This week in TV Guide: April 17, 1993

this week's TV Guide is a special, the 40th Anniversary edition. It's an interesting issue, and this is going to be an interesting look at it; we won't even dip into the programming until Monday. That's because this is the 40th Anniversary Issue, and as you can tell from the cover, we're going to be reading about TV Guide's choices as the All-Time Best TV.* Ratings like this are ultimately pointless (one man's trash is another man's treasure, after all, and as the Editors themselves point out, "most of the fun is in the argument"), but they're usually fun to look at. Let's see if that's the case this time as well.

*I can't imagine writing this phrase without using Capital Letters.

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The shows are separated into categories: sitcoms, family shows, cop shows, Westerns and the like, and winners are chosen for the decades of the '50s, '60s, '70s, '80s and overall. Some of the choices, which must have seemed so progressive at the time, are probably going to be quite dated now, while others are going to be a testimony to how cultures change over time. Let's start, as an example, with sitcoms. The best sitcom of the '50s is no surprise: I Love Lucy. Probably not much disagreement there. For the '60s, the winner is The Dick Van Dyke Show, the '70s is M*A*S*H, the '80s is Cheers, and the All-Time Best* is M*A*S*H. What does this mean?

*There are those Capital Letters again.

The justification for selecting M*A*S*H as the all-time best is that it did what only the greatest comedies do: "mix hilarity and tragedy, often in equal measure." I'm not sure I agree with this—the definition, I mean. Yes, many comedies introduce an element of drama from time to time, but I disagree strongly with the assertion that this is a requirement of classic comedy. The editors acknowledge that M*A*S*H's politics could occasionally be heavy-handed, but "never at the expense of laughter or character," and I'm not sure I agree with that either. The politics of M*A*S*H, while ostensibly referring to the Korean War, was often meant as an allegory for Vietnam—but by this time, much of it has become dated, not to mention simplistic, and its cast members seem even more sanctimonious and pushy than they did back then. Perhaps the editors could have created a category for Best Dramedy, where M*A*S*H could have competed against Thirtysomething and SportsNight.

Another characteristic of classic comedy is its timelessness, and that's something that one can genuinely question about M*A*S*H. Let's put it this way: if you were to introduce this show to an audience today, one that lies outside of the demographic most preoccupied with Vietnam, would they find it funny in the same way they do Lucy or Andy Griffith or Leave it to Beaver, or even Frazier and Seinfeld, if you want to project into the future? I'm not sure they would, because those other shows, although rooted in a specific time period, often draw their humor from situations that are timeless and jokes that are often funny regardless of their setting. Much of M*A*S*H's humor may fall into that category (after all, authority will always be the butt of the joke), but I don't think you can say the same for its politics, and for that reason M*A*S*H, like another contender from the era, All in the Family, is too much of its time to be considered timeless.

My own personal choice in this category, not surprisingly to regular readers, is Hogan's Heroes, which combines a modicum of slapstick with some very clever "caper" plotting that also happens to be very funny. There's a certain gravitas about the mission of the Heroes that doesn't exist on, for example, McHale's Navy, and from time to time you're reminded that their missions do, in fact, often involve killing. The complaints about bad taste fall on deaf ears in this household, and most of the situations that form the basis for the comedy do seem, to me at least, to be universal in a way that they aren't in M*A*S*H. This is just one man's opinion; however, remember that the one man happens to be the owner of this blog.

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Best Drama? Your winners by decade are Playhouse 90, The Fugitive, Upstairs, Downstairs, and St. Elsewhere, and even before I turned the page I knew St. Elsewhere would be the winner, because it came from the '80s, which at the time was considered another Golden Age, and it was the most recent in people's minds.

Here, my complaint revolves around methodology. Some people might consider Hill Street Blues, the winner of Best Cop Show, as the best dramatic series of all time. Ah, but Hill Street is a genre show, albeit one that transcends the normal lines that separate a genre series from a regular drama. Others might suggest that The Waltons, a nominee for Best Family Show, should be considered for this category. For that matter, St. Elsewhere could be considered a genre show itself, a medical drama. But wait—there isn't a category for best Medical Drama. Could it be because there aren't really any medical dramas on television at the time, before ER and Chicago Hope and House? Can we even say that St. Elsewhere would be the best medical drama if that category existed? After all, Ben Casey and Dr. Kildare took on some weighty issues for the time.

I think this is a terribly weak choice: of the shows listed, I'd probably go with The Fugitive, although Playhouse 90 is a strong contender. The problem with Playhouse 90, in my mind, is that it was an anthology; as such, without a regular cast, you don't have to consider things such as character development and continuing storyline. It probably should have gone in a category for Best Anthology, but said category does not exist. Meanwhile, The Fugitive could just as easily have been put in the cop show category since its protagonist spends his time trying to avoid capture by—you guessed it—a cop. Upstairs, Downstairs could just as easily be put in the Best Nighttime Soap category (not that there's anything wrong with that), but if you're going to consider it as among the best, then let's look at the series that was the best Masterpiece Theatre had to offer: I, Claudius. Or was that too much of a soap? And what about The Prisoner, one of the most provocative series of all time? It isn't even mentioned in the Sci-Fi/Fantasy category. What about The Defenders or Judd for the Defense, shows of exceedingly high quality, or Perry Mason, a series with high entertainment value? What about Mission: Impossible, which doesn't seem to fit into any category?

