This week in TV Guide: March 30, 1968

This is one of those issues where what takes place between the covers is invariably overshadowed by the events that aren't found in the pages. 

On Sunday, March 31, President Johnson announces, at the conclusion of a nationally televised address in which he discloses a de-escalation of the war in Vietnam, that he will not seek reelection, throwing the presidential race into chaos. On Thursday, April 4, Martin Luther King is assassinated in Memphis, touching off rioting nationwide and throwing the entire country into chaos. It is, as Broadcasting magazine will say, the beginning of "what may have been the stormiest 10 days of news coverage in [television's history." By the time it ends, with King's funeral the following Tuesday, the three networks will have preempted 55 hours of programming, resulting in a loss estimated to have been $5.65 million in cancelled commercials, plus an additional $1.3 million in expenses for special news coverage.* The Academy Awards broadcast, scheduled for the day before King's funeral, is postponed for two days after several stars, both black and white, inform Academy officials that they will not attend the ceremony. And we'll be doing much of it all over again in two months, with the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy.

*The detail on television and radio coverage of the news events is really quite interesting to read; I won't go into the detail here, but if you'd like to look at it, I'd urge you to check out the story at Broadcasting.

Unlike the assassination of President Kennedy in 1963, neither of these events calls for wall-to-wall continuous coverage; in particular, according to Broadcasting, coverage of the violence that broke out in major cities throughout the nation "was generally carried in regularly scheduled newscasts in an effort not to exacerbate already tense situations in numerous ghetto areas. Network news crews, like their counterparts from local affiliates, abstained from using bright lights and other conspicuous pieces of equipment." But while many of the programs listed in this issue will be broadcast, there's no doubt a pall will hang over them.

And what might have been affected by the breaking coverage? President Johnson's speech began at 10:00 p.m. ET on Sunday and ran for 40 minutes. CBS and NBC preempted The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and Bonanza, respectively, and presented commentary following the speech up to the top of the hour, whereupon they joined their regularly scheduled programs, Mission: Impossible and The High Chaparral. ABC, on the other hand, devoted only seven minutes to analysis, and then began a late start to the Sunday night movie, a repeat of the made-for-TV adaptation of Johnny Belinda. To make up for it, however, they also expanded their regular 15-minute late evening news roundup to 25 minutes. On Wednesday evening, ABC and NBC both carried half-hour specials on the Vietnam negotiations; ABC preempted Dream House at 8:30 p.m., and NBC delayed thge start of The Tonight Show for 30 minutes.

The King assassination came just after 7:00 p.m. ET (the YouTube footage of Walter Cronkite announcing the assassination on the CBS Evening News is from the West Coast rebroadcast at 6:30 p.m. PT, 9:30 p.m. ET), and all three networks interrupted their regular programming with bulletins that King had been shot; additional bulletins were aired when King's death was reported. President Johnson's statement on the assassination was carried live on all three networks at 9:00 p.m., and ABC followed with a one-hour special from 10 to 11 p.m. (a time they usually gave back to the affiliates). CBS had a short special at 10 p.m., and an additional one-hour special from 11:00 p.m. to midnight. NBC followed the Johnson speech with a half-hour special at 9: 30 p.m., which would have knocked Dragnet off the air. 

Of course, there are more preemptions to follow the next week, but that's another story for another week.

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During the 60s, The Ed Sullivan Show and The Hollywood Palace were the premier variety shows on television. Whenever they appear in TV Guide together, we'll match them up and see who has the best lineup.

Sullivan: Scheduled: singers Frankie Laine, Lana Cantrell, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, and the Young Americans; comedians Myron Cohen, Wayne and Shuster, and Richard Pryor; dancer Peter Gennaro; and the Barrington Sisters balancing act. (Added guests included Charlton Heston, talking about Planet of the Apes; Lana Cantrell was apparently a no-show.)

Palace: Host Jimmy Durante does his piano-smashing rendition of ‘The Lost Chord” and introduces the Beatles (“‘Lady Madonna’) on tape from London. Also: singer-dancer Liza Minnelli, comics Tim Conway (as the coach of a losing Olympic team) and Jerry Shane, Honky-Tonk musicians Fred and Mickie Finn, and Le grand Ballet Classique from Paris.

