous feud had lasted eight days. This one would exceed eight weeks.

At the beginning of August, Lloyd Shearer called on Jerry on behalf of Parade magazine, and caught him at the right – or wrong - moment. After assuring Shearer that a split was "inevitable," the cork flew out of Lewis’ bottle: "Dean was the guy who told the newspapers he was ready to do a single. Don’t forget that. I didn’t open my mouth. Now I will, and I want you should know the truth. This mess is my fault…. I made the mistake of worshipping this man. I thought more of Dean than my own wife, my own family. I accepted everything we did on his terms, his standards, his values. Now I’ve grown up. I (sic) got values of my own.

"A theatre-owner in Detroit, a guy who took care of us when we were struggling – he calls up. Business is lousy. He’s going broke. For old time’s sake, won’t we play his house? I’m ready to fly to Detroit in the morning. But I gotta turn the guy down. Why? Can I tell him my partner wants to play golf? It’s the same way with benefits. Hospitals, orphanages, worthwhile charities. They phone; will we give them a few minutes, a few hours? I’m dying to say ‘Yes’ – but I can’t unless I show up without my partner."

By now, Lewis was thoroughly lathered up: "I can’t tell you how deeply I feel about these things. Twenty-eight years old, and I’ve got ulcers and I spit blood and I can’t sleep and I lose weight. Who needs this? I don’t care if Patti and me (sic) gotta go back to a one-room apartment in Newark. I gotta live with my conscience. You can’t run a partnership, you can’t run your life without principles. And if the only principle in this setup is to make money and to hell with everything else, I’m not buying it."

Needless to say, Shearer found Martin just as eager to talk, particularly about money. "I think the kid’s bein’ silly. We gotta company together (with) one of the greatest deals of all time. Each of us gets $4,000 a week from TV. Then after five years, or six pictures, Paramount gives us five or six million bucks to split. Jer is willin’ to throw this out the window because I don’t love him. Who says I gotta love him? Business is business. Does Abbott love Costello? Why can’t we have a business-like partnership?"

With that question, Dean had effectively thrown down a gauntlet toward his sentimental partner, before letting his own cork fly: "To hear some of the gossip you’d think I was a criminal ‘cause I don’t wanna work 365 days a year. I can’t help it if I’m not built like the kid. Jer’ll work 24 hours a day if you let him. He’ll put on a benefit for the kid who sells papers on the corner. I admire, respect him for it. But Jeez! He’s ten years younger’n me. I can’t take that routine. End of the day this guy jumpin’ up and down my back, I’m tired. I’m beat. I like to go home. I gotta wife, six kids. They’re entitled to my time, my companionship. I didn’t get married so that I could spend my life on the stage doin’ benefits for the campfire boys.

"I can’t change the way I’m built to suit Jerry. They talk about my golf and all that. I never missed a show or rehearsal yet. Work is work an’ play is play, an’ a man’s gotta have time for both… for his family, his kids. A guy should be allowed to step into a church for a few minutes without playin’ a benefit."

It was a blockbuster story, but before it saw print the situation had changed. Within days of Shearer’s questioning, Jerry contacted Paramount and NBC with assurances of fulfilling his end of the deal. This sudden reconciliation was driven by an urgent need – the team had an outstanding tax debt of $650,000 that had come due. Lewis borrowed the money from the head of Paramount studios, Y. Frank Freeman, fully aware he’d need to continue working with Martin in order to pay it back. The official announcement came from Paramount on August 9 – unlike their first reconciliation, neither Dean nor Jerry was present at the press conference – and questions about the personal relationship between the two principles were answered, once again, with "No comment."

Indeed, observers recognized that nothing much had been resolved between them. Preparing for the first Colgate Variety Hour of the season, Jerry continued to involve himself in every aspect of production, spending as little time rehearsing with Dean as he could get away with. At one point, Lewis ducked into the soundproof booth used in a sketch parodying CBS’s smash $64,000 Question to check the wiring on the floor. Martin was overheard muttering, "Maybe we’ll get a break; he’ll electrocute himself down there."

The sketch opened the show on September 18, their first appearance together since June’s Colgate program. Martin played the host of "The $64 Million Dollar Question," and Lewis the contestant, who correctly answers the 7-part, $32 million question about tobacco (in the booth that Martin fills with the smoke from six different cigarettes) by guessing. For the big money question, Lewis is forced into a huge tank of water, where he’s expected to remain submerged until ready to answer the question, which is on a scroll of paper about a half-mile long.

The sketch was well-written enough that the pair followed it almost to the letter... until Jerry got into the tank, and Dean proceeded to push him beneath the water while reading the question. After the third dunking, Martin attempts to force his partner under again, but Lewis grasps the side of the tank. "Let me catch a breath here," he calls out. Pushed down again, Lewis returns with the old code phrase, "You’re overacting!" Down he goes again, and re-emerges with, "A joke’s a joke, but I’m drowning!" Now laughing along with the audience, Dean sends him under again. Jerry immediately pops up: "READ A LITTLE FASTER, WILL YA?" After one more submerging, Lewis grabs the tank and eyes Martin with suspicion: "Haven’t you heard? The feud is over!" The line stopped the show.

Lewis’s ad-lib wasn’t the only comment on the recent situation. Sammy Cahn wrote the lyrics for a special rendition of “Side By Side” performed after the second sketch; lyrics that completely trivialized the cause and scope of the event:

Dean: Oh, the road gets a little bit bumpy.
Jerry: And our nerves get a little bit jumpy.
Dean: We beef and complain!
Jerry: But we remain...
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

Jerry: There are times when his smile ain’t so sunny.
Dean: Times when his fun isn’t funny.
Jerry: So we fuss and we pout,
Dean: But still we come out...
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

Dean: Life can be demandin’.
Jerry: Life isn’t always play.
Dean: We reached an understandin’:
Jerry: It’s gotta be HIS way!

Dean: There are some who had parted us neatly.
Jerry: But we have fooled them completely.
Dean: Had us both on the shelf!
Jerry: Look for yourself:
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

Dean: Like Topsy and like Eva, we’ll always roll along!
Jerry: We had our own Geneva: He admitted that I was wrong!

Dean: So, please allow us to sum up:
Jerry: If ever a problem should come up...
Dean: We’ll fight like before,
Jerry: But after the war,
Both: SIDE BY SIDE!

The show received near-rave reviews, typical of which was Variety’s: "Except for the numerous commercials and one rock-n-roll number," wrote ‘Herm,’ "Martin & Lewis were on camera for the full hour and were socko all the way." All the critics made mention of the feud references and the special “Side by Side,” with TV Radio-Life’s noting, "As a matter of fact, the boys made it clear to viewers that their feud was a thing of the past." ‘Herm,’ on the other hand, hedged his bets on that score: "Whatever the realities in the case, the boys worked together with as much rapport as ever."

From the start of the team’s career, Lewis had touted the strength of their relationship as the key to their mass adulation. The undercurrent of mutual affection that drove their antics was such a keystone of the act, the public had no trouble carrying it over to their private lives. Seeing them on television making light of their "misunderstanding" with a special song convinced the audience that all was well again. But in truth the love affair had ended and "a business-like partnership" was exactly what Martin & Lewis would have for the next eleven months, until neither man could bear it any longer.

Martin vs. Lewis, Round One (March 1954)

2010-02-26T12:51:00.036-05:00

Some 25 years ago, I was reading Phil Rosenthal, then the TV columnist for the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. He mentioned catching “Living it Up” (1954) on TV over the weekend, and was puzzled as to how Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis could have been so fantastically popular during the 1950’s. I could relate, thinking back to my teen years when I'd watched “Jumping Jacks” (1952) one weekday afternoon and made the same observation.

My mother set me straight: “You never got to see them on The Colgate Comedy Hour. It was a live variety show and they were hysterically funny on it.” Ignorant of such things as kinescopes, I assumed I would never have that pleasure. Leonard Maltin could only write about their films in his book “Movie Comedy Teams” (1970, in which he labeled “Living it Up,” “probably their best”), with The Colgate Comedy Hour limited to a paragraph not much more detailed than my mom’s recollection. As late as 1985, when Rosenthal dismissed them, the only Martin & Lewis to be had were their 16 theatrical features. Today, of course, it’s a different story: the Colgates are ubiquitous on bargain-basement DVDs and as accessible as a YouTube search.

As I've written elsewhere, what made Martin & Lewis so dazzling, so captivating, is that each man made the other look positively brilliant. To discover their TV and, to a lesser extent, radio shows from the early fifties is to behold two guys in love with each other and their work, and having the time of their lives. Dean and Jerry created a symphony of slapstick that left audiences helpless with laughter – yet no matter how mad the hijinks, there was an undercurrent of mutual affection that won them a fulsome adoration other teams would never know. The two were the very definition of what we now term a bromance (although a few 1950's scandal sheets alleged the relationship veered into the forbidden zone). Watching the Colgates, you marvel at how often they keep touching each other. Laurel & Hardy, bedded down together for the night, didn't come into as much intimate contact as these two did just standing in front of the orchestra. And America adored it all; at their height, Martin & Lewis were the highest paid, most successful act in show business. The Smoothie from Steubenville and the Nebbish from Newark transcended any stage, screen or TV star you'd care to name.

Three generations have come along since Martin & Lewis went their separate ways. While a vociferous contingent of Dino fans would be horrified if their epitome of cool and suave had never parted from the screechy "Hey, La-a-a-d-y-y" guy, at the time it seemed unthinkable. The nation so loved Dean and Jerry that, even though they worked solo for 35 years, neither would ever be permitted to forget the other. During their first twenty years apart, when mutual animosity was at full strength, nothing brought a crowd to life faster than when one would mention his ex-partner.

So how and why did this partnership, seemingly beloved on all sides, self-destruct? It's a question that has spurred interest for over a half-century. Even Lewis' heartfelt account of the team, "Dean & Me: A Love Story," doesn't tell the whole story. With this entry, we'll look at the first full-blown argument between Dean and Jerry, which took place 56 years ago this month.

As late as 1952, both men were assuring Louella Parsons' readers that they'd never so much as raised their voices to one another. But apparently things had changed a short year later. Tension had been brewing between the two for several months, and by early '54, it spilled out into the open.

To begin with, when "That's Amore" became Dean's first big smash near the end of 1953, it created a strain. Martin was justifiably proud of his accomplishment; it was something for which he'd been striving since before the team was born. Unfortunately, the insecurity within Lewis's psyche that had remained relatively under control during the glory years began to flare. Maybe Dean would decide that he didn't need Jerry anymore. Maybe Dean was beginning to listen to those hangers-on who enjoyed telling each one that he'd be an even bigger star without the other. This time, rather than talk out his feelings, Lewis began to brood - and to assert his presence in their act.

Near the start of the Colgate hour of January 10, 1954, Jerry presented Dean with a gold record for "That's Amore" with his warm congratulations. The conclusion of the show was something else again. The pair staged what appeared to be a mock argument, at which point Martin ordered his partner off the stage. Dean began singing "Amore," but Jerry returned, bribing the cameramen to move in and force Dean into a corner, whereupon Jerry climbed upon the singer's back, smacked Dean's ears and pulled his hair while laughing manically. Dean tried to take it in stride, at one point calling out, "You're over-acting, Jerry," which was something of a code phrase used when one or the other was getting too rough. This time, Lewis didn't let up, and it's clear just before the fade-out that Martin was genuinely steamed.