The bottom line here is that the categories themselves are useless—unless there's something that makes a series unique (and I'd allow that science fiction can fall into that description, as well as the anthology series, and today's reality shows), a drama is a drama and a comedy is a comedy. To paraphrase the editors, a classic television series transcends simple classification; just as Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe transcended genre fiction to be considered mainstream literature, the best series, regardless of the field in which they take place, are dramas (or comedies) first and foremost. Dragnet, one of the decade winners in the Best Cop category, is fine as a genre show, but it doesn't reach the level of another decade winner, Naked City, which is not a police drama at all, but a drama about men who happen to be policemen. See the difference?

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There are a few other bones to pick as well.

I mentioned Best Family Show above, but I'll say again that I think this kind of segregation cheapens the quality of these shows. The Waltons not a drama series? Leave it to Beaver and The Donna Reed Show classified as "family" shows and not sitcoms? It's almost as if the editors are embarrassed by them, giving them a special category rather than letting them compete with the "big boys." And speaking of embarrassment, I wonder how they'd feel about their all-time winner in this category, The Cosby Show? (Whoops!) They might like to forget it, but Cosby was the biggest hit of the day. Why isn't this a sitcom, unless you want to define them as containing jokes about sex and other bodily functions?

I also mentioned Hill Street Blues winning Best Cop Show, but how can you compare cops on the beat to homicide detective Columbo (winner of the '60s)? Dragnet is a worthy winner for the '50s, but if you want cops, why not choose the crew of Naked City, a much better show than Hill Street, at least in my opinion. Still, if this issue had come out today, the choices probably would have been one of the Law & Order versions, or one of the NCIS versions, or the Matlock reboot, so I suppose we have to be grateful for small favors.

Johnny Carson is named best Nighttime Talk Show host, defeating Steve Allen, Jack Paar and David Letterman. No surprise, and I don't think you can really argue with it. Paar is more my taste, but between Johnny's staying power and the memorable moments from interviews, comedy skits and impromptu bits (thrown any tomahawks lately?), it's hard to dispute him as the king. And to think so many from today's generation have no clue who he is.

The Ed Sullivan Show wins for Best Variety Show, beating out Laugh-In, Saturday Night Live and The Tracey Ullman Show, and I'll admit I'm kind of surprised by this. I'd have thought they might go with SNL, based on its "groundbreaking" reputation, but Sullivan's show offered, as the editors point out, "all-encompassing variety," a program "that offered everything from dramatic readings to dancing bears, from opera buffo to Topo Gigio, from The Doors to Dinah Shore." As I pointed out here, it was influential in ways Sullivan himself couldn't have anticipated.

Howard Cosell is named Best Sportscaster, but he wasn't really a sportscaster in the sense that Vin Scully or Keith Jackson or Brent Musberger are; he was a sports commentator, or even better a sports personality. Yes, he did boxing and was very good at it (although not better than Don Dunphy), and he is absolutely one of the most important figures in television. But he doesn't belong in the same category with Red Barber, the voice of the Brooklyn Dodgers, or Jim McKay, host of Wide World of Sports, or even the young Bob Costas (who actually did more than pontificate back then), the other three nominees. Here, a little bit more distinction in categories would actually have been useful.

The Simpsons is the winner for Best Cartoon (what we'd call Best Animated Series today), but I think that really belongs in the sitcom classification, where it would probably have beaten M*A*S*H. It beats out Gumby (which wasn't a cartoon at all), The Bullwinkle Show (which wasn't a kids' show at all), and Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids (which has suddenly become very awkward). I'm really quite surprised, considering its longevity and popularity, that The Flintstones doesn't make the list.

I'm even more surprised—make that appalled—that Captain Kangaroo doesn't make the list of Best Kids' Show. Yes to Howdy Doody for the '50s and Sesame Street for the '70s, but Walt Disney instead of the Captain for the '60s? Disney's appeal crossed over to adults as well as children, and when you're talking about a "kids' show," you can't possibly compare "The Love Bug" and "Davy Crockett" (popular though they were) to Mr. Green Jeans talking about nature, the Captain introducing kids to the wonders of books through reading, or the various animal guests. As for the show of the '80s, ABC's Afterschool Specials, again—it's not a weekly series. Isn't this just apples and oranges? By the way, Sesame Street wins—no surprise.

For best Sci-Fi Show, I would have chosen Doctor Who, but at the time the British import hadn't gone mainstream, though it still had an enormous cult following in this country. Star Trek: TOS is the winner here, over The Twilight Zone (again, I'm not sure they really fit in the same category), Mork & Mindy (?), and Star Trek: TNG.

The original version of Jeopardy!, with Art Fleming, takes the Best Game Show category, and I'm not going to disagree with that—it's much better, in my opinion, than the Alex Trebek-helmed version. What's My Line?, the '50s choice, would have been mine as well, but it's not really a game show in the same sense as Jeopardy! or the other winners, Password and Wheel of Fortune. It was considered a panel show, which is really a horse of a different color altogether.

Best News Show: 60 Minutes, over See It Now, The Huntley-Brinkley Report (which, I can't stress enough, was NBC's frigging evening news program, not in the same category at all) and Nightline. If you're talking about news magazines, sure, 60 Minutes—but if you're introducing Huntley-Brinkley, why not The MacNeil/Lehrer Report?

Best Morning Show: The Today Show, and I'm all right with that if you're talking about the '50s and '60s, as they do here. Good Morning America is the '70s choice, and CBS News Sunday Morning wins the '80s. It just goes to show how weak the entire weekday-morning lineup is.

Best Daytime Soap is General Hospital. Best Evening Soap is Dallas. I won't quarrel with either. Best Daytime Talk Show Host is Oprah Winfrey, and I think that choice, though regrettable, was inevitable. Arthur Godfrey's '50s show and Merv Griffin's '60s daytime show were in the mix, as well as Phil Donohue in the '70s; I prefer Merv's evening/late night show, for the same reasons they chose his '60s program—Merv as host was "a literate, intelligent one who didn't shrink from cerebral or controversial guests." And in that vein, don't forget that Dick Cavett started out as a daytime host as well, with ABC's This Morning.

Best Western Show: Gunsmoke, over Maverick ('50s) and Bonanza ('60s). Sure, although I think Gunsmoke is better placed in the '60s than '70s, but they had to have something for the '70s, since they couldn't come up with anything for the '80s (for the simple reason that there wasn't anything. For a genre that, at one time, dominated the TV airwaves, it's too bad TV Guide's format is so limiting; it leaves out a program such as Have Gun—Will Travel, a very complex program.

I'm not even bothering with the Best Actor and Actress categories, since I think the Best Show categories have created enough of a mess, but if you're curious the comedy awards went to Jackie Gleason and Lucille Ball (but wait a minute! The Honeymooners wasn't even a choice for sitcoms, and The Jackie Gleason Show didn't make it for variety show!), and the drama award winners were James Garner (who's magnificent forte is really the lighthearted drama) and Tyne Daly (whose Cagney & Lacey doesn't have the staying power needed to be voted best anything, I'd submit). Best Newscaster is Walter Cronkite, and my favorite, the non-nominated David Brinkley, wouldn't have stood a chance.

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And there you have it. I'm sure I've probably slammed some of your favorite shows, and if I have, I hope you'll forgive me. This is, after all, One Man's Opinion, and even if - as I mentioned earlier—that man happens to run this site, my opinions should be taken for what they're worth.

On the other hand, I think my opinions are as valid as anyone else's, certainly as much so as the editors of TV Guide, compared to whom I think I've shown more discernment and taste, as well as a greater sense of historicity, and I won't back down from that assertion.

However, what I'd like as much as anything is to hear your opinions. Keep in mind that this was written in 1993, so some of your favorites (especially from the cable boom) weren't anticipated, but otherwise, have at it—with either TV Guide, or me, or both.  TV

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Around the dial

Wt Cult TV Blog, John's latest look at the 1970s anthology Play for Today focuses on "The Right Prospectus," a challenging drama by noted playwright John Osborne. What kind of commentary might Osborne have been offering here? See for yourself.

In his review of Friday night television in 1977 at Comfort TV, David notes that this was the first night in which there were no top 30 shows for the year on the schedule. Does that mean they were bad shows? Wonder Woman, Rockford, Quincy, Donny & Marie?

At ReMind, Rob Edelstein looks at the worst game shows of all time, and while there are plenty to choose from throughout the years, I don't think you'll disagree that some of these shows are really bad. 

The Metzingers review the 1974 British teen drama series Soldier and Me at Silver Scenes, and find an unusually literate, gritty series that includes Cold War spies and genuine danger for its young heroes. It's the kind of series Disney would never offer, because of what it doesn't include.

At The View from the Junkyard, Roger's weekly foray into The A-Team takes us to "Cup A' Joe," a contender for the funniest episode of the series, and one that gives us a little more insight into Murdoch's character.

At Drunk TV, Paul takes a look at one of the infamous miniseries of the '70s, Washington: Behind Closed Doors (it helps if you imagine Howard Cosell's voice), a sleazy, over-the-top Watergate-esque story that, as I recall, helped diminish the stature of the miniseries genre.

Cult TV Lounge returns with the 1980s adventure series Tales of the Gold Monkey, a hit show that fell victim to network politics. Good credentials, though: Donald P. Belisario as creator, Stephen Collins as star, and some rollicking good fun. Which is really what it's all about, right? TV

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Philip Marlowe on the small screen

POWERS BOOTHE AS PHILIP MARLOWE, CIRCA 1983

Seeing as how I've got a new book coming out in a couple of months, it's probably no surprise that I've got books on the brain. So when I get the chance to talk about both television and books, it's a good day. This usually happens when I'm reading (or writing) a book about television, but on occasion a show will draw me to a non-television book. And that's my inspiration for this week.

For reasons that don't bear repeating at the moment, a viewing of a particularly unsatisfying detective program drove me to our library, where I pulled out my copy of Raymond Chandler's The Simple Art of Murder. I found what I was looking for there (something that proved the point I was trying to make to myself), but instead of putting the book back when I was done, I started leafing through it. I've read it before, of course, but there was something so satisfying, so spare and pure about Chandler's prose, that it helped me get the bad taste from the program out of my mouth. And it got me to thinking, not for the first time, how we've never had a really great version of Chandler's most famous character, Phillip Marlowe, on television. There have been many superior versions of him on the big screen, most notably from Dick Powell, Robert Mitchum, and Humphrey Bogart, but on the small screen, we haven't been quite so successful.

Marlowe is, to my mind, the prototype of the private detective as we have come to see him, a knight both noble and tragic. And so much of the appeal of Marlowe stories lies in Chandler's way with words, from his dingy description of Los Angeles to the utter futility that Marlowe sometimes experiences, and those are moments that simply can't be captured on screen. In fact, the most famous passage from Chandler's classic The Big Sleep, the concluding line that explains the title of the book (and is the only time the title is used in the manuscript) never even appears in the most classic version of that story, the Bogart/Bacall movie.*

*It does, however, make an appearance in voiceover in Robert Mitchum's 1978 version. Mitchum makes for a compelling, older and tired Marlowe, but stick to his first of two Marlowe turns, 1975's Farewell, My Lovely.

Marlowe's made it as a regular on the small screen twice. The first time was a 1959-1960 series on ABC, starring Philip Carey. I liked what I've seen of it, although, as the always-reliable Wikipedia points out, the show wasn't very true to the character.  Check it out for yourself and see what you think.

The more successful version aired on HBO from 1983 to 1986, starring Powers Boothe in the title role. Booth did well; he certainly carried more gravitas than Carey, although he very much lacks the charm of Bogart in The Big Sleep, or especially Powell in Murder, My Sweet (the renamed Farewell, My Lovely).* It's difficult to picture Boothe playing chess or reading the classics, as Marlowe was known to do under the spell of Chandler's typewriter; actually, he might have been better cast as Mike Hammer. Still it's a significant upgrade in both style and substance from the previous effort.

*Powell would play Marlowe again on television a decade after Murder My Sweet, on the dramatic anthology series Climax! in 1954. Nobody seems to have a copy of it, though. Pity; his Marlowe is, in my opinion, the definitive version.

I've written before of my disappointment that the private detective, once a staple of television, has pretty much disappeared from the airwaves. One of the reasons, I suspect, is that procedurals have become so completely reliant on technology, the type that goes far beyond wiretapping in its intrusiveness. Sure, private detectives can (and do) engage in this kind of work as well, and can be very effective doing it, but you have to admit it doesn't quite have the romance of the fog-shrouded, rain-slick streets, the lonely truthseeker with the brim of his fedora worn low and the collar of his trenchcoat pulled high to keep the chill away. After all, he's a knight, not a technician, remember? And as for the detective's traditional antagonism with the police force (every private eye had a frenemy in the department), just make him a rebel within the force itself; all the procedurals are full of quirkbots like that.* Heaven forbid he should show too much individualism, though. We don't seem to like that much.

*They don't come much quirkier than Elliot Gould's big-screen portrayal in The Long Goodbye, a reimagination that calls for much more space in a blog devoted to movies. Like this one.

Another reason might be that detective fiction seems to work best in a period atmosphere. One of the challenges with Stacy Keach's Mike Hammer series was that it tried to tell the story within a contemporary time period (a flaw inherent in James Garner's otherwise perceptive Marlowe, an adaptation of Chandler's The Little Sister), which merely solidified Hammer as a desperate anachronism, a character that was resolutely not of this time. To the extent that it worked, it was due to Keach's ability to see the anachronism, but the detective as we know him—the Marlowe prototype—seems to thrive more in the noir grime of the last century's first half.

The most recent big screen adaptation of Marlowe, 2023's eponymous version starring Liam Neeson, was not successful, possibly in part because it was adapted from a Marlowe novel that wasn't written by Chandler in the first place; both the book and movie suffered from what one critic described as being "irksomely postmodern in its audience pandering," and that sounds about right to me.

At any rate, from Philip Marlowe to Jim Rockford, from Richard Diamond to Peter Gunn, from Darren McGavin's Hammer to Stacy Keach's, the private detective has been a welcome presence on television. You'd think it might be about time for "prestige" television to revisit Marlowe, or some of the other great literary detectives of the past. A revival of The Rockford Files is on the way, and while there's some apprehension from fans, James Garner's daughter is quite excited about it, and that doesn't count for nothing. At any rate, let's hope that's part of a comeback, one that's a little grittier than, say, Moonlighting or Remington Steele, hmm?  TV

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What's on TV? Thursday, April 17, 1969

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n addition to the specials I mentioned on Saturday, CBS tonight presents a repeat of the 1965 production of Cinderella, with Lesley Ann Warren, Ginger Rogers, Celeste Holm and Stuart Damon. It didn't quite match up to the original, which starred Julie Andrews and was, at the time of its original airing in 1957, the highest-rated television show of all time; however, it did well enough that it was the highest-rated non-sports special on CBS until 2009. Unlike that original, which was live, this version was on tape, and according to TV Guide, CBS had tried to get Andrews to reprise her role for color videotape. Still, this worked out pretty well. This week's listings are from the Northern California edition.

This week in TV Guide: April 12, 1969

What's with the talk about the Academy Awards, you're thinking. Weren't they on TV last month? Why is TV Guide bringing it up now, in the middle of April?

Well, that's the way it used to be, back in the days when the only significant movie awards show besides the Oscars was the Golden Globes, and those were confined to an hour-long broadcast on The Andy Williams Show. Back then, the Oscarcast was held in early April, usually on a Monday night, and it was the only awards show for most people. Now, it's just one of many, and soon it won't even be on commercial TV, just YouTube.

Dwight Whitney's take on the Oscars concerns the revamping of the show, under the direction of famed Broadway choreographer Gower Champion. It's been an uphill climb for Champion, who's had to deal with the conservative Board of Governors of the Motion Picture Academy, a group that has "always considered jazzing up Oscar tantamount to jazzing up the Lord’s Prayer." For them, the the one and only important thing about the show is "The Walk," that "interminable walk to the podium" taken by the winners. As producer and former Academy president Arthur Freed says, "It's the World Series. I don't care what you say, it's who's going to win the ball game. The drama is The Walk." William Dozier dryly notes that "The big question is, does the winner kiss his wife or his girl friend when he hears the thrilling news?"Joe Pasternak, producer of three of the most recent Oscarcasts, predicts that "Gower will regret the day he took it on. They will stop him from having a great show. They control the costs."

Nonetheless, after taking five months to consider the Academy's offer, Chamption decided to take on the challenge. And take it on he has. Bob Hope has been replaced as host (Hope said, "Thank God," when Champion boached the subject with him), to be replaced by ten "Friends of Oscar*" who will share the emcee duties. The venue has changed, from the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles, and the look will be entirely different; "The customary white-fluted columns and classical-garden settings would give way to elaborate rear-projection effects, slides, clips, silhouettes, mirrors, multiple images on  multiple screens and sets that fly apart and change their conformation at will." 

*Ingrid Bergman, Diahann Carroll, Tony Curtis (replacing Warren Beatty), Jane Fonda, Burt Lancaster, Walter Matthau, Sidney Poitier, Frank Sinatra, Barbra Streisand, and Natalie Wood.

And that's not all. The dress code has been relaxed, with black tie replacing white tie and tails. Champion even proposes getting rid of the bleachers outside the auditorium, where the fans gather to watch the stars walk down the red carpet, but that was going too far in the eyes of many, and Champion eventually relented.

Whitney expresses an appropriate level of skepticism regarding Champion's plans. After all, the Academy Awards are now "an electronic monster which no one seems able to control on any level." (Boy, some things really don't change.) But, in the end, the broadcast comes off pretty well. It's one of the longer broadcasts in recent years, checking in at what now would be considered a svelte two hours and 33 minutes, but it brings in good ratings, along with some surprise winners, and Champion is accorded a standing ovation when he arrives at the after-broadcast party. As stagnant and dull as recent broadcasts have been, it's a pity we don't have another Gower Champion waiting somewhere in the wings. And let's be honest: none of the recent hosts have been any "friends of Oscar."

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From 1963 to 1976, TV Guide's weekly reviews were written by the witty and acerbic Cleveland Amory. Whenever they appear, we'll look at Cleve's latest take on the shows of the era.

Many of us may have been tempted, over the past few years, to ask the question, "What's It All About, World?" (The answer is not "Alfie.") This week, Cleveland Amory asks the same question, but without the existential angst that the question merits today. It is, instead, ABC's "Second Season" variety show, hosted by Dean Jones, which Cleve describes as "a kind of Thinking Man's Laugh-In." (A low hurdle to clear, perhaps, but still...) 

