A change of pace: the Red Skelton Christmas Show, 1968

I've said this before, and I'll say it again: if you don't try to understand the context in which a classic television program was originally shown, you're losing at least half of its meaning. It's like overcooking vegetables—when you do that, you lose the nutrients, and wind up with something that's soggy, limp, less than what it should have been. Case in point: the Red Skelton Christmas show of 1968.

The Red Skelton Hour aired at 8:30 p.m. Eastern time on Tuesday nights, and in 1968, Tuesday fell on Christmas Eve. It was, in fact, quite an evening if you happened to be watching television; at 9:30 p.m., Red was followed by the famous Apollo 8 broadcast, in which the three astronauts read the Creation story from the Book of Genesis as they orbited the moon. It had been a somber year, if anyone needed reminding: a year of war, assassinations, and riots, and this was reflected in the theme of that year's Christmas show. 

Red's annual Christmas shows were something of a departure from the format of his regular weekly episodes, and including a long set piece running for at least half the episode: "Freddie and the Yuletide Doll," in which Freddie the Freeloader dances with a rag doll (Cara Williams) who comes to life; "The Christmas Spirit," a full-length skit featuring Freddie and Greer Garson putting on a show to benefit orphans; "The Christmas Urchin," in which Freddie and a friendly beat officer (Howard Keel) help a young girl and her widowed mother; and so on. 

The 1968 edition was no exception; in fact, Red functions more as a special guest star on his own show, with the de facto hosting duties taken over by U.S. Senator Everett Dirksen, who had also appeared on Skelton's show the previous year. Dirksen, seated in a wingback chair on a set that included a fireplace and Christmas tree, introduced Red's Silent Spot (repeated from the previous year) and a performance by ballet dancer Jillana, and recited Clement Clark Moore's poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas," before providing the narration for the night's centerpiece: "A Christmas Story—1777." 

As Dirksen reflects on the warmth of Christmases spent with friends and loved ones, he reminds viewers that "there are those whose duties take them away from the glow of the hearth and set them down in strange places where Christmas is sadly just another day." Such a place is Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, the winter headquarters of General George Washington and his Continental Army. The weather is cold, bleak, and cruel, with little for the soldiers to eat or drink, and as many of them die from cold and starvation as from the bullets of British soldiers. What follows is their story, written by Red Skelton, "a story about some brave men whose sacrifices so many years ago enables us to enjoy this holiday tonight."

Skelton is "Patrick," one of the sentries standing guard; he mans his post, even though he knows that the real enemies—the cold, the hunger—are already inside the camp. In the last month, 2,500 men have died "without costing the British one bullet." Money for the war is going to the wrong people, who "get rich on our debts." His spirits are briefly lifted when he receives a Christmas gift from his loving wife: a warm muffler, knitted in blue so he won't be mistaken for a redcoat. Too often, though, the humor in the camp is cynical, the laughter that which is "born of sadness." 

One of the soldiers brings news from Philadelphia, where food is plentiful and people live as if this "wasn't their war." When Patrick asks if they know about the conditions under which the troops are living, he is told that they are, but "the war is not popular with everybody. . .There are young men on the streets who make speeches of protest." 

"If those agitators put self before freedon, before liberty," another soldier replies, "let them come on this battle line. Let both sides fire at them." 

Patrick wonders: "Why does a man who speaks as a traitor believe that the other side will trust him?"

"So it is our lot to do the fighting," the first soldier replies, "even for those who in their fight undermine us. Perhaps we who fight will appreciate liberty a little more." 

But what is liberty? Says Patrick, "Liberty is tomorrow."

Comes Christmas Eve, and Dirksen describes the scene: "The eyes of men half alive blur with tears. The night is bitter cold, but that isn't what makes men cry. Men make men cry. Leaders of men cry, too. The spirit of Liberty makes men cry. The real heroes are dead, but those who still live are learning to be heroes. But do they live, or are they ghosts of the dead?" There is no water to be had other than that in the frozen stream; Patrick becomes so desperate from thirst that when he sees another soldier holding a canteen to his lips, he offers to exchange the muffler his wife made for him in return for just a couple of sips, but the soldier shakes his head, and Patrick runs away in shame and despair. In fact, the canteen is empty, the soldier merely miming the act of drinking: his own thirst had driven him nearly mad.

Remembering that it is Christmas Eve, and determined that they should not forget the night, Patrick sneaks out of the tent and returns with a small evergreen to serve as a Christmas tree for the other soldiers, to remind them of what this night means. "You should see them. There's light in their eyes for the first time. He then lights a candle and attaches it to a branch. I feel rejoicing; my heart overflows with gratitude and hope." For them, the little tree "beholds His divine grace." One soldier, young enough that he should be "at a Christmas dance, not walking around barefooted through the ice and snow, leaving his blood to feed the spring flowers," gazes lovingly at the tree before dying. "At least he saw the tree of the Christ Child before he walked into the valley of death." Patrick take off his muffler and wraps it around the dead boy. Even though there is no church, no altar, the camp is still alive with the spirit of Christmas.

It's an inspiring ending to a somber, stark story, but it might leave some contemporary viewers nonplussed. For instance, we're not accustomed to seeing Skelton in a straight dramatic role, with only flashes of humor. And there's nothing particularly Christmassy about Valley Forge in 1777 other than the time of year. We might wonder—where's the holly and mistletoe? Where are the soldiers singing carols? We don't even have the satisfaction of Washington's dramatic crossing of the Delaware on Christmas, 1776. Instead, we see men enduring incredible hardships; even nature seems to be against them. We know that victory eventually comes to Washington and his army, but we wonder how many of these men will live to see it. It's certainly not the stuff that Hallmark movies are made of.

But that's probably not how it would have been taken back in 1968. Viewed through the prism of the time, it's impossible not to see "A Christmas Story—1777" as an allegory on the Vietnam War. Instead of the bitter cold of Valley Forge in 1777, substitute the heat and humidity of the Southeast Asia jungle in 1968. The colonials are betrayed not by the loyalists and apathetic of Philadelphia, but by "Hanoi Jane" and the others accused of providing aid and comfort to the Viet Cong. The one constant through it all is the American soldier fighting and dying, and wondering if anyone out there cares. 

Is "A Christmas Story—1777" an antiwar story? It presents war in all its horror, stripped of its glory and nobility, reducing it to a desperate quest for survival. And yet, despite everything, the men know why they are there and what they are fighting for; it is what keeps them there, through it all, so that even though some will desert, many of them keep coming back. It's no secret that both Dirksen and Skelton were strong supporters of Vietnam*, and some might think that makes them, in part, responsible for the suffering and death that followed. Does this negate the power of what we see here? I don't think so; it doesn't seek to deny the horrors of war, and whatever one might have thought of Vietnam, either then or now, they way they were treated by many Americans after the war remains shameful. 

*Three weeks later, on the January 14, 1969 show (just before Richard Nixon's inauguration), Skelton would do his well-known and dramatic rendition of "The Pledge of Allegiance." 

Seen in context, Red Skelton's 1968 Christmas show takes on a different dimension, one that's perhaps more dramatic, more meaningful, even (for some) more controversial. In the end, I don't think it matters whether or not you agree with the message; what is important is that knowing the context enriches both the program itself, and the way in which we experience it. It also proves, once again, that there's more to "mere television" than one might think. TV