In truth, Dean was growing weary of Jerry’s antics overshadowing the act, not to mention their hectic schedule, which left him little time to enjoy the fruits of success. He also couldn’t have been pleased when, in a fit of pique, Lewis dismissed their head writers, Ed Simmons and Norman Lear, shortly before the January 10 show; these were the guys who made sure he was funny, too. Additionally, Martin didn't understand Lewis' overt desire to bring pathos into their act, telling him, "Why don't you cut out this sad stuff and just be funny?" But his real bone of contention was their movies, the one element of their work destined for posterity. To the end of his days, Martin resented that most were cut from the same cloth: Jerry the innocent simpleton hero who carried the picture, and Dean the smooth sharpie who never seemed deserving of his partner's friendship, until the final reel when he suddenly became, in his words, "a right guy."

Upon conclusion of the Colgate segment, the team went to New York for a two-week stint at the Copacabana. On opening night, Hal Wallis and his partner Joe Hazen, along with their wives, enjoyed the performance from a ringside table. After the show, Wallis and Hazen met briefly with the team, setting up a luncheon meeting for the following day to discuss their next picture: "Big Top." The film had been in the planning stages for several weeks; the script written by Don McGuire, a friend and collaborator of Jerry’s since 1951.

When Wallis asked Martin if he’d be attending, Lewis kiddingly advised his partner: "You’d better let me go with him alone. I can get more out of him." Given his growing disenchantment with the status quo, perhaps that should have thrown up a red flag for Dino. Up to now, Martin had grudgingly accepted their scripts as the nature of the business, believing neither he nor Lewis were in a position to tempt the fate of the box office. But with a friend of Jerry’s as the lead writer, and with Jerry himself overseeing the results, perhaps he could expect something better this time. So Dean left the business to Jerry, who went over the script with Wallis and made several suggestions... for his own character.

On February 8, the scheduled first day of shooting, Wallis had the Clyde Beatty Circus, a fifteen-car train and eighty-five cast and crew members standing by on location in Phoenix, Arizona. All that was missing were the two stars, who refused to show up. The team’s agent, Herman Citron, told Wallis bluntly that Dean refused to do the script as written – this despite the fact that it contained several of Jerry’s suggestions - and Jerry wouldn’t do the film against Dean’s wishes.

McGuire and the team’s Colgate writers, Arthur Phillips and Harry Crane, sat down and hammered out further revisions, while Martin, Lewis and Citron met with Wallis. Lewis confessed, "I am enough of a ham that when you told me this business with the elephants and the other sequences, that I could only see what wonderful things I could do..." to the point where he completely overlooked his partner’s role, the conniving, slimy manager of the circus. It’s not recorded whether Dean opined on how well his partner was looking out for him, but he did make his objections known about the script. Wallis later wrote, "He said that he doesn’t want to play a cheat and doesn’t know what he is doing in the picture." The story had Dean singing only two songs: one to caged animals, the other to Jerry.

Lewis, Phillips and Crane spent one more long night penning revisions, with Martin once again deferring to his partner. The end result wasn’t much different, and Dean realized that it was endgame: with Jerry and their writers having turned in a final script, he’d have to go to work. But that didn’t mean he’d have to like it.

Shooting for the film, eventually titled "Three-Ring Circus," began in Phoenix on February 17. Two weeks went by before Martin was even needed for a scene, at which point some of the extras began wondering aloud about the size of his part and if he was still Jerry’s partner. (Note the attached page from TV and Movie Screen, a fan mag: a large shot of Lewis in character, a small inset of Martin waiting between takes.) Young children hired for an orphanage scene would gather around Jerry; some of them didn’t even know who Dean was. Lewis would later write, "It got pretty hairy. There were days when I thought Dean would ditch the whole package."

On March 3, Dean walked in on Jerry having his picture taken and being interviewed... alone. The easy-going Italian finally boiled over: "Hey, Jerry, what am I around here, a fifth wheel? If I’m not important to the act anymore, just let me know!" Reporters around the set got more from Martin: "I’m sick and tired of playing stooge to that crazy, mixed-up character!" Lewis retaliated with, "I’m fed up with my partner’s sensitivity. Everything I do is wrong. Anything happens he don’t (sic) like, he blames it on me. He hates me." The two stopped speaking and production nearly ground to a halt.

This particular feud, the first to be reported, lasted nine days. On March 12, in a meeting at MCA, the pair were forcibly reminded of their various commitments and coerced into a cordial reconciliation. But four days later, when Dean didn’t appear at Jerry’s birthday party – because he hadn’t been invited – the gossip columns again speculated on Martin and Lewis’s rapidly diminishing future together. The two issued a press release on the 18th, in which Lewis stated, "We had a disagreement. Well, it wasn’t exactly a disagreement, it was a fight. It started when Dean called me a dope. I got mad and told him to prove it, and that’s what we fought about. He did." Martin asserted that the team would split "on July 25, 1996 – our Golden Anniversary."

Needless to say, this lighthearted approach didn't keep reporters at bay, to the point where, on April 5, no less an authority than Groucho Marx felt compelled to write: "I've been reading in columns that there is ill feeling between you boys and that there's even a likelihood that you might go your separate ways. I hope this isn't true for you are awfully good together, and show business needs you.... If there is any ill feeling or bitterness between you, it will eventually affect your work. If that feeling does exist, sit down calmly together, alone - when I say alone, I mean no agents, no family, no one but you two - sit down alone, and talk it out."

Reportedly Marx sent the letter to both partners, but only Jerry replied, thanking Groucho profusely, noting "the sagacity of your words" and assuring him, "(I) have every intention of following your advice." And in fact Dean and Jerry did meet privately shortly thereafter, and things settled down.

Near the conclusion of shooting for "Three-Ring Circus," the two men spoke with Maurice Zolotow, Hollywood correspondent for The American Weekly, a Sunday newspaper supplement. Dean instructed Zolotow to "write down this part word-for-word just like I say it. I know that individually, going it alone, we would not be as great as we are together." Martin added, "When we shook hands on our partnership, I said in my heart, this is forever, ‘til death do us part. It still goes! Sometimes he makes mistakes. Sometimes I make mistakes. But as long as people let us alone, the team of Martin & Lewis will go on."

For his part, Lewis told Zolotow, "The closer you are to a person, the deeper the feelings. If the feelings are hard feelings, then they’re twice as hard. And if you’re emotional, like Dean and I are emotional, well, you can’t help flipping your lid sometimes. We yell at each other… and it gets in the papers. So from this they build up a story that we’re going to bust up. Never in a million years! Get this: we’re a partnership, a real partnership.

"This idea that I’m the funny guy and Dean is just a straight man is wrong. People may not notice it, but he’s got as many joke lines as straight lines. I feed him as many straight lines on our television show as he feeds me. Both of us have a different style of playing comedy, but we’re both essential to each other’s success. Anyway," continued Lewis, "Dino means more to me than a partner in a two-act. Outside of my wonderful wife, Dean is the person I’ve been closest to in my whole life. We’re so close that our minds think like one mind. There’s a very deep and profound love between Dean and me, and our act is good only because of this feeling of closeness."

A bullet had been dodged and the partnership was again on an even keel, so far as the public knew. Their next Colgate appearance, on May 3, attempted to seal it via a celebration of the team's eighth anniversary, with a highly fictionalized depiction of how the two paired up that concluded with them singing a ditty entitled "We Belong Together." But intimates knew that nothing much had changed: Lewis still controlled the act, which saw more and more "sad stuff" for Jerry, while Dean's part in their next picture, "You're Never Too Young," was no improvement over "Three Ring Circus." Another confrontation was inevitable.

When it came, things really did change... but not for the better.

Yabba-Dabba-Dad! Happy Birthday, Pebbles Flintstone!

2010-02-23T16:14:00.012-05:00

One of my favorite blogs is "Yowp," described by its owner as "stuff about early Hanna-Barbera cartoons." Today’s entry covers the arrival of Fred and Wilma Flintstone's blessed event.

Yes, Pebbles Flintstone was "born" 47 years ago this evening! Don't you feel old?

"Yowp" goes into much detail about the merchandising of Pebbles Flintstone (and reaction to it) that is only hinted at in the above article.

To be honest, I was never a big "Flintstones" fan when growing up. I watched the show from time-to-time, but if I laughed at all, it was more due to individual gags than to plot or characterization. Mostly I found the show as distasteful as its inspiration, "The Honeymooners." ("Scandalous," I heard someone say.) Yes, Jackie Gleason's masterpiece usually just annoys me. Despite posterity's apparent verdict, Norton and Kramden are not Laurel & Hardy: "Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into" is a whole lot more clever and charming than, "One of these days, Alice... POW! Right in the kisser!" Comedies about dumb male heads of household, whether they're named Chester Reilly, Ralph Kramden, Archie Bunker or Homer Simpson just turn me off. Maybe it's because my role models were mainly strong men: Superman, Joe Friday... even Bugs Bunny was sly, not stupid. Maybe I have too much respect for the role of husband and father to enjoy seeing them portrayed as obnoxious (and bigoted) boors.

Anyway, the anniversary of Pebbles' debut seemed like a good excuse to post that TV Guide article from the February 16, 1963 issue... and, for that matter, this article from the December 30, 1959 issue of Variety:

If the headline is confusing, you should know that "The Flintstones" began life as "The Flagstones." King Features, who syndicated the "Hi and Lois" comic strip, claimed ownership of the name "Flagstone," thus the change. By the end of the 1950's Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera were the undisputed kings of television animation, enabling them to sell ABC-TV on a prime-time animated show (a 26-episode commitment, no less) with nothing more than a 5-minute demo reel and a handful of storyboards. I'm not sure anyone, even Matt Groening, has that kind of cache today.

"The Best on Record" (1963): Is It Gone?

2010-02-18T10:27:00.027-05:00

The discovery of a new clip of President Kennedy in Dallas on November 22, 1963, sent me scurrying to the two TV Guide issues covering those infamous four days to see what didn’t air. The networks, of course, yanked regular programming within minutes of the gunfire on Friday afternoon and didn’t resume until after the President’s Arlington burial the following Monday. The aftermath of this singular tragedy came into our living rooms in real time, and united not just all Americans but all nations. “Television,” said ABC news anchor Ron Cochran during the weekend, “had actually become the window on the world so many had hoped it might be one day.”

As we resumed everyday life in the days ahead, so did TV. Most of the pre-empted programs appeared in December and the first two months of 1964. The 77 Sunset Strip episode shown in this Friday page aired on January 3; The Route 66 on January 24; "It's Mental Work" on December 20. The evening's scheduled foray into the Twilight Zone, "Night Call," finally appeared on February 7. Ballad of a Country, intriguing as it sounds, has vanished... at least from the depths of the worldwide web. If it was to be a live broadcast, perhaps that explains it.

Debuting late night movies plugged on the Saturday pages here for the Baltimore-D.C. region would have to wait; the networks remained on the air with news coverage, affiliate revenues be damned.

Of the Sunday programs, only Ed Sullivan was still live, so that particular lineup went by the wayside. Perhaps that was short-sighted; a little lightheartedness from Bert Lahr, Stiller & Meara and Topo Gigio might have given an emotionally drained viewing public some much needed relief. Most of the rest of Sunday was on film, while Judy Garland was videotaped... as much for her benefit as ours.

Also taped, according to this Close-up blurb, was The Best on Record. Designed to honor past and present Grammy Award winners, it looks like a dynamite hour, filled with the kind of variety that actually graced top forty radio once upon a time. Is there a genre not represented here? Folkies like me could dig Peter, Paul & Mary and the New Christy Minstrels; Connie Francis and Steve & Eydie assumed the pop duties; Tony Bennett provided his signature tune; Homer & Jethro kicked in a little country corn. And look at the star-studded lineup just doing introductions!

If taped, did this extravaganza ever make it to air? There doesn't seem to be any evidence that it did. Possibly some of it was cannibalized for a May 1965 special of the same title; Bennett and Henry Mancini are listed for that one, along with those Liverpool upstarts, the Beatles. If it was ever broadcast, the earlier version would've been sanitized in the wake of that dark Friday afternoon, the "First Family" routine in line for the initial shearing. There's a story, possibly apocryphal, about Lenny Bruce's first club appearance following the assassination. A crowd sat on the edge of their seats, wondering how this most notorious of the "sick comics" would address the tender subject. Bruce looked over the audence for a few seconds with the most somber expression imaginable, and finally sighed, "Man, Vaughn Meader is screwed!"

And so he was. Meader can be seen performing his Kennedy press conference shtick on Shout Factory's Hootenanny box set. The airdate for that clip was September 21, 1963... a scant two months before the world changed forever in front of his, and everybody else's, eyes.

And Now, Here's a Message From One of Our Sponsors!

2010-02-05T21:40:00.004-05:00

Here, in the Mid-Atlantic region where I reside, it is snowing... and by all reports, it will continue snowing until tomorrow evening.

So, to all my East Coast family and friends, may I say that this weekend (at least until Super Bowl Kick-off) would be an excellent time to kick back and curl up with a good book, like this one:

"It's Arthur Godfrey Time!"

2010-01-12T00:59:00.029-05:00

After all the media hoopla and public dismay surrounding professional golfer Tiger Woods and his various indiscretions, it’s useful to remember that we’ve been down this road before.

Fifty-seven years ago, America was in the throes of its love affair with Arthur Godfrey. Tiger at his most influential couldn’t hold a candle to “the ol’ redhead.” Sponsors of all shapes and sizes were pounding on CBS doors trying to get a piece of the action. If anyone doubted that Godfrey was the undisputed king of radio and television, a brace of magazines and newspaper columnists would beg to differ. TV Guide labeled him, “Boyish, open-faced, apple-pie likable… television’s Huck Finn.” Attempting to pinpoint Godfrey’s unprecedented appeal, Ben Gross of the New York Daily News, wrote: “It is his friendliness, his good cheer, his small-boy mischievousness and his kindly philosophy… or maybe it’s his magnetism, his personal attractiveness.”

Whatever it was, by 1953, Godfrey accounted for 12% of CBS’ annual television revenues, according to Robert Metz’s book, Reflections in a Bloodshot Eye. He had two prime-time series: “Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts” on Monday evenings (the lead-in to “I Love Lucy”) and on Wednesday, “Arthur Godfrey and His Friends,” an hour-long variety series… although “variety” might be too strong a word. Try to imagine tuning in weekly to see the same collection of singers and vocal groups – no vaudeville acts or celebrity guest stars, if you please; just Arthur and his “Little Godfreys” – alternately render a tune in between the host’s folksy banter and playful commercial spiels. Now imagine that this show is a top ten entry from 1951-54, while “Talent Scouts” – the “American Idol” of its day – is a top three show (#1 during 1951-52) during the same stretch. At one point early on, CBS gave Godfrey 15 minutes of prime time twice weekly to give ukulele lessons!

Then there was “Arthur Godfrey Time,” the 90-minute CBS weekday morning radio show simulcast on the TV network beginning in 1952. The show was only televised Monday through Thursday – on Friday, Godfrey hosted via remote from his Leesburg Virginia farm, which precluded any TV cameras. The show contained six 15-minute segments, each with a different sponsor, although Lipton Tea and Chesterfield cigarettes were mainstays (the latter until Godfrey went under the knife for lung cancer in 1959). Reportedly he refused to accept any sponsor whose product he didn’t personally endorse from his own experience… which ensured stockpiles of various freebees would make their way to Leesburg.

But the bigger they are, the harder they fall… and it was the final segment of “Arthur Godfrey Time” on Monday, October 19, 1953, that concluded with Godfrey’s metaphoric golf club to the head. This was, of course, the broadcast in which he fired singer Julius La Rosa on the air. Although “fired” might be too strong a word as well.

La Rosa was a Brooklyn native who, while serving a stint in the Navy, auditioned for Godfrey on October 4, 1950. Impressed with the young sailor’s vocal gifts, Godfrey twice had him appear on “Talent Scouts” when on shore leave, and promised him a steady job upon his discharge. The young man happily took him up on this generous offer (see related article), and on November 17, 1951, Julius La Rosa became one of “the Little Godfreys,” with steady appearances on “Arthur Godfrey Time” and “Arthur Godfrey and His Friends.” With Godfrey’s orchestra leader, Archie Bleyer, La Rosa co-formed Cadence Records and recorded a string of hits. By mid-1953, the 23-year-old crooner’s fan mail was outdistancing that of his boss.

That, however, may not have been the issue. According to La Rosa, he was forced to miss a ballet class (a Godfrey mandate to his entire on-air staff) due to a family crisis. The next day, he found a memo tacked to the staff bulletin board: “Since you felt your services weren’t required at the ballet lesson yesterday, you won’t be needed this morning on the show.” La Rosa tried to reach his boss at his hotel; he tried phoning… no luck. “I’m sure I’m in trouble,” concluded La Rosa, according to Max Wilk’s 1976 book, The Golden Age of Television: Notes From the Survivors. “What do you do when you’re in trouble in show business? You figure you need some muscle of your own, right? And you hire yourself an agent.”

With that move, La Rosa broke the unwritten commandment for Little Godfreys: Thou Shalt Not Acquire Outside Representation. And La Rosa picked a winner: Thom Rockwell, president of General Artists’ Corporation and personal agent for Perry Como. Said Godfrey at the time, “I had told (La Rosa) a long time ago one thing I wouldn’t stand for was outside interference by personal agents.” Before the ink had dried on La Rosa’s contract, Rockwell dashed off a letter to Godfrey and CBS informing them that he would henceforth be handling the singer’s affairs.

La Rosa knew what was coming: “Now it was just a question of when. Rockwell’s letter was mailed, (Godfrey) got it maybe by the end of the week.” At which point, he went to Frank Stanton, president of CBS, seeking advice. Stanton’s suggestion: You hired him on the air, you can fire him the same way.

Flash forward to the following Monday, October 19. La Rosa: “I get to work at the radio studio (for “Arthur Godfrey Time”). I was scheduled for the 10:15 segment, but one of the ways Godfrey would discipline you would be to keep you sitting around there, waiting to go on. It was his show – he pulled all the strings. All morning I sit there waiting, I’ve got two different songs to do.”

With the clock closing in on 11:25, Godfrey finally told the studio audience, “I want you to meet a young man named Julius La Rosa.”

Most sources declare that the telecast had ended by this point; that only the radio audience heard what was to follow. It appears, though, that while some CBS-TV affiliates only covered part of the day’s proceedings, others signed on for the full 90 minutes and would have carried the finale. As an example, according to this TV Guide page for that date, Buffalo’s channel 4 televised only the second half-hour, but Syracuse’s channel 8 aired the entire program.

In any event, audio of the final five minutes survives and is in circulation. Some written accounts have Godfrey commenting on La Rosa’s rise to fame and snidely asking him, “This show must be a pain in the neck to you, huh?” or something similar, but the existing recording contains nothing of the sort. Rather, Godfrey assures the audience that their enthusiastic reception “pleases me mightily.” Arthur asks Julius, “How long ago did you come (to us)?”

Julius: “November 17, 1951… it’ll be two years next month.”
Arthur: “Not quite two years… so it was about three years ago when I first met you.”
Julius: “October 4th, 1950.”

The audience laughs at Julius’ precise recollection, but his voice sounds tentative… like he’s bracing himself for what might follow. Godfrey continues, addressing the audience:

Arthur: “When I first met Julie… I’ll never forget, when he first came up here, and I said to him, ‘When you get out of that man’s Navy, if you don’t want to stay in for thirty years, just come on up here, and I’ll give you a job,’ and he took me at my word. And he came and I put him to work, and immediately everybody loved him. And it has always done my heart good to see that you people saw the same quality in him that I saw. Which, if you have noticed, and I’m sure you have, is the same quality that I have in everybody in my cast. I picked ‘em all that way. Sure, he’s got a good voice, but lots of people have good voices. There’s something else that you like, which is a wonderful quality that is hard to get.

“I’ll never forget when he first came here and went to work steadily, he said to me, ‘Gee...” (to La Rosa) Do you remember how you used to go (exaggerated Brooklyn accent) ‘Chee!’ (Audience laughs) ‘I don’t know, with all those stars on the show.’ And I said to him, ‘Julie, you don’t know it, but I don’t have any stars in my show. In my show, we’re all just a nice big family of very nice people, like yourself. And you hold onto that quality and you’ll never have to worry about a thing; you’re just as big as anybody else. You just go on (and) try to improve yourself all the time and one day you’ll be the big star.’ And this boy in two years’ time has done this. He and Archie have their own recording company now and he’s gotten to be a great big name.

“And I would like Julius, if he would, to sing me that song called ‘Manhattan.’ Have you got that? Huh?”

Julius: “Yes, sir.”
Arthur: “Sing me that.”

Bleyer’s band struck up the tune and La Rosa sang. Applause… then it happened:

Arthur: “Thanks ever so much, Julie. That was Julie’s swan song with us. He goes now out on his own, as his own star, soon to be seen in his own programs. And I know you wish him Godspeed, same as I do.”

The audience can be heard registering their dismay at this news, but at that point, the sound cuts to the theme and Godfrey’s pre-recorded voice declaring, “This is the CBS radio network.” Apparently, TV stations still airing the simulcast cut off even sooner than that, right after the “swan song” remark. Later in the week, Godfrey told Edward R. Murrow, on the latter’s “Person-to-Person,” that he didn’t have enough time left for a full send-off.

Based on Godfrey’s build up of La Rosa’s star power during the broadcast, initial news reports assumed that the singer had requested his release, which was graciously granted. But Rockwell saw the chance for the kind of publicity money couldn’t buy. The next day, La Rosa told the press he was “a very confused guy,” not comprehending his dismissal at all, while Rockwell bragged, “Anyone who can make four thousand bucks for a one-night stand needs an agent. The kid is hot, there’s no question about it.”

Kid indeed. Twenty-three years later, La Rosa understood just how green he was: “Talk about twisted values. I was completely unprepared for what happened – the enormous impact the whole thing had.” Not two days after what was now reported as a public firing, Ed Sullivan – ever the opportunist – signed La Rosa for thirteen appearances on his “Toast of the Town.” “Again, I wasn’t prepared,” said La Rosa. “I felt like saying, ‘No, not thirteen times a year for all that money – please, let me go up to the mountains, let me do shows, clubs; let me learn what I’m doing first – order me back then.’” Not a chance; as Rockwell said, “the kid” was hot.

Behind the scenes, Godfrey also released Archie Bleyer, ostensibly for paying more attention to his record company to the detriment of Godfrey’s programs, but primarily because Bleyer had used part of a two-week paid vacation to record Don McNeill, Godfrey’s long-time rival from ABC. In fact, this axe fell just hours after the “swan song” broadcast. “It really hurt,” Godfrey told the press. “I said, ‘Arch, I just fired Julie and it was like tearing my eyeballs out, and I guess you’re next.” With this news, the press went berserk; you can sample just a portion of their output here.

With La Rosa’s “confused guy” coupled with Rockwell’s bluster, Godfrey’s temperature rose, and he felt compelled to make a public statement… which would become his metaphoric cell phone text to the mistress. “Whenever I take anybody on my shows, it’s because I go a little crazy about a quality I see in them which, for lack of a better word, I call ‘humility.’ I don’t have any real artists on my show…. I’ve felt that, rather than a good voice, a likable, lovable personality is more important.” Godfrey then explained that, with the hiring of an outside agent, it was clear to him that La Rosa had lost this quality.

Meanwhile the public, after having gorged on all this coverage, eventually decided that if Arthur Godfrey was concerned about lost humility, perhaps he should start searching for his own. From this point on, the decline began. Both his night-time shows fell from the top ten – and “Godfrey and His Friends” dropped out of the top twenty – during the 1953-54 season, never to return. In April 1955, Godfrey went on another purge, firing several long-time “Little Godfreys” like Marion Marlowe, Lu Ann Simms, Haleloke and Bleyer’s successor, Jerry Bresler. For his troubles he received another round of bad press. Although other “Friends” would come along – notably Pat Boone and Carmel Quinn – they could not restore the show or its host to their former glory.

“Arthur Godfrey and His Friends” left the air in the summer of 1957, and “Talent Scouts” a year later. At least a portion of “Arthur Godfrey Time” would be telecast until April 1959, while the radio show continued until 1972. Godfrey weaved in and out of TV during the 1960’s, hosting specials and variety shows like “Hollywood Palace.” His successful battle against lung cancer awarded him some long-lost respect, but he would never again command the power of the old days.

Godfrey died in 1983, having long since been consigned to nostalgia retrospectives, trivia questions, and word-association games (the word being “humility”). Today, we look at the few kinescopes and listen to surviving broadcasts, and wonder what our grandparents were thinking, paying this guy so much attention and buying whatever he told them to. Armed with the La Rosa incident – and “Julie” remains to tell his side of the tale – and a few other latter-day recollections, posterity labels Arthur Godfrey an opinionated, hard-nosed, conceited S.O.B. of limited talent, who fooled the great unwashed with a generous helping of folksy charm, hopelessly outdated in these modern times. That may not be wholly true, but it’s the perception that sticks.

Perhaps Tiger Woods should take note: no matter how great you think you are, the public is notoriously fickle when it comes to celebrities. The issue isn’t that they can’t or won’t forgive your foibles. The issue is that they can’t forgive themselves for being taken in by a carefully crafted image… and they’ll take that out on you. Arthur would know.

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

2009-09-23T22:23:00.011-04:00

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

2009-05-21T01:26:00.029-04:00

(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 $10,500 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 $693,000. When the contract ended in 1970, between salaries and investments, the three were comfortably in the multi-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 latter's frustration when Roberts declared he wouldn’t memorize a speech for the episode “Right is the Fourth 'R,'” 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.”

UPDATE: Roberts passed away on January 24, 2010, at the age of 81.

The Restless Ballad of Pernell Roberts

2009-05-16T22:07:00.026-04:00

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

2006-08-17T11:25:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-31T07:12:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-29T08:56:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-14T12:07:00.000-04:00

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/

And So It Begins: March 10, 1962

2006-06-11T22:57:00.000-04:00

If Oscar Katz had never made another "enthusiastic" programming choice in his career, this one would assure him a place in TV's Hall of Fame.

This early mention of a situation comedy that would premiere on September 26, 1962 was just the kick-off to reams of coverage that followed in the wake of its nine-season run... very little of it positive. Did Katz forsee the impact this show would have, not just on his network, but on television comedy as a whole? Undoubtedly he would say "Yes."

The Beverly Hillbillies shot to #1 in the ratings in a mere three weeks. That was unprecedented; even I Love Lucy - at a time when there were fewer sets and fewer choices - took three months just to get to #2. To complicate matters, most serious critics hated this show. Renowned author (and then-critic for TV Guide) Gilbert Seldes practically found himself apologizing for liking it: "The whole notion on which The Beverly Hillbillies is founded is an encouragement to ignorance - in a time when our only salvation lies in education. But it is funny. What can I do?"

Katz's selection did much to shape the future of CBS. When the Hillbillies debuted, the network already had one sucessful folksy sitcom: The Andy Griffith Show. Once Hillbillies soared, CBS pulled out all the stops. Hillbillies begat Petticoat Junction, which begat Green Acres. And Griffith begat Gomer Pyle, USMC and later Mayberry R.F.D. By the time Hee Haw came along at the end of the decade, CBS had settled into its role as the Cornpone (or maybe Cornball) Broadcasting System.

But just why did the Hillbillies get so far so fast with viewers? "It's the least obvious, most unpredictable material I've ever been associated with," said Buddy (Jed) Ebsen early on. "Sixty million viewers can't be wrong," affirmed Irene (Granny) Ryan. Both were show business veterans, going back to the vaudeville era. And both were correct.

America certainly took this series to its heart. It's probably no accident that it reached #1 right around the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. When the nation was plunged into shock and grief on Friday, November 22, 1963 by the assassination of President Kennedy, it quickly tuned to The Beverly Hillbillies for comfort. For years, the seven episodes that immediately followed that terrible weekend were the highest rated TV shows ever. Once you deduct sports, movies and mini-series from the mix, you'll still find them in the Top 20.

Just the Funnies, Ma'am

2006-06-09T00:10:00.000-04:00

In early 2000, while I was researching and writing My Name's Friday, I was contacted by a fellow writer - John R. Cochran. Coincidentally, he was researching an article about the Dragnet newspaper strip, and asked if I had any information.

I told him what little I'd gleaned from the Library of Congress - namely that it ran about three years, from 1952-55, and that the scripts originated with Jack Webb's stable of writers. Plus, of course, that the cases depicted were taken "from official police files."

In turn, he sent me photocopies of examples from the strip. It was hardly an equitable trade; I made out far, far better than he did.

Due to space limitations, I was only able to include a single example of the strip in my book. I chose the one that had appeared on November 2, 1954 as it seemed to me the most "Dragnetesque" of the bunch.

With this post, I can finally share all 13 of the samples Mr. Cochran generously sent, along with some additional info he provided.

Unfortunately, we did not stay in touch and I have no idea where Mr. Cochran's article was published, or if he was able to finish it. John, if you're reading this, please let me know.

There were three artists on the strip during its lifetime: Joe Scheiber, Bill Ziegler and Mel Keefer. Scheiber's the illustrator for the first five strips included here - which happen to be the first five Dragnet strips, period. (Dragnet apparently did not run on Sunday, which was apropos - it was Joe Friday's only day off, too.)

As you can see, Scheiber didn't attempt to depict Webb or any of the Dragnet actors. The series had been on radio 3 years when the strip debuted on June 23, 1952, but the TV version had only been on for six months - and airing every other week, to boot. Nevertheless, it's the TV version that's promoted on the bottom left corner of strip #3.

Bill Ziegler took over the strip in 1953, and lasted about a year. Mr. Cochran didn't provide any examples of Ziegler's version, but he did volunteer his opinion that "the strip didn't look nearly as good" under his pen.

When Mel Keefer took over in 1954 - the strips reproduced here are from November 1 - 9 - he took the opposite approach, and did a superb job characterizing Webb and Ben Alexander. I would guess he referenced stills from the series.

By this time, the TV version was second only to I Love Lucy in ratings and popularity, so it was an added boon for the artwork to reproduce the two leads so accurately.

I have no explanation as to why the strip folded within a year of Keefer's arrival. All told, the daily strip was an interesting venture; one more example of Dragnet's hold on popular culture at the time.

Perhaps one day, a specialty publisher like Fantagraphics will collect them all in book form. Until then, if anyone has other examples, I'll be happy to post them.

Beatles For Sale

2006-06-07T00:46:00.000-04:00

When I spotted this ad in the August 14 issue of TV Guide, at first I thought it was for the Shea Stadium concert. Then I remembered that historic event took place on the 15th, didn't appear on TV until 1966, and aired on ABC when it did.

Then I looked at the listing itself:

This one was news to me. I presumed from that it was originally filmed in late '63 - early '64, as every song is from Meet the Beatles, the group's first Capitol Records release. I also figured it originated from England.

Ah, the good old internet. A few quick searches, and I discovered that Big Night Out was actually a series. The Beatles apparently did the show quite a few times - this one originally aired on February 29, 1964 in England, and had been taped six days earlier - almost immediately after the band returned from their whirlwind first visit to the U.S. As it happened, they were touring America when this "film feature" aired... playing Atlanta Stadium that evening. Was the point of this special to spur ticket sales... or was it compensation for cities that weren't on the itinerary?

The station shown in the ad is in Wichita Kansas, so this is prime time for CBS, although the listing doesn't say what's being pre-empted. (The Beverly Hillbillies followed at 7:30.) Does anyone remember seeing this broadcast in their home city?

And So It Begins: March 12, 1955

2006-06-01T08:22:00.000-04:00

Possibly the most interesting feature to be found in old issues of TV Guide are the "Teletype" pages. Usually there were two of these: one datelined from New York and the other from Hollywood, each containing one- or two-sentence news items. Here's where viewers were first informed about pilots, productions and purchases that might impact their future viewing habits. It's fun to look at some of these knowing that what followed turned out to be a medium-changing boon... or an earth-shattering bust.

I'll attempt to showcase the best (or most notorious) of these news bites about twice a month. Here's the first selection:

The cartoons sold by Warner Brothers were the b&w Looney Tunes titles, produced from 1930-1943. Although only two "latter-day" characters - Porky Pig and Daffy Duck - ever starred in any of these Tunes, it wouldn't be long before the rest of Warner's pre-1948 cartoon library made it to the home tube... and the baby boomer's world would never be the same. This marks the moment when Porky, Daffy, Bugs, Tweety, Sylvester, Wile E., Speedy and the rest transitioned from theatrical filler to a necessary part of daily life.

As for the Paramount shorts, the Popeye cartoons would be withheld from the first TV sale, to U.M.&M. Corporation. It would be another two years before the Sailor Man took TV by storm, just as he did the kiddie matinees of the 1930's.

Every Saturday Night! (Part 2)

2006-05-29T12:56:00.001-04:00

Hootenanny made its bow on ABC-TV on April 6, 1963. It was a 30-minute show; a fast-track replacement for Fess Parker's Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, a sitcom with neither the wit nor the drawing power of the 1939 Capra film. Hosted by Jack Linkletter (son of Art), Hootenanny was a traveling folk music jamboree, taped at various college campuses across the nation, with students serving as the "studio audience." With the NY Times' Jack Gould labeling it "the hit of the Spring" and the April 13 segment pulling more viewers than the debut, ABC quickly planned to slot Hootenanny into its fall lineup. As the ratings continued to climb, the network opted to expand the show to an hour come September... and a craze was born. Any record label with more than three folk acts signed to it released compilation albums with "Hootenanny" in the title; there may not be a thrift store in all America without at least one of these in its bins. (Labels with fewer than three folk acts simply released "Hootenanny with..." albums.) Two "Hootenanny" magazines were launched: one authorized by ABC and edited by Linda Solomon, the other edited by the Times' music critic (and future Bob Dylan biographer) Robert Shelton. FM radio, then on the rise, made its earliest bread-and-butter by programming folk music.

And what of the TV show? Did it really capture the folk scene in all its earthy splendor? Well, yes and no. To be sure, the emphasis was on the slick and Commercial. Capable as he was, host Linkletter (whose job, according to a producer, was to "report on the proceedings, as if he was covering a sporting event") couldn't help but rub some people the wrong way, especially when his introductions were made over some of the songs. The Limeliters, who are remembered in TV circles as the first group to perform "Things go better with Coca-Cola" in a commercial, headlined 7 of the first 13 segments. Others were toplined by such acts as The Journeymen (fronted by a clean-cut "Papa" John Phillips), The Chad Mitchell Trio (who performed their satirical "John Birch Society," and Pete Seeger's anti-war "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" and sang with Africa's Miriam Makeba), and Theodore Bikel (whose specialty was Russian and Israeli material). Some traditional (Ethnic) artists were included, such as Bikel, Josh White, his son and Leon Bibb. And the show welcomed many who were equally embraced at the Newport Folk Festival: Judy Collins, The Clancy Brothers & Tommy Makem, Flatt & Scruggs, Bob Gibson, Ian & Sylvia, Oscar Brand, The New Lost City Ramblers, Carolyn Hester and Doc Watson, to name a few.

The cameras loved to move around and among the students, capturing them singing along or listening raptuously (and somehow always finding a really attractive co-ed in the process). And there was the clapping. The students were always clapping along, especially to uptempo numbers. One musician told me, "Folk audiences hadn't done that before the advent of Hootenanny... it was really annoying."

Another annoying aspect for artists was the editorial viewpoint of the producers. Not so much in censoring topical or anti-war songs, as that was tolerated - particularly in the case of The Mitchell Trio, who were permitted to sing some (but not all) of the protest and satiric material that wasn't getting radioplay. Rather, songs were edited for time - so that the space between commercials was filled with "complete" performances. Other songs had their "hells" and "damns" removed from the lyrics, and when Judy Collins was handed a revised lyric to "Anathea" - one which changed the song's villian to a "righteous" man - she refused to sign for future appearances and advocated an artistic - rather than political - boycott.

When the show expanded to an hour, ABC brass decided it would be wise to invite Seeger to appear... provided he sign a loyalty oath. Naturally Seeger refused to be singled out for this treatment, and when his manager made the story public, artists that had originally appeared on the 30-minute version refused to return. That left the network with a longer running time for a dwindling talent pool. To compensate, jazz and country & western musicians were added, and a spot was set aside for stand-up comedians (Bill Cosby made his network TV debut on Hootenanny and Woody Allen was a particular favorite).

Hootenanny continued to draw an audience... for awhile. Scheduled against The Jackie Gleason Show, it managed to keep The Great One out of the Top 20 Nielsens for the first half of the season. But it wasn't long before repetition began to creep in. The New Christy Minstrels, The Serendipity Singers (who were discovered by the show's talent coordinator, Fred Weintraub) and The Brothers Four - Commercials all - each appeared on eight segments. Certain songs kept turning up: The Brothers Four and The New Christy Minstrels each did "Michael, Row the Boat Ashore." The Wanderers 3 opened a show with "Roll Along," as did the Travelers 3. The Chad Mitchell Trio and The Brothers Four each closed a show with "Four Strong Winds." And so on.

Finally, the death knell for Hootenanny - and the entire folk craze - was sounded on February 9, 1964, when The Beatles invaded via The Ed Sullivan Show. That was the turning point in popular music. College audiences may not have immediately embraced the British Invasion, but musicians sure did. It wasn't long before folkies like John Phillips, Cass Elliot, Gene Clark, John Sebastian, Barry McGuire, Carly Simon and Jerry Yester - all of whom had appeared on the show - would discover the joys (and sorrows) of rock stardom. And Hootenanny would give way to Shindig on ABC in the fall of '64.

Yet the music does continue. Bruce Springsteen is touring now in support of an album of Pete Seeger covers. Folk Alley (www.folkalley.com) keeps a 24-hour stream of acoustic music going through listener support. The World Folk Music Association (www.wfma.net) aspires to keep folk traditions alive throughout the globe... yet when they put on their annual fund-raising concert, it's The Kingston Trios and The Limeliters and The Brothers Fours to which they turn for the crowd. And it's a crowd consisting of more than a few who remember - and still miss - Hootenanny.

Every Saturday Night! (Part 1)

2006-05-25T15:20:00.001-04:00

The war between the folkies goes on.

There's a telling moment in Christopher Guest's film A Mighty Wind. At a cocktail party, Jerry Palter (Michael McKean) of The Folksmen - a Kingston Trioesque group - chats with an unnamed black blues singer (Bill Cobbs) about how sad it is that only "commercial junk" acts like The New Main Street Singers (a cheerfully cheesy bunch patterened after The Serendipity Singers and The Back Porch Majority) get all the money. The blues singer turns away with a disgusted stare at the camera... and we know it's because he considers Palter's group and the Main Streeters to be two sides of the same coin... which they are, of course.

In the early 1960's, when the nationwide populatrity of folk music reached a pinnacle, there were several factions - or "folk-tions" - taking very specific sides as to what did and did not constitute "folk music." It was much like the simplistic division between "red" and "blue" states. In this case, you had the Ethnics - the purists, if you will - who saw folk music as a tradition to be handed down from our forefathers (and mothers). This tradition consisted of homemade songs from across the nation: the love and death songs of the Southern hills, the labor songs of the Eastern cities, the Dust Bowl ballads of the Southwest farms, the cowboy songs of the Western plains. Then you had the Commercials - the singers and groups that took the Ethnics' music and dressed it up for mass audience appeal (and thus financial gain). Neither side liked the other very much; Ethnics supporters carped that the Commercials were a bunch of phonies ("pholk music" became a favorite put-down), while fans of the Commercials charged back that the Ethnics were boring and/or not terribly pleasing to the discerning ear.

Caught in the forefront of this battle was ABC-TV's Hootenanny. The series only lasted a year-and-a-half, but it sure created a lot of controversy. At the time, it was criticized by upper-echelon music critics for presenting the worst of "pholk" (even as television critics hailed the show for its mobility and emphasis on youth). The series hoisted its own petard, of course, by banning Pete Seeger and his former group, The Weavers outright, because of their affiliation with leftist causes. That may have been within the network's, or the producers', or the sponsors' right... but it would have been nice if someone had been honest about it. Instead, each kept passing the buck, blaming one or both of the others for the decision.

It was also within the right of folk artists to refuse to appear on the show because of this policy... and many of them did, including big guns like Peter, Paul & Mary, Joan Baez, The Kingston Trio and Bob Dylan. Most accused the Hootenanny bigwigs of continuing the 1950's policy of blacklisting and said so - loudly - to the press when announcing their decision to boycott the show. Funny thing, though: Seeger and The Weavers couldn't get on NBC's Tonight Show or CBS's Ed Sullivan for the same reason, but nobody ever pointed that out. It was almost as if Hootenanny was being condemned for everybody's sins... or at least for being called Hootenanny, a term reportedly coined by Seeger and his guru, Woody Guthrie.

Because Hootenanny has been considered for so long a "lost" show - it was captured on videotape, and it was then network policy to reuse tape until it wore out - nearly all that's been written about it has been the blacklist and the boycott, and any attempt to summarize the actual content is always from the viewpoint of the Ethnics. I had a little more tangible evidence at my disposal while growing up; my dad had audiotaped several episodes. Today, it's a somewhat different story... thanks to advertising agency policy, Hootenanny (and many another "lost" show) was kinescoped pretty much every week, even the summer reruns. A few of these kines have slipped into the hands of collectors, stock footage houses, and even libraries.

About 15 of the 43 Hootenanny shows can at least be viewed... and that's enough, I think, to get a feel for what the show was actually like... which I plan to write about next week.

Sunday with "Mister Four"

2006-05-18T08:06:00.000-04:00

Now here's what I call honesty in advertising!

Critics have often scolded parents for using TV as a babysitter... it's been a long, long time since television actually promoted the idea. This ad, for New York City's channel 4 (later to become WNBC), appeared in TV Guide in January 1954.

Some observations: Since it trumpets WNBT's Sunday morning schedule, it's interesting that the ad is targeting "Pop." Presumably "Mom" would be inclined toward neither sleeping in nor tuning in, but rather getting the family dressed, out the door and off to church.

The footnote, inviting pop "and mom" to also watch, is a cute touch. A wise parent would certainly have done so, as I suspect none of these shows were as trustworthy as, say, Sesame Street or even Captain Kangaroo. The Magic Clown, for example, was basically 15-minutes of remedial magic tricks in front of a juvenile audience, during which the Clown spent a good portion hawking Bonimo's Turkish Taffy - as thorough a tooth-decayer as was ever marketed to moppets.

Finally, the whole slate was an attempt at counter-programming; the other NYC stations were airing traditional Sunday fare, such as The Christophers, Lamp Unto My Feet, Look Up and Live, Church in the Home and so forth. If I track down a Metro New York TV Guide from January 1955, I'll let you know if it paid off.

"This Is Your Life, Bebe Daniels Lyon!"

2006-05-03T22:40:00.000-04:00

John McElwee's Monday Glamour Starter this week was Bebe Daniels - check it out here: http://greenbriarpictureshows.blogspot.com/2006/04/monday-glamour-starter-bebe-daniels-it.html. I had no clue that she was one of the first actresses to head her own production unit at a major studio - even Mary Pickford had to co-found a film company (United Artists) to get that kind of power. That was one aspect not covered in Bebe's appearance as This Is Your Life's principal subject on September 29, 1954.

Popular and long-lasting as it was, This Is Your Life wasn't everyone's cup of mocha. For one thing, its attempts at sentiment were never subtle, and too often crossed the line into bathos. For another, Ralph Edwards wasn't all that warm a host - he was a miserable ad-libber, and would get very jittery if a guest spot was running long or if something wasn't going as planned. Just watch the infamous Laurel & Hardy segment for a splendid example of Edwards' angst. It's proof positive that Oliver Hardy was indeed the dignified gentleman everyone said he was. Anybody else would have knocked Edwards into the next soundstage after one fat joke too many. (The L&H episode is the first one on This Is Your Life - The Ultimate Collection, a DVD box set released exactly one year ago.)

TV Guide ran an article about the making of the Daniels segment in a November 1954 issue. The piece explains that the unsung heroine of This Is Your Life is Jan Boehme (rhymes with "came"), whose job it was to learn all about the "principal subject" and line up all the surprise guests. The article tells us that Bebe and her husband Ben Lyon were enjoying an extended vacation in Hollywood - they'd moved to England in 1936 - while staying at the home of Louella Parsons. TV Guide's writer was impressed, but gave Edwards the accolade: "Any man who can pursuade Louella Parsons to hold out on her readers for 60 days is a man to be reckoned with." It was Boehme's job to meet with Ben Lyon (which led to some awkward moments when Bebe's friends spotted Ben with this strange woman in various Hollywood restaurants), and to speak with him by telephone (which led to some awkward moments when Bebe would answer it).