This week offers a pretty good comparison. In addition to talking about Apes, Charlton Heston does a recitation of Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address, the famous "With malice towards none" speech, particularly poignant given the events to come this week. Ed's stand-up guests, Richard Pryor, Myron Cohen, and Wayne and Shuster, are usually very funny. Now, the Young Americans—well, this is where the balance of power starts to shift to Palace, with Durante, Liza (with a Z), and Tim Conway. Oh, and did I mention the Beatles? It's close, but this week goes to The Palace by a nose.

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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.

So what is Cleve cooking up for us this week? Funny you should say that, because his focus is on Julia Child and The French Chef, now in its fifth season, and while they're in reruns currently (with new color episodes coming soon!), this just gives you a chance to catch up on what you might have missed with this "remarkable program."

Amory begins with a premise that I don't think we pay enough attention to: the status of the show's host as a genuine television star. "Julia Child is not just a natural, she is without doubt the most natural performer: television has yet uncovered, Indeed she is perhaps the only performer in the entire medium who is never the slightest bit nervous, the slightest bit coy, the slightest bit 'on' or the slightest bit anything. She is so completely oblivious to the camera that she seems to come right through to us*without any camera at all." Not only that, she has the rare talent, and indeed it is rare, of being able to transcend her material. Even if you're not interested in cooking, you become drawn into the program because of her. I've only experienced one program like that myself; the original Top Gear, which forced one to become a fan of cars whether or not they were, just because the hosts and their personalities were so compelling.

Another thing about her is that, while she definitely takes cooking seriously, she doesn't take herself that seriously, nor how she does her cooking. At one point, while in the process of cutting a chicken breast, she comments that "This is like so many recipes we’ve done where it doesn’t make so much difference where—I mean what—I mean how—you have your proportions, so long as you get the general idea." I always thought that Julia Child was, in a very real sense, the people's chef, the antithesis of the snobbish artiste chef who looks down his nose at anyone who might prefer an old-fashioned burger and fries. Cleve particularly enjoyed watching her prepare a chocolate soufflé, "a nice dessert to have up your sleeve." Before anyone knew it, flour was flying, egg whites were being beaten, and she "was breathing so hard it sounded as if she had a stethoscope on and was being examined by her doctor." Predictably, the soufflé emerged from the oven in perfect condition. "Now," she concluded, "you want to hurry into the dining room, gliding softly so as not to disturb it. And don’t forget there’s a trick to serving it, too. Take your knife and fork back to back and plick it in the center." That, our critic concludes, is advice that anyone can take to the bank, no matter what you do.

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Amidst the jumble of the week's programming, there are still things we can count on, beginning Saturday, with the truly outstanding documentary "Jesse Owens Returns to Berlin" (8:30 p.m. PT, KTVU). Written, produced, and directed by the great documentarian Bud Greenspan, the 60-minute special follows Owens as he returns to Berlin, the site of his 1936 Olympic triumph, to relive his four-gold medal performance; the hour ends with the mayor of West Berlin telling Owens that "30 years ago, Adolf Hitler refused to offer you his hand. Today, I am proud to offer you both of mine." (Or words to that effect; I'm quoting from memory.) You don't have to be a fan of the Olympics to be impressed, and moved, by this film.

Picking through the rubble of Sunday's schedule, we have Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic in the ninth annual "Young Performers Concert" (4:30 p.m., CBS). You can see from the broadcast how casual Lenny looks here, dressed in a turtleneck rather than the white tie and tails. Allen Hughes has a review of the concert here. Later, on Firing Line (6:30 p.m., KQED), William F. Buckley Jr. debates the question of whether or not the Supreme Court favors the criminal. The law-and-order issue is going to be a dominant theme throughout the year's presidential campaign—and up to today, come to think of it.

On Monday, Jack Benny plays himself in a Lucy Show episode that sees the redhead trying to convince the tightwad to move his fortune from his subterranean vault into the bank. Hilarity ensues. (8:30 p.m., CBS) That's followed by The Andy Griffith Show, with Ken Berry starring as Sam Jones in the pilot for Mayberry R.F.D., the Griffith show's successor beginning in the fall. (9:00 p.m., CBS) And it's a rare Christmