This week in TV Guide: March 7, 1970

If you're a regular reader (and, as I always say, if you aren't, why not?), you know how much and how often I rag on the Hallmark Channel, and whatever remnant there is of the Hallmark Hall of Fame, once one of the most prestigious programs on television. I've done it so often that it ceased to become a challenge, and, in fact, got to be something of a bore. I mean, it was so easy. And so I resolved I'd try to avoid it, and thereby make my life just a little bit easier. 

However, as my wife can tell you, I don't always stick to my resolutions, and so it is that we take a look at this week's Hall of Fame presentation of "Neither Are We Enemies" (Friday, 8:30 p.m. ET, NBC), this year's Easter episode. The story takes place during the Roman occupation of Judea, and stars Van Heflin as Joseph of Arimathea, the man whom the Bible tells us helped take Jesus down from the Cross after the Crucifixion and lay Him in the tomb. Kristoffer Tabori co-stars as Joseph's son Jonathan, who hears Christ's words not as those of love and peace, but as a call to revolution. Also featured in the cast are J.D. Cannon as Pilate, Ed Begley as Annas, Kate Reid as Deborah, and Leonard Frey as Judas. 

There are many facets to this story, which scriptwriter Henry Denker wrote "to interpret the events surrounding the Crucifixion with a parallel to the conflicts of our time." And it's easy to see, even in this brief description: the clash of generations, the conflict between war and peace, the military occupation of one nation by another, and so on. It points out the timelessness of Denker's story—indeed, of the entire Bible—in that the parallels that existed in 1970 are just as present today, and likely will be in another fifty years, if we last that long. 

I have no idea if "Neither Are We Enemies" is any good or not; you can't really find out much about it online. For what it's worth, Jack Gould, the TV critic of The New York Times, called it "something out of the ordinary"; while Heflin "was unsteady at the beginning, perhaps because of the initial unevenness of the script," he was effective in portraying the anguish he felt over his estrangment from his son. Gould also singled out the performance of Tabori as "exceptionally good," while Begley was "persuasive as usual." The hope offered by the play lay in the idea that "when the family breaks up there is the consolation that a respect for different outlooks could remove the element of enmity." It's also worth noting that the cast includes three Oscar nominees: Begley, Heflin, and Frey, and that Begley and Heflin both won Oscars.

Having established the bona fides of the play itself, we'll now turn to the sorry state of entertainment at Hallmark, for there are many people, I am sure, who have never, in their lifetimes, seen even five minutes of programming from that network that begins to compare to the impact of this type of story. In a time when the nation is bitterly divided, with family members pitted against each other over matters both substantial and trivial and almost always connected in some way to politics, it would be nice to think that Hallmark might consider offering something relevant like this, rather than the umteenth rendtition of some soapy, soggy, sentimental drivel about reconcilation, finding the right partner, or discovering the perfect Christmas in a quaint small village square. Yes, reconciliation is important, but as this drama suggests, it is also messy, difficult, and painful, and it involves sacrifices on the part of all concerned. That's not all, of course; the story also deals with religion in a way that is totally foreign to today's modern productions, and as for the star quality of the cast, well, perhaps the less said, the better.

I'm no longer worried that I sound like an old man shouting at the clouds when I get off on rants like this; I'm old enough that I simply don't care anymore. What I do care about, however, is the quality of programming on television, another subject of many a piece here. Quality is not, in fact, that hard to achieve if one really wants to achieve it. Hallmark sent the message, many years ago, that it was something they no longer cared about, so we shouldn't be surprised any time we run across an example of what the Hallmark Hall of Fame used to be like, back in the day. The company's motto, "When You Care Enough to Send the Very Best," applied to television as well as greeting cards back then. Of course, if you even send cards these days, you know that much of Hallmark's output hovers somewhere between the crude and boorish on one hand and the saccharine and dewy-eyed on the other; there's a reason for the existence of terms like "sentimental fool." 

It's likely that Hallmark wouldn't be up to the task anyway; doubtless they'd fill the story with romance and woke politics, and water it down. But if they didn't: think of what could come from this simple message that families didn't have to be divided, that friendships didn't have to be torn asunder, over something like politics. That's not to discount the importance of some of these issues, but what ever happened to that innate human dignity to which Jack Gould mentioned, the idea that "respect for different outlooks could remove the element of enmity.

Yes, we shouldn't be disappointed by this fall from grace anymore. One could say that we don't have the right to be disappointed by it. But we do have the right to be offended by it. More than a right; an obligation.

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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.

This week Cleveland Amory checks in on one of television's rare genres, the half-hour variety show. It's one hosted by a comedian who was once quite well-known in pop culture, but has now joined the ranks of those one-hit wonders remembered only by those of a certain age or disposition. In case you haven't figured it out yet (to be honest, I'm not sure how you could have), we're about to look at Pat Paulsen's Half a Comedy Hour.

Pat Paulsen came to prominence as one of the regulars on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, where he launched a deadpan, and often very funny, campaign for president. And herein lies the problem, for there are comedians, such as Tim Conway, who were often the life of the party, provided that someone else was hosting it. Try as he might, though, he could never carry a show on his own. Pat Paulsen is one of those comedians. "Put him in Medical Center or The Bold Ones and you've got a large riot. Even put him in another comedy show and he's so individual he'll still give you at least a small riot. But give him his own whole show and you've got a problem." It's that there needs to be contrast, something (or someone) for him to play off of, and as the host of the show, that element is missing. 

As Amory puts it in one of his classically painful puns, Paulsen's comedy persona is one of Caspar Milquetoast. "Make him Mr. Milquehost and he'll still be funny. But one thing is certain—you're going to have to milque harder." Things started off well, with an extremely funny bit, filmed on location, that involved Paulsen's car breaking down in the middle of winter outside former Vice President Hubert Humphrey's home in Waverly, Minnesota. Humphrey, playing himself, still remembered some of the jokes Paulsen had made at his expense during the 1968 campaign, and adroitly avoided inviting Paulsen out of the knee-deep snow to phone for help. It's difficult to explain in a limited space, but it was very funny, and showcased both Paulsen's dry humor and Humphrey's graceful self-deprecation. There was another good sketch involving Paulsen demonstrating how to make a 25-inch color TV "using only materials at hand." However, the effect was undermined by a pair of lame bits, one including guest star Debbie Reynolds. The trend continues through subsequent shows: strong absurdities followed by weak sketches. The best consistent feature of each episode is the close, and these are "so funny that we guarantee, even if you don't like the rest of the show, Mr. Paulsen will leave you laughing." At thirteen episodes, the problem was that they didn't leave viewers wanting more.

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ABC has announced its new fall schedule, and, as is typical for the perennial last-place network, it features what Richard K. Doan, in The Doan Report, calls a "massive shake-up," with nine shows biting the dust, including the aforementioned Pat Paulsen show, It Takes a Thief, The Flying Nun, Here Come the Brides, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, variety shows hosted by the Lennon Sisters and Englebert Humperdinck, and the network's Monday night movie. And that leads to the centerpiece of the new schedule, Monday night pro football. (Although, at this point, nobody could possibly imagine how successful this would become.) Other than that, however, the new shows will leave something to be desired. The Odd Couple, starring Jack Klugman and Tony Randall, will be an unqualified success, unlike The Young Lawyers, The Immortal, The Young Rebels, the Burt Reynolds vehicle Dan August, The Silent Force, Matt Lincoln, and the Danny Thomas comeback Make Room for Granddaddy. 

Doan adds, however, that there is one positive note, with a series that is being renewed, albeit on another network: Sesame Street, which NET has announced will be back in the fall with a new season of episodes.

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Speaking of "Vince Baby" Edwards, as we were a couple of weeks ago when his career seemed to be in a kind of holding pattern, we now get a look at the TV series he did take on, after having turned down more than a few opportunities. As I mentioned above, his new series Matt Lincoln is on the fall schedule, although at this point it's not called Matt Lincoln. It's called Dial Hot Line, and the pilot can be seen on the ABC Sunday Night Movie this week (9:00 p.m.). Edwards stars as David Leopold, a "hip psychiatric social worker" who operates a telephone hot line which troubled young people can use when they need someone to talk to. In her review, Judith Crist sees it as an ideal vehicle for a weekly series: "The entertainment possibilities are limitless—suicide and rape are touched upon this time around—in case you haven't problems of your own." 