Still, the surprise came off perfectly, as it almost always did on Edwards' show. Bebe was stunned and immediately protested, "Ralph, I've been away so long, no one will remember me!" "Are you kidding?" Edwards replied, and the studio audience chimed in with a further round of applause.

Hal Roach, Harold Lloyd, Cecil B. DeMille (pre-filmed, since he was in Egypt shooting The Ten Commandments the night of the show) and of course Ben and Louella were there to celebrate Bebe's years of movie and radio stardom. But her life during World War II, when she was the first woman to land on the beach at Normandy shortly after D-Day, and made voice transcriptions of the wounded men, which she sent to their families, was also covered - and, of course, this was the moment when sentiment ran unchecked. One of the guests was a woman who'd lost two sons in the war; Bebe had recorded the eldest son, speaking of how his brother had perished, and it was the last time this mother would hear his voice. Both women wept as Edwards assured them "there isn't a mother in the world who doesn't understand" the gift of Bebe's recording in the midst of tragedy. One could argue that it was cruel exploitation to revisit this heartbreak so publicly. Then again, the mother, Mrs. Preston B. Scott, did come on the show willingly. In fact, she'd interrupted a vacation to appear.

Bebe's own mother, Phyllis Daniels, was there, as were her two children, Barbara and Richard Lyon, flown in from London. All-in-all it was another successful This Is Your Life - but Jan Boehme wasn't watching. According to TV Guide, "she was on her phone again, talking to one of the key people involved in the November 24 show. Mr. (Alexander Graham) Bell's heirs should write this girl a thank-you note."

Color TV: When and What was Yours?

2006-05-01T12:07:00.000-04:00

No question about it: 1964 was the true start of the color TV revolution. To be sure, NBC’s “compatible color” had been around since 1953, but most of us had just paid off our black & white sets and were in no hurry to replace them for the sake of three or four color programs per week. By ’64, it was a different story. Color movies were airing several nights weekly on nearly all the networks, and color programming was finally on the rise. Later that year, Bonanza – a show specifically designed to sell color sets – reached the top of the Nielsen chart.

This free TV Guide supplement from September 1963, which consisted of half advertising, displays the models that were enticing buyers to finally consign that old 12-inch B&W set to the junk heap (or perhaps the bedroom). Make sure you read carefully before you buy.

RCA, claiming to have “perfected” color TV, tells us that “improved modern circuitry eliminates more than 200 of the hand-soldered, hand-wired connections that can come loose or cause trouble.” On the other hand, Zenith assures us “There are no printed circuits, no production shortcuts. Zenith’s specially designed color circuitry is hand wired with the same extra care that makes Zenith America’s largest selling black and white TV.”

Hmmm. This could be difficult. Maybe our best bet is to go with the Silvertone, so we can rely on that 90-days of free Sears service and one year of free parts. Then again, General Electric says their circuit boards are guaranteed for life.

Oh, well, big decisions like color television aren’t supposed to be easy. My family finally settled on a Zenith – five years later. When and what was your first color TV?

"My Name's Friday" - 5 Years Later

2006-04-25T10:24:00.007-04:00

I'd requested a color section for My Name's Friday, but it wasn't in the publisher's budget. So now I get to post one.

My Name's Friday was released five years ago; since that time I've been interviewed on broadcast, satellite and internet radio, as well as on cable TV, countless times. The first question is almost always the same: "What made you decide to write a book about Jack Webb and Dragnet?"

The answer is simple: the man and the show deserved one.

By the time My Name’s Friday came out, Webb and his most famous creation had taken quite a drubbing over the years, most recently at the hands of cable’s TV LAND. Once upon a time, TV LAND trumpeted its vision of “preserving our television heritage.” No less an icon than Dick Van Dyke was its spokesperson. Yet once they got their hands on Dragnet (specifically the revival series Dragnet 1967-70), they turned Webb’s Joe Friday into a joke; an extension of Dan Aykroyd’s parody version from the 1987 feature film. Instead of celebrating Dragnet’s undeniable influence on police drama, or Webb’s contribution to television, TV LAND’s promos simply made Sgt. Friday out to be a humorless, obtuse, one-dimensional police hack, blind to the flaws of the Department he served.
This approach was in keeping with latter-day criticism, which belittled Dragnet for being reactionary, for brooking no shades of grey, for unrealistically portraying the counterculture, for daring to suggest that the LAPD stands for honesty, integrity and solid police work. Granted, a few episodes from the revival years unwittingly provided ammunition for critics, but it was irresponsible to tar the entire series with the same brush – and yet, that’s what happened.

More distressing was how latter-day TV producers – with the notable exception of Dick Wolf – tried to distance themselves from Webb and his “controlled,” “deadpan” approach to filmmaking. Richard Levinson and William Link (Columbo), Steven Bochco (Hill Street Blues) and others went on record declaring that Dragnet had no influence on their shows – or if it did, that they went out of their way to do the opposite.

But it’s no use. As I wrote in the Epilogue: “Every time a TV cop questions a colorful witness, uses a code number to describe a crime, advises a suspect of his rights, fills out paperwork, or engages in light banter with his or her partner, the spirit of Sgt. Friday is there. Every drama series of any genre that heightens suspense through close-ups, music and terse dialogue is walking down the trail blazed by Jack Webb.”

I did not want it forgotten that, back in the day, Webb was hailed as a genius – the man who had lifted TV out of the dark ages. Dragnet proved that television drama did not have to be live to be critically acclaimed or highly rated. With his liberal use of close-ups, Webb proved the intimacy of television would be its greatest asset. The rerun series, Badge 714, proved to TV execs that off-network syndication was where real profits could be had. The 1954 feature proved that audiences would pay to see their favorites on the big screen. The 1967 revival proved that a cancelled series could make a successful return.

And so I wrote My Name’s Friday. Would it make a difference? I certainly hoped so. Leonard Maltin called me and said he thought the book was “dynamite – just terrific.” The Mystery Writers of America – one of the first professional bodies to recognize Dragnet’s greatness, thrice honoring it with its distinguished Edgar Allan Poe Award - accorded My Name’s Friday the honor of an Edgar nomination.

The week the book was released, TV LAND pulled Dragnet 1967-70 from its schedule.

Five years later, sadly not much has changed. Webb’s oeuvre has not undergone any sort of critical re-evaluation – his legacy has gone from genius, to joke, to invisible. Four years ago, Dick Wolf brought Dragnet back as an hour-long drama that, despite mostly positive reviews, was ignored by audiences; an attempt to “revitalize” the format proved a disaster. Last year, Universal Home Video released a DVD set of the seventeen Dragnet 1967 episodes – arguably the best of the revival years. Sales were only fair, and there are no present plans to market the remaining three seasons, much less provide an authorized release of the original series. Consequently, it’s unlikely that the Webb theatrical features (Pete Kelly’s Blues, The D.I., etc.) will ever receive the special edition treatment. It’s our loss.

In 1987, director William Friedkin (The French Connection) said, “I’ve never seen a better police show than Dragnet.” There’s a reason for that.

Hello, Angie Dickenson!

2006-04-19T12:38:00.000-04:00

I was a little late in learning that there's an Angie Dickenson blog-a-thon going on around the web today (details here: http://sergioleoneifr.blogspot.com/2006/04/angie-dickinson-woman-next-door.html). And since this blog's focus is television, I thought I'd post the following TV Guide cover. Anybody know which one's Angie?

Yep - the brunette on the left. I may be wrong in ascribing this as Angie's first major public appearance, but I haven't seen anything earlier around the web this morning! This issue is from October 1953... and Angie was one of six winners of the "T-Venus" competition, for which the prize would be to appear on The Colgate Comedy Hour during the 1953-54 season. I haven't yet determined on which date(s) the appearance(s) took place, but perhaps a more savvy Angiephile has that information.

Here's the article:

You Asked For It: The Our Gang Reunion

2006-04-14T11:23:00.007-04:00

I once worked with a gentleman, retired from the business, who began his career as a production assistant on this show. He had a few stories to tell about Art Baker and producer Cran Chamberlain, which I'm sorry to say I've long forgotten, and he lamented the loss of a 16mm "blooper reel," which reportedly included some quick shots of Mr. Baker downing a few quick shots of his own from an ever-present flask, while off-stage.

On one slow afternoon, I brought in the You Asked For It tape available from Shokus Video (now offered on DVD as well), and we watched it. My friend remembered that, like the big money quiz shows later in the decade, this little series was also partially "controlled" - or fixed, if you prefer. Unusual acts or stunts would be submitted to the producers, who would fabricate letters requesting these things, and it would be the faces of the production or clerical staff (including that of my friend, "more than once") that would appear on the Skippy Peanut Butter jars, representing these non-existent viewers.

The first episode on the tape was the one that closed with the reunion of the Our Gang kids from the silent era. First, a few pictures of the original Gang were shown.

From left to right, Jackie Condon, Joe Cobb, Mary Kornman, Mickey Daniels, Johnny Downs and Allen "Farina" Hoskins. Then came the reunion.

Ugh. Beanies and short pants. Baker announced that Mary Kornman was ill and unable to attend. That was our loss; a pretty face would certainly have been welcome among this motley bunch!

I asked my friend if the gang had been difficult to round up. He said no, but added that Farina was the easiest to locate: "He was working as a janitor for the building across the street from our studio."

At the time, Johnny Downs was the only one still in show business - he'd just begun hosting his own children's show in San Diego.

Mickey Daniels gave out his trademark horse laugh, displaying more than a few missing teeth. After this, none of the gang would ever see him again.

Joe Cobb and Jackie Condon had both left the business, although Jackie was still seeking work as an actor, without much luck. Not long after this, he'd give it up and join Joe in the aeronautic defense industry.

Then there were some surprises for the "kids":

Mrs. Fern Carter, the gang's private teacher...

cinematographer Art Lloyd...

and Robert F. "Uncle Bob" McGowan, who directed the very

best Our Gang Comedies for over 15 years.

In their book The Little Rascals: The Life and Times of Our Gang, Richard K. Bann and Leonard Maltin refer to the You Asked For It reunion as "a slapdash affair... but a nostalgic treat nonetheless." Watching it over 50 years later, it seems more of the latter. Seeing Farina Hoskins and Johnny Downs respectfully greet Bob McGowan - their long-time director/father figure - is touching. Here was the man who shaped the template for all of the Gang incarnations to come. Look at the wagon photograph, and simply replace Joe with Spanky, Mickey with Alfalfa, Mary with Darla, Jackie with Porky, Johnny with Butch, and Farina with Buckwheat.

Silent Our Gangs can be found on DVD from dealers such as Grapevine and Finders Keepers Video.

And so we leave Art Baker to close out this fond reminder of a classic group of films (which would not reach TV until about four years later), and some of the people who made them. Thank you, You Asked For It... whether or not any real viewer actually did.

Television Trivia Flashback

2006-04-11T12:40:00.000-04:00

It's trivia time, folks!

A good friend sent me this insert, courtesy of Sara Lee cakes, that had appeared in a 1989 issue of People magazine, and I couldn't resist posting it.

All-in-all, it's a nice capsule history of the best of 1950's TV... although I can't imagine anyone selecting Father Knows Best over Leave it to Beaver as the "perfect TV family." Certainly Billy Gray, who played Bud Anderson, has made it known through the years that the lessons taught on Father Knows Best "were 180 degrees wrong." Ironically, in the plot described herein, the apparent moral is that deceit can be a good thing if it's used to reinforce the family.

I also have some quibbles with the fact-finding. A few urban legends, such as Vivian Vance's contractual obligation to remain 20 lbs heavier than Lucille Ball, and Jack Webb's non-utterance "Just the facts, ma'am," are reinforced. There's also this strange piece of Dragnet trivia: "From 1953 to 1955, Dragnet was syndicated as Badge 714 while Webb put the series on on hold to act in and direct films." Badge 714 did begin in syndication in 1953, and Webb did produce Dragnet episodes ahead of schedule in order to further his theatrical feature ambitions, but one thing had nothing to do with the other.

On the plus side, the information about The Adventures of Superman is spot on. The plot described is from "The Big Forget" (1957), my favorite episode as a child. It's wishful thinking on my part, but I'd sure love to be the "expert" who provides commentary for that episode on the final Superman box set. (Well, I did write an article about the 1957 season for Jim Nolt's The Adventures Continue fanzine. Does that help, Warner Brothers?)

Anyway, enjoy a piece of Sara Lee cheesecake as you read these pages. Oh, and the trivia questions (for which the answers are provided upside-down on the last 3 pages) are as follows:

1) What was "Beaver" Cleaver's true first name?

2) What is this marionette's first name? (Hint: in Texas, it means "Hello!")

3) Grandpa and the rest of the Munsters lived at what unlucky address?

"Hail His Majesty the Sun!"

2006-04-06T12:18:00.003-04:00

For the earliest members of the TV generation, this cartoon was omnipresent.

In his book, Of Mice and Magic, Leonard Maltin wrote that his childhood included "countless viewings" of The Sunshine Makers (1935). No less an authority than my mother vividly recalls it as one of the very first things she ever watched on television in 1952 - and that it was on practically all the time. Even after having not seen the cartoon for a half-century, she could still sing "Hail His Majesty the sun" perfectly.

The listing is from a New York City edition of TV Guide for June 1956, three years before I was born. I grew up in the NYC Metro area, but I don't recall Sunshine Makers, "Uncle Joe" or any kiddie shows on WABC, except maybe on Saturday mornings. I also don't remember cartoon titles being listed in TV Guide. It's nice to know that they once did that, just as it's nice to see that the stations had something for everybody during that half-hour - too bad there was only one set per TV household back then.

Once the major studios sold their cartoon libraries to TV, and stations got their hands on actual "stars" like Popeye, Bugs Bunny and Mighty Mouse, shorts like Sunshine Makers were consigned to oblivion.

Sunshine Makers was apparently produced independently by Ted Eshbaugh in 1933 for the Borden company. I don't know an awful lot about Eshbaugh, except that he was one of the earliest animation directors to work with color, and that he'd done a lot of independent work - including a cartoon version of The Wizard of Oz, which I understand is an extra on Warner Brothers' DVD release of the classic Judy Garland feature.

Two years later, the Van Beuren Studios in New York City

released the film to theaters - their output was distributed by RKO Radio Pictures and Eshbaugh was now working there as a director - as part of their "Rainbow Parade" cartoon series. The ad shown is from April 1935 for the Ritz Theater in Anniston, Alabama.

Fifteen years before U.P.A. was hailed for breakthroughs in the use of light, color and shadow in animation, this little gem was blazing the trail. Granted, it was hamstrung by the Cinecolor process, which only utilized blue and red tints. But I suspect that if a pristine 35mm print were to emerge, a few prominent film historians might sit up and take notice.The story is simplicity itself. The happy elves harness the sun to produce "bottled sunshine." The gloomy elves ("We're happy when we're sad") that live in the dark forest next door try to stir up trouble. This leads to a full-fledged battle that they are destined to lose, for goodness and light will always triumph.

Van Beuren went out of business in 1937, just after RKO Radio signed a distribution deal with Walt Disney. The cartoon library was divvied up between several interested parties - Guaranteed Pictures, Commonwealth Pictures, Official Films; all ancient history now. Eventually, the Van Beuren films fell into the public domain, but thanks to the dollar DVDs you can find at Wal-Mart, Target or almost any $1 store, Sunshine Makers is once more omnipresent. Look for it - if you enjoy cartoons, it's a title well worth owning.

Superman Goes to Color

2006-03-24T14:57:00.000-05:00

The color episodes of "The Adventures of Superman" will be coming to DVD this year - perhaps a look at that landmark event (or "catastrophe," depending on your point of view) is in order.

Producer Whitney Ellsworth, having come from the comic book and pulp novel industries, recognized that Superman was a 4-color creation and deserved to be seen that way; if not now, then certainly by future generations. In 1954, when Ellsworth made the decision to shoot "Superman" in color, the value of syndicated reruns was just becoming evident. Ellsworth recognized that color was a wise investment - so did the sponsor, Kellogg's, which is why they agreed to help pay for it.

Of course, the color episodes weren't originally seen that way... "Superman" aired in black & white until the fall of 1965, six years after George Reeves died. There simply weren't enough color sets in operation through the '50's to justify the expense of manufacturing color dupe negatives and striking color prints for telecast. Only a few frames were printed at the time, so everyone behind the scenes could see what they were getting.

A few of these frames have survived, hence the above shot of George holding "the lily" on the set of "The Magic Secret." Naturally, these were printed on (cheap) Eastman stock... which is why Superman is turning red.

When color versions finally appeared in '65, the show's popularity exploded all over again. Almost overnight it shot into the top 5 of syndicated programs. Stations fell over each other trying to tie up the rights for their markets. Topps' bubble gum released a series of cards for the series - before that, who even knew that "Superman" publicity photos existed?

The color episodes have taken a lot of abuse over the years, as if the hues themselves are to blame. If the final 52 seem less dynamic, violent or downright interesting than the b&w seasons, color film is certainly not at fault. If anything, blame Dr. Fredrick Wertham's "Seduction of the Innocent" - the book that sparked a congressional investigation into comic book violence, of which Reeves himself owned a copy. The entire comics industry changed after that - violence, sexuality and gore were banned. Some companies, like National (D.C.), adapted. Others, like E.C., gave up the ghost. Since D.C. owned the "Superman" TV series, it stood to reason that the edict to tone down the stories would extend to those on film as well as in print.

In truth, there are some fine color episodes of "Superman," just as there are some awful b&w episodes ("My Friend Superman," anyone?). Check out the DVD set of seasons 3 & 4, to be released on June 20, and see for yourself.

"Salute to Stan Laurel"

2006-03-22T08:09:00.000-05:00

Here's how television paid tribute to a comedy giant over 40 years ago:

During TV's Golden Age, it was impossible to miss Laurel & Hardy. Their short films, produced by Hal Roach during the '20's and '30's, were all over the tube. Granted, this was mainly because stations needed product - any product - to fill time; thus the airwaves were literally choked with old movies. But the Laurel & Hardy titles were undoubtedly the classiest in the bunch, and they drew large audiences. Indeed, among the old theatrical two-reelers that comprised early TV programming, only Stan & Ollie, Our Gang (nee "Little Rascals") and Three Stooges shorts continued well into the modern era - and the latter two series had arrived late to the party (1955 and '58, respectively).

This particular Salute wasn't too well received at the time; consequently L&H biographers tend to regard it as well-intentioned, but ultimately inconsequential. Wrapping up the season in April 1966, TV Chronicle's Neil Compton would dismiss the special as "not much of a tribute to the late comedian (who appeared briefly in a number of film clips brutally hacked out of their original context), and did not enhance the reputations of participants such as Dick Van Dyke, Lucille Ball, or Phil Silvers." Indeed, Van Dyke (who was also one of the producers) reportedly complained that his vision for Salute... had itself been hacked to pieces by network corporate types. Not mentioned in the synopsis above is an appearance by Fred Gwynne in full Herman Munster regalia. That clearly had more to do with CBS (home of The Munsters) than with Laurel.

Perhaps this reaction was why we didn't see a network tribute to Buster Keaton, who passed away less than 3 months after this show aired. (Was this his final TV performance? Anyone out there know?) Nor ones for Chaplin, Groucho, or a host of others. For the most part, networks would do better when preparing tributes for their own, such as CBS's look at the life of Lucille Ball in 1989.

Still, any show that features Buster and Lucy doing pantomime together, plus a Bob Newhart monologue, can't be all bad. We'd like to see this one come out of hiding and make it onto an official DVD release. How about it, Dick?

A "Really Big Shewww" in a Really Small Room

2006-03-20T12:32:00.001-05:00

Here's one photo I'd love to know more about. This has the appearance of an unlikely meeting of the minds... perhaps it's an early "Battle of the Bands" with Ed Sullivan serving as referee between The Beatles and Peter, Paul & Mary. As a fan of both folk music and the Fab Four, my curiosity is whetted.

Clearly this is February 1964, either before or after the Sullivan broadcast of February 9; the one that shattered audience records and even led Rev. Billy Graham to break a lifetime's rule and watch the tube on the Sabbath. Perhaps it's Valentine's Day, on which the Beatles would give two concerts at Carnegie Hall. Did P,P&M attend one (or both) of those, sensing it would be at least as momentous as the one the Weavers gave there in 1955?

And what's with the body language? This pic is wallowing in it! Is Paul McCartney trying to give Mary Travers a not-so-subtle suggestion for later on? Mary, meanwhile, is deep in conversation with Ringo... judging by her hands, perhaps she's querying about the percussive use of clapping in "I Want to Hold Your Hand." Peter Yarrow, hand on chin, is focused on Sullivan, as if to even acknowledge the four Liverpool lads would be beneath his dignity. Meanwhile, Noel Paul Stookey seems to be on his knees. Is he worshipping at the Merseybeat altar, or was that the only way to get him into the shot? Maybe he's just envying their hair. As for John Lennon, I like to think that he's asking the photog to take Ed, Peter and Paul and cruise around Central Park for about an hour.

Perhaps the five living participants (six, depending on who the photographer is) might have more valid observations about this event. If so, that's what the comments section is for.

Happy 80th Birthday Jerry Lewis!!!

2006-03-16T14:59:00.000-05:00

Then.... and now.

I'll have more to say about Jerry's TV career in weeks to come. But for now, may he have a Happy Birthday, and many, many more!

Photo copyright 2006 by AP Photos

Happy 60th Anniversary, Bozo!!!

2006-03-16T10:55:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid in the 1960's, Bozo the Clown was a must-see program. I didn't find out until much later that practically every major city in the U.S. had its own "Bozo," or that the clown didn't actually get his start on television, but on records.

In 1946, Alan Livingston of Capitol Records conceived of the clown as a narrator of a children's record. The disc ended up a major seller, which naturally led to equally successful sequels. By 1949, Livingston got the idea of making Bozo a TV personality. Pinto Colvig (right), best known as the original voice of Disney's Goofy and who voiced the clown on Capitol's records, became the first to actually portray Bozo, over KTTV-11 in Los Angeles. This venture, too, proved to be an enormous success, and Livingston wound up hiring various "Bozos" specifically for personal appearances. One of these was Larry Harmon, who eventually pooled his resources, bought the rights to the character from Capitol, and turned Bozo into a marketing juggernaut.

It was Harmon's idea to create Bozo programs unique to each major city. In Chicago, home of the longest-lasting Bozo program, the clown was portrayed by Bob Bell, then Joey D'Auria. Stu Kerr took the part in Baltimore (left), and Frank Avaruch in Boston.