Most of us are familiar with Jones from his many appearances in Walt Disney movies over the years, and he gives us a different host than we've become used to, "both charmingly different and genuinely diffident—and that, these days, is difficult." He's also backed by a cast of regulars including comedian Scoey Mitchell, singer Gerri Granger, news commentator Alex Dreier, and the comedy team of Jenna McMahon and Dick Clair. The show has boasted an impressive guest lineup as well, with the Smothers Brothers, Martin Landau and Barbara Bain, Carl Reiner, Barbara Feldon, Alice Ghostley, and Art Carney. Skits tend to be geared toward current events, and they don't shy away from controversial issues in their comedy bits. (Amory notes that previous topics have included overpopulation, obscene children’s books, the "obsolescence" of husbands, and exclusive country clubs taking on minority members. This suggests that Laugh-In isn't the only apt comparison; one might also suggest that the network learned its lessons after the fiasco of Turn On.)

Unfortunately for those who like What's It All About, World?, it's on ABC. And ABC, as Cleve says, has employed a unique strategy toward their second season, which appears to have been, "put out a whole barrage of new midseason shows, then decided to take them—literally before anyone even knew they were on—off." The network, he says, used ratings as an excuse, but "It would have taken a pretty nimble Nielsener just to keep these shows straight, let alone rate them." Before too long, What's It All About, World? becomes The Dean Jones Variety Hour, and after a total of thirteen weeks, it takes on a title that's all too common to ABC series of the day: cancelled.

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No "Sullivan vs. The Palace" this week, even though we're in the right era for it.  And for once, it's not a preemption of The Hollywood Palace that causes it. No, it's Ed who's preempted this week, in favor of Dick Van Dyke's variety special, Dick Van Dyle and the Other Woman, billed as "a program of music, dance and comedy," featuring the "other woman"—Mary Tyler Moore, the two of them together again after the success of their famed sitcom. (Sunday, 8:00 p.m., CBS) THe special is co-produced by Bill Persky and Sam Denoff, the same pair that used to do the series. Says the preview, "The two stars and the two producers hope to produce again the chemistry that once resulted in television success for them." Did they succeed? Well, you don't think I'd ask that question unless you were able to check it out for yourself and draw your own conclusions.

And that's not the only special on Sunday evening. NBC, wisely, scheduled a Dinah Shore special to follow Dick Van Dyke, rather than go head-to-head (9:00 p.m.). Will wonders never cease? It's called "Like Hep," and features an all-star lineup of guests: Lucille Ball, Dan Rowan and Dick Martin, and Diana Ross; and cameos from Tom and Dick Smothers, Lorne Greene, Greg Morris, Victor Buono, and Elisha Cook Jr. You can also see this special and decide, as I often say, who's better, who's best.

But in case you were curious, Saturday night's Palace (9:30 p.m., ABC) is hosted by Diahann Carroll, with her guests, Richard Harris; Mort Sahl, the Checkmates, Ltd., and her young co-stars from Julia, Marc Copage and Michael Link. And yes, this episode exists as well. Can't beat YouTube, can you?

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It's a new era for Major League Baseball, with the two leagues expanding to twelve teams each, the creation of two divisions in each league, and the advent of playoffs between the division winners prior to the World Series. Some would argue that the game hasn't been the same since. (I'd say that it still had a few decades to go before "baseball" evolved into a completely different sport, but the point is well-taken.) The changes are immediately apparent in the season premiere of NBC's Game of the Week, with the San Francisco Giants taking on the expansion San Diego Padres (Saturday, noon PT)—or, depending on where you're located, the game between the Boston Red Sox and Cleveland Indians. 

Sunday continues the sports spectacular, with the final round of the Masters golf tournament (1:00 p.m., CBS). Among the star-studded field, it's unheralded George Archer who comes away with the famed green jacket, finishing one stroke ahead of Billy Casper, George Knudson, and Tom Weiskopf to win his only major championship. And in honor of baseball's opening, CBS reruns one of the oldest, yet least remembered, of the Peanuts specials, Charle Brown's All-Stars. (7:30 p.m., CBS). The special, which premiered in 1966, was an annual feature on CBS until 1972, and made its last appearance on the network in 1982. There was a big promo effort for the cartoon when it first came out; I remember the baseball caps with the "Charlie Brown's All-Stars" logo on the front, and there was a book version of the special (differing slightly from the televised version). In the story, a company offers to sponsor Charlie Brown's team and provide them with real uniforms, but there's a catch: no girls and no dogs allowed on the team. Charlie Brown refuses the offer and then tells the team about it (without telling them why he turned the sponsor down). Predictably, they heap abuse on him until Linus and Schroeder step up to defend Charlie Brown, berating the girls for attacking him. The idea of making females the heavies, along with the dated concept of girls not playing baseball, probably accounts for its disappearance from the rotation.

In addition to the Academy Awards, the Monkees return to the airwaves Monday night in "a superpsychedelic hour" with the Brian Auger Trinity, featuring Julie Driscoll; Fats Domino; Jerry Lee Lewis; Little Richard; the Clara Ward Singers; the Buddy Miles Express; We Three; and Paul Arnold and the Moo. The special isn't named, but it's the infamous 33⅓ Revolutions Per Monkee (8:00 p.m., NBC), which, according to the always-reliable Wikipedia, was "chaotic, both on-screen and off-screen," and which Mike Nesmith described as the television version of their equally infamous movie Head.  The network was said to have been so disappointed by the result that it scheduled the West Coast telecast opposite ABC's live broadcast of the Oscars. (It was seen two hours before the Oscars in most areas.) It would be the final time the Monkees performed as a quartet until 1986. There's also a Carol Channing special (9:00 p.m., ABC, time approximate), which follows the Oscars on the West Coast but was seen prior to the show everywhere else; Danny Thomas and Carol Burnett are Miss Channing's guests.

Tuesday features a repeat of the TV-movie Prescription: Murder (9:00 p.m., NBC), with Gene Barry, whom we loved as a millionaire cop in Burke's Law, playing a doctor who's killed his wife and plans to run off with his mistress. The only problem is when he runs into a particularly dogged detective who won't give up. He's played by Peter Falk and his name is Columbo. It would be wrong to call this a pilot in the strictest sense; another Columbo telemovie will follow, this one with Lee Grant, and the decision to turn it into a series is technically because of that movie. But all the goods are here already, as is the pleasure in watching it unfold. Interestingly enough, Judith Crist wasn't all that thrilled with it, calling it "one of last season’s tailored-for-television contrivances that proves that a pedestrian but tidy one-hour melodrama can’t be stretched into a two-hour movie without stultifying all concerned. Peter Falk, as a persistent cop, is the major, but intermittent, relief." She's right about one thing: Columbo, as a series, was almost always better at the 90-minute length than when stretched into two hours.

Wednesday sees the Beverly Hillbillies, accompanied by Drysdale and Miss Hathaway, heading to London for four episodes, starting this week (9:00 p.m., CBS). This was a popular trope back in the day; stars from Lucille Ball to Danny Thomas to Jack Benny would do episodes from London; Jack Paar did a week's worth of shows from there, as did Today. I wonder, though, given what London has become over the last few years, if it would be quite as popular a location shoot today? Meanwhile, Oliver and Lisa chaperone Arnold the Pig to Hollywood, a much safer (in some ways) location, in the second of a two-part story that sees the pig in the running to appear in a movie. I didn't realize Babe was a remake... (9:30 p.m., CBS)

Thursday, Bob Hope make his final appearance of the season (8:30 p.m., NBC), with an eclectic cast that includes Patti Page, Jack Nicklaus, Sergio Mendes and Brasil ‘66, and Bob‘s newest leading ladies: Jane Wyman, Maureen Arthur, and Tina Louise. The telemovie feature is entitled U.M.C., which stands for University Medical Center and is the pilot for a new fall series. (9:00 p.m., CBS) The movie stars Richard Bradford as Dr. Joe Gannon, with James Daly as his colleague and mentor, Dr. Paul Lochner. Daly, father of future TV-star Tyne Daly, stays with the project when it becomes a series, but Bradford, whom we recognize from the British import Man With a Suitcase, is replaced by Chad Everett when the series, now called Medical Center, makes its debut in September of 1969. The movie wasn't available for preview, but Judith Crist praises the cast, which features Edward G. Robinson, Kevin McCarthy, Maurice Evans, J.D. Cannon, William Windom, and Kim Stanley.

Usually, when a television series appears in a movie slot, it's because the producers took two or more episodes and combined them into a feature-length presentation, but such does not appear to be the case on Friday, when Roger Moore returns as Simon Templar, aka The Saint, in a regular one-hour story in which our hero carries out the last wishes of a notorious gangster: stage a gold robbery that will implicate his four greatest enemies. (10:00 p.m., NBC). Given that reruns of The Saint appear in this timeslot for the next several weeks, I suspect this was nothing more than a typo. It only appears on the San Francisco affiliate, KRON, though; KCRA, the Sacramento NBC affiliate, has Playboy After Dark (10:00 p.m.), with Bill Cosby, Don Rickles, attorney Melvin Belli, Doug McClure, Robert Fuller, the Checkmates, Ltd., and Kelley Garrett.

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By the way, do you find yourselves wondering if any of those shows would have been worth watching? Well, if it were up to Dr. Frank Stanton, you'd have a little more information to go by when making your viewing decisions. In The Doan Report, Richard K. Doan reports that Stanton, the president of CBS, is advocating giving TV critics a chance to review shows before they're broadcast, ostensibly to warn of content that might seem "too risque or violent for younger audiences."  The other networks, NBC and ABC, are aghast at the idea; "Stanton is way out on a limb," one rival says "What are sponsors and their agencies going to say the first time the critics blast a CBS show before anybody else has seen it?"

Many think Stanton is overreacting to the latest Congressional push against TV violence, and with talk of a ratings system continuing to grow, it may be that Stanton is proposing advance screenings as an alternative. But when a CBS spokesman is asked when the previewing will start, he says not before next fall. And as for NBC and ABC, "the betting was it'll never happen."

In this case, I think we can say "never" didn't last quite as long as those networks might have thought. With a few exceptions, most shows have been made available for preview for quite some time now; even in the case of streaming series, critics (and other influencers) are often given the first three or four episodes in order to prime the pumps, so to speak. And it really is difficult to remember a time when this wasn't the case; after all, without previews from the critics, how else would we know what to watch?

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I've written about Garry Moore many times in the past, as well as devoted a full episode of the "American TV History" episode to talking about him. And there's a good reason why. At one time, Garry Moore had logged more hours in front of a television camera than anyone in history. In 1963 he was the highest paid entertainer on television, making $43,000 a week, and at the time of Paul Wilkes's article this week, he's still pulling in about $200,000 a year, for doing nothing.

And therein lies the rub. In a 1966 TV Guide profile, Moore talked about wanting to do something "new and different" from his variety and game show host duties. Three years later, we get a closer look at the fall of Moore's career. He's bored, to be blunt about it. He's still under contact to CBS, and despite that huge salary he's getting, CBS doesn't have (or doesn't want to have) anything for him to do. Although he insists there are joys in his life (even though he doesn't name them), he laments that "I don't want a leftover life to lead." But the fan mail has disappeared, he's seldom recognized anymore when he walks down the street, and the man who once had a radio show and two television series now has more time on his hands than he can count.

It's really a rather sad article. Although he's only 54, he's aged dramatically in the two-plus years since his last CBS show went off the air; one executive says he looks closer to 70. Moore wants to work, but nobody's interested in him; they tell him he appeals to the wrong demographic. He'd like to do something substantial, "like CBS Reports," but the network doesn't mingle its news and entertainment divisions, and while he's under contract to CBS he's prohibited from appearing on other networks without their permission. He's about to start a stint as host of the syndicated To Tell the Truth, which he'll stay with until 1977, and he's making guest appearances on shows like The Carol Burnett Show, but it's just not the same thing. He says he's not bitter, just that "I'd like to be used somehow."

Garry Moore was a unique figure in television. He wasn't a singer, although he could sing, and wasn't an actor, although he could act). Mostly, he played himself, on his variety show as well as his long run hosting I've Got a Secret, and he did it better than anyone else. He was friendly and avuncular, and he put viewers at ease as they watched him, making them feel like his friends.  But as we know, the times are changing; CBS isn't far away from the "Rural Purge," and the people who have grown old with television are now seen as being too old for television.  As the song at the end of Wilkes's article puts it, "oh, how the years have flown."

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An interesting editorial on the front page makes a humorous point about how the years have flown: the editors declaim the state of modern language, and the new catch phrases that dominate: "hang-up," "blow your mind," "generation gap," "tell it like it is," and more.  "Are you up-tight about the language of the acid heads, the teeny-boppers and the flower children?" they ask. "Would you, in short, think it groovy if the English language were discovered to be alive and well and living in the United States—its old turf?"

Humorous, as I say, but making a point. "We are brought to a state of nausea whenever we hear or read one of these banal or crude or cloddish substitutes for thinking that are so horribly ubiquitous these days in broadcasting and in print." I wonder if you couldn't make the same sort of statement today? We don't write or even think in words so much anymore—it's more likely the strange pig-Latin language of texting, with its abbreviations, concepts, half-thoughts, and emojis. Such is the life of a post-literate society, though. And it has consequences, which we see play out today with ever-increasing frequency: "people talking about commitment and value judgments" which they use as weapons against those who have the temerity to disagree with them.

Although we're all about television here, we're also about language, especially the written word. I find there's a great deal of eloquence in writing about TV, even though I may only capture a fraction of its potential. Television, and its history, has painted a vast panoply of imagery over the years, which words are uniquely suited to describe. It's ironic, in that television is mostly a visual medium, one that's been blamed by many for leading to the death of the written word. And yet millions of words have been, and continue to be, written about it, words oftentimes more powerful than those images they describe. And as long as I'm writing about it, I intend to keep looking for the beauty in those words, as well as the pictures which accompany them.

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MST3K alert: Agent for H.A.R.M. (English; 1966) Tale of a creeping blob from outer space that transforms human flesh into fungus. Mark Richman, Wendell Corey, Carl Esmond. (Saturday, 11:30 p.m., KPIX in San Francisco) Peter Mark Richman, Wendell Corey: what are you doing here? H.A.R.M. was, apparently, initially supposed to serve as a pilot for a new series, but wound up in theatrical release instead. My favorite review comes from The New York Times, which called it an "anemic James Bond imitation." I don't believe this is currently part of the MST3K episodes that run on TV; all-in-all, probably a good thing. TV

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