Now, you may be asking yourself how Dial Hot Line morphs into Matt Lincoln, presumably including a name change, given that the new series isn't called David Leopold, and therein we find ourselves with a story that's probably as entertaining as anything that appeared on the series. According to the always-reliable Wikipedia, citing the reasonably authoritative Harlan Ellison, the name change came about as a result of jokes around the office regarding the Leopold and Loeb murder case, and worries that viewers might make the same association. (One has to wonder if the script was run by DeForest Research in advance; the company, which was frequently used for name clearance and other research projects, might well have pointed out the potential for mischief.)

Ellison also dryly noted that while Leopold was "described as an example of 'the new breed' of mental health professionals, serving 'the many, rather than the few' and involved in a wide array of volunteer activities," that didn't prevent him from obtaining an income that allowed him to "drive a Mustang, have a Marina apartment and a sailboat." By the time Matt Lincoln made it to the fall schedule, the lead character had morphed from a "psychiatric social worker" to a "community psychiatrist" who maintained a private practice that allowed him to take on volunteer activities, as well as maintain a lifestyle to which he had become accustomed.

In any event, Matt Lincoln, by any other name, was a disappointment, lasting only 16 episodes before being cancelled. Considering that one of the series Edwards had previously passed on had included a two-year guarantee from ABC, one wonders if Edwards might have sought professional help himself afterward. Either that, or perhaps a new agent.

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Having led off this issue with a look at one of the most distinguished programs on the air, we now turn to something a little different: Neil Hickey's article on Hee Haw, which some critics called the worst show ever when it premiered, but which now is having the last laugh—a laugh it's sharing with its substantial audience.

When Hee Haw debuted, a little less than a year ago, the more responsible critics (and by that, Hickey means those accepted by the entertainment elite) denounced the show as "a program of such stupefying banality, witlessness, irrelevancy, pointlessness, unregenracy and inepitude." Imagine their dismay when the show "immediately zoomed to the upper reaches of the ratings charts and stayed there all summer." And make no mistake about this, the blowback against the show was a prime example of that elitism in action, the sniffing from snobbish upper-crust Eastern Establishment critics "blaming it all on the Silent Majority and the Middle American, who are fed up with bad news, crime in the streets, protest and student unrest." They're especially irritated, Hickey continues, "because this show came to life over the dead bodies of the Smothers Brothers, who were always making those terrific jokes about racial tensions, the Vietnam War, Congressional ethics, air pollution and the military industrial complex." 

And yet, as Hickey points out, "the program was nothing more, really, than a grab bag of purloined bucolic knee-slappers going back to Aristophanes, melded with bathetic rural ballads of a sort never imagined by Sir Walter Scott nor Robert Burns nor Francis James Child." Plenty of people were happy to see the Smothers Brothers go, replaced by down-home humor that struck a chord with ordinary Americans. "We get a lot of letters saying, 'It's great to see a real American show,' " according to Frank Pepplatt, one of the show's creators (he and his partner, John Aylesworth, are, ironically, a couple of Canadians). "We also get angry mail from old Smothers Brothers fans who say, 'How dare you put on material like that? It has no content, no message.' Well, that's the whole point! It's not supposed to have a message."

Says Grandpa Jones, a legendary country comedian who's now gaining mainstream recognition, "these fellows dared to give us a chance. TV people have always been afraid to put on common country stuff. They always figured it had to be polished and slicked up. It took somebody from Canada to show 'em it could be done." (Perhaps there's something to be learned in that SCTV, one of the greatest bite-the-hand-that-feeds-you series of all time, was also brought to life by Canadians.) Co-host Buck Owens adds that "You don't have to be up on current events, nor have watched the Huntley-Brinkley show that day to enjoy it. Anybody can grasp this material."

A couple of confessions: I rarely watched Hee Haw growing up, either during its network run or on first-run syndication. I'm just not with it on that kind of humor, nor the country music stars (some of the top names in the business, mind you) who frequented the show. It's not my style. Number two, I freely admit to being a TV elitist, in case you hadn't figured that out from my lede screed. Nevertheless, I would be the last person to say that there's no room on television for programs like Hee Haw, programs that appeal to the dreaded flyover country. When CBS ushered in the rural purge, Hee Haw was one of the victims, cancelled in 1971; it then went on to thrive in first-run syndication from 1971 to 1993. And let's not forget that Lawrence Welk, another show that supposedly appealed to the "wrong" audience, was also a hit in syndication, with reruns continuing on PBS to this day. 

The point is that television doesn't have to be a homogeneous blob. Just as I'll frequently rail against the romantic slop of the Hallmarks, the crude boorishness of so much network television, and the leftist bias of the late-night shows, I'd be just as dismayed with a television world that had no room for Hogan's Heroes, Top Gear, Mystery Science Theater 3000, or, yes, Hee Haw. We complain that television has become so niche that there's no place for programming appealing to a broad audience, and for good reason. After all, a television diet of nothing but Shakespeare would get pretty boring after a while. Besides, as Hickey notes in his conclusion, "one is nagged by the suspicion that Shakespeare—that most shameless purveyor of bad gags—would have loved it." I wouldn't doubt it for a moment.

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So what, in fact, is on this week? Well, in the days before March Madness became a bloated excuse for everyone in the world to take a chance on their own bracket, the NCAA Basketball Tournament tips off on Saturday afternoon (2:00 p.m., NBC), with the major contenders including St. Bonaventure (led by Bob Lanier), Notre Dame (Austin Carr), Jacksonville (Artis Gilmore), Western Kentucky (Jim McDaniels), and eventual champion UCLA (Sidney Wicks). Attention on the tournament might be eclipsed, however, by the real thing: a total solar eclipse, with all three networks planning live coverage, beginning at 1:00 p.m. (You can see CBS's coverage here, with an excerpt from ABC's coverage here.) If you miss it, though, don't worry; you can see it again, following a similar path, in 2024. Remember that?

Fred Astaire guest-stars on It Takes a Thief (Monday, 7:30 p.m., ABC), in a cleverly-titled episode called "An Evening with Alister Mundy," a play on the series of successful television specials that Astaire did in the 1950s and 1960s. Astaire, you may remember, appeared on It Takes a Thief several times as Robert Wagner's father, a fellow master thief. Tuesday's highlight is the delightful Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree (7:30 p.m., NBC), the whimsical 1965 adaptation of A.A. Milne's stories, narrated by Sebastian Cabot, and with Sterling Holloway unforgettable as the voice of Pooh. And on Thursday, the Young Americans music group host their first network TV special, with special guest stars Lorne Greene, Tiny Tim, and the Committee improv group. 

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Finally, the starlet of the week is Karen Wyman, a 17-year-old "slinky adolescent with a lod of schoolbooks in one arm," as Judith Jobin styles her. More than that, she's a singer with a voice that is equal parts "controlled, earthy, hypnotic, and sexy"; one critic calls it "the voice of a woman who's done a lot of living," quite an accomplishment for someone who's not yet out of high school and, she says, "emphatically hasn't done a lot of living." Her voice teacher, Marty Lawrence, says she has "one of the greatest sounds I'd heard in my 21 years of teaching," and sent a demo to Greg Garrison, producer of The Dean Martin Show. Garrison told him, "If she can perform the way she sings, she's on the show." She could, and she was; she appeared on the show a year ago, did a five-song medley with Martin, who kissed her afterward and said, "You are wonderful, and you are beautiful, and you are some kind of singer," and the rest is history.

Since then, she's done four shows with Ed Sullivan (you can see one of them here), made a couple of visits to Johnny Carson, and her first album is due out this month. And despite her youthful enthusiasms, she displays "a solid core of drive, ambition and perfectionism (which a few people are calling temperament), and has a clear vision of what she wants; while her voice has been compared to Garland and Streisand, "I want to be unique. I want to be the original Karen Wyman." And she wants to be a star: "A star is...you're the hottest thing in show business. The public is nuts about you. It's not so much the money—it's class, people running to the box office to see you. You know when you're right on top, when you get the largest sum ever to appear somewhere."

That kind of stardom is not in the cards for Karen Wyman; she would later say that "I needed to grow up. I felt that I didn't deserve to be a star." She endured two failed marriages, raised a son and daughter (born sixteen years apart), quit singing altogether, and made a "comeback" in 2014. And to this day, she says that her most memorable moment was meeting Dean Martin; "it was really like a fairy tale."

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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. (Thursday, 11:25 p.m., WTIC in Hartford) Peter Mark Richman and 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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