If the Bozo on the right reminds you of a certain famous Today Show weatherman, it's no coincidence: for a time, Willard Scott was Washington D.C.'s clown.

Anybody out there ever own this punching bag clown? I did - and it's still available!

After 60 years, Bozo remains a viable commodity, despite his absence from daily or weekly television. In 2003, Bozo returned to his audio roots with a CD release entitled "Get Down with the Clown." For more on Bozo's history, as well as the merchandise seen here, visit Clown-Ministry.com at http://www.clown-ministry.com/History/bozo-clown.html.

Oh, yes: for the story behind a certain encounter between Bozo and a rather rude child - one that may or may not be apocryphal - go here: http://www.snopes.com/radiotv/tv/bozo.htm

My Friend, Teddy Quinn

2006-03-13T10:08:00.005-05:00

After graduating from college, I moved from New Jersey, my home state, to take a job in Los Angeles. I lived and/or worked in Hollywood for about 11 years, and I encountered many celebrities around town. But I became friends with only one movie and television actor: Teddy Quinn. He was working for the market research company that had just hired me; I'd be his immediate supervisor.

When we met, Ted had spent nearly a decade away from the profession, and was trying to establish himself as a singer-songwriter in a band called Telekin. He'd play their demo tapes in the office, and I immediately liked what I heard. The most apt description of this group would be "electronic bohemia." Their music was related to New Wave, being synthesizer-based, but with a difference: Ted's lyrics didn't shy away from social and political commentary, and they were married seamlessly to catchy pop melodies courtesy of his writing partners Cathie Kimble and Donald Kaiser.

As a wanna-be folk singer, how could I not gravitate toward such a musician? In time, we'd collaborate on some songs. It could have played havoc with our boss-employee relationship, but Ted was a thorough professional on the job; probably because he'd been a solid worker in a cut-throat business since he was about 5 years old.

Teddy's big break came in a commercial for Bayer Aspirin for Children circa 1963. He comes calling to a playmate's house, only to be told by her mother that she's sick. "Does it hurt and have a temperature?" asks Teddy. Not after mom gave her Bayer Children's Aspirin. "That's what my mother gives me!" says our "star salesman." "That's 'cause she loves you," affirms the mom, "and when you feel better, she feels better, too!" Concludes Teddy: "Mothers are like that... yeah, they are!"

I'd heard that Ted ad-libbed those last three words, and they made his career. From there, he signed a contract with Universal Studios. Their TV division, Revue, put him in a series called Karen, which didn't last, while the movie studio cast him in "Madame X" as Lana Turner's son, "The Ballad of Josie" as Doris Day's son, and gave him brief bits in three Don Knotts classics: "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken," "The Reluctant Astronaut," and "The Shakiest Gun in the West," which I saw on my 9th birthday.

Teddy's Universal contract was apparently non-exclusive, because he turned up in TV shows for other studios, such as Paramount and Screen Gems (Columbia), and his second go-round as a series regular was in 1967 for Sheldon Leonard Productions, which tried to build a show for perennial also-ran Jerry Van Dyke, last seen in the notorious My Mother, the Car. The new series, Accidental Family, cast Van Dyke as nightclub comic Jerry Webster. Teddy played his son, Sandy. Webster buys a farm in the San Fernando Valley, which is run by headstrong Sue Kramer (Lois Nettleton) and her young daughter Tracy (Sue Benjamin - whatever became of her?) Hilarity ensued - or was supposed to, anyway. The show never had a chance, despite the lead-in of Star Trek (which wasn't doing all that well in the ratings either) - especially since the premiere went up against Steve McQueen's "The Great Escape" (1965) over on CBS. Nevertheless, a viewer from North Wales writes on imdb.com that Accidental Family was "hardly the stuff of greatness, but it deserved a longer run than it received ... while Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch should have been smothered at birth. There is no justice in TV Land."

Based on sheer rerun value, Teddy's most durable performance is probably in the Bewitched episode "Playmates" (3/28/68) as Michael, the spoiled brat that Tabitha turns into a bulldog. In addition to Bewitched, Screen Gems also used him in The Monkees and I Dream of Jeannie. Paramount put him in a couple of Bonanza episodes, including one that Ted told me was his favorite performance: "Tommy" (12/18/66). In this, he's a deaf-mute who is sent to the Ponderosa by his mother; his step-dad has escaped from jail and she wants to protect him. Eventually the cruel husband claims his wife and drags her to Mexico, where she encounters a deaf-mute Catholic Brother and realizes her son can have a worthwhile future despite his condition. Eventually the villian gets his just desserts and mother and son are reunited.

Teddy continued working through the decade, turning up on Family Affair, The Courtship of Eddie's Father, and Land of the Giants among others. Imdb lists his last credit as a "young boy" in a 1972 film about black hookers: "Street Sisters" - a world apart from "Mothers are like that... yeah, they are!"

Today, Ted is still a working musician, a peace activist, a proud new father, and a good friend. Check out his life today at his blog: http://www.nomadhouse.com/, where you can download his new album, Dog Years, for free!

UPDATE, June 14 2010: For those of you who have googled the phrases from that Bayer Aspirin commercial hoping to see it, you can view it here.

Happy Birthday, Johnny Cash

2006-02-26T06:46:00.000-05:00

Growing up, there were three heroes in my life. In order of appearance, they were: George Reeves, Johnny Cash and Jack Webb. I discovered all of them via television.

Reeves died tragically 3 and 1/2 months before I was born. Webb died when I was 23. I'd moved to L.A. just nine months before, and had I known he held court daily in a restaurant just a couple of blocks down Sunset from the record store I regularly patronized, I would have marched in there, pen and paper in hand.

Cash I did meet, in 1991; ironically it was on Sunset Blvd. He was appearing briefly at The Guitar Center to put his handprints in cement for the store's "Rock Walk of Fame." This was a couple of years before he signed with Rick Rubin and once more became hip, so there were at best about two dozen fans present at the event.

I was as nervous as he appeared to be on stage. I shook his hand and stammered "It's a pleasure to meet you," and I think he said "It's a pleasure to meet you, too." Later, after the ceremony, he signed my copy of his first Sun LP. I felt vaguely guilty about that: he'd signed autographs for everyone in the store, and all of them were on old records or books. No one presented any of his recent CDs for a signature. I owned them, and immediately wished I'd brought one. I decided to atone for that sin by buying a ticket to that night's concert at Universal Ampetheatre. It was a good show, what little I recall of it; meeting Cash has pretty much eclipsed all other memories of that day.

Like all heroes, Cash was an inspiration. In my case, he inspired me to pick up a guitar. When The Johnny Cash Show was on the air (1969-71), there was no one with a cooler guitar style. He handled the instrument like a man possessed, playing every inch between the bridge and the nut. I want to play like that, I'd breathe.

And The Johnny Cash Show was the coolest variety program on the air. No ancient crooners, no lame comedy sketches (at least not until the very end of its run) - just great music. There were no boundries on this show. Where else could one see, on the same series, hot country artists like Merle Haggard; vintage Opry people like Homer & Jethro; old and new folkies like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell and Gordon Lightfoot; the Everly Brothers jamming with their father, Ike; and even Cash, Carl Perkins and Eric Clapton rocking out on "Matchbox." Clearly, Cash had a deep respect for all kinds of music.

Cash passed away in September 2003. This would have been his 74th birthday. I hope that he, the Carters, Carl, Elvis, Roy and many others are celebrating somewhere on high.

Happy Birthday, Johnny! Thanks for sharing the gift with us!

A Great Metropolitan Newspaper

2006-02-22T12:22:00.001-05:00

Fans of The Adventures of Superman should recognize this building: it's the one used as the Metropolis Daily Planet during the first 26 episodes, which were filmed in the summer and early fall of 1951. Located at 5225 Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles and reaching 12 stories high, it was for years the tallest structure in the entire city, with the exception of City Hall... which would double as the Daily Planet beginning with the show's second season in 1953.

The E. Clem Wilson building still stands. Here's what it looks like today:

Notice the "Samsung" billboard that wraps around the top. That billboard has changed a few times over the years.

Here's what it looked like from 1991 until early 2003. When I moved to LA in 1982, Mutual of Omaha Insurance occupied that space.

A question that has puzzled me over the years is why this building did not continue as the Daily Planet for the run of the Superman series. To be sure, City Hall was a very impressive structure (in fact, it is also used in the "Leaping tall buildings in a single bound" upward pan shot, minus the dome), but it was highly visible nearly every week on Dragnet, which by 1953 was fast becoming TV's second-most popular show. Dragnet also had a large juvenile audience, and there had to have been at least a little confusion about why Joe Friday would be working in the Planet building.

Ironically, I discovered the reason for the change just a couple of days ago while watching an old Dragnet from 1952.

This is the opening shot of the Dragnet episode, "The Big Seventeen," which was filmed in August of 1952, although this stock footage could have been made as early as January of that year. This is Wilshire Boulevard, eastbound toward La Brea Avenue, and there's the building on the left... complete with billboard! General of America Insurance was apparently the first to advertise their services in this spot. After doing a little research, I learned that this was the one and only building in all of Los Angeles licensed to have a neon billboard.

By the time Superman's second season began production (in June 1953), the billboard was a fait accompli. Since he apparently wanted a variety of stock shots, as opposed to the same slow downward pan, producer Whitney Ellsworth had no choice: he'd have to change skyscrapers. Which meant he had only one other from which to choose: City Hall.

Incidentally, the white building you see just behind "the Daily Planet" is the Carnation Milk building at 5045 Wilshire. That structure also figures in Superman history - it served as the entrance to the Planet. You can see Lois and Jimmy hurriedly leaving its front door in "Superman on Earth", and all four Planet staffers going in and out in "Crime Wave" - both classics from the beloved first season.

Television and "Our World"

2006-02-18T06:34:00.000-05:00

Welcome to "Better Living Through Television." Pretty audacious statement, huh? Ironically, I belong to a club and a mailing list that celebrate Old-Time Radio, and many members of both would like nothing more than to toss a brick through the old "idiot box." I'm tempted myself, when I see what passes for TV programming today.

So, let's go back in time. In the coming days, I hope to showcase that which made television the preeminent form of entertainment... in my home, at least. And I hope you'll chime in with your own memories.

First, I must mention that this blog would not exist if not for John McElwee's Greenbriar Picture Shows: http://greenbriarpictureshows.blogspot.com/. It's a fascinating, eclectic site, and not just for the cinemaphile. What Mr. McElwee does for old movies, I hope to accomplish for old TV. Thanks for the inspiration, John!

Now, on with the show!

One of the first claims made for television was that it would bring the world closer together: every nation would be able to see how every other nation lived, thus reducing ignorance and promoting unity. Lovely thought. Shows like "See it Now" tried to accomplish this goal, but they didn't exactly burn up the ratings. We in the U.S. were more entranced with the idea of watching Milton Berle in a dress than in how or what our global neighbors were doing with their lives.

In the summer of 1967, TV tried again with the program shown above. Most of us have heard of this pioneering program, mostly due to its one lasting aspect: The Beatles' on-the-spot recording of "All You Need is Love." But in reading this TV Guide description, the whole thing sounds fascinating. If anyone out there has a kinescope of the entire program - not just that famous 5+ minutes from Abbey Road - I'd love to know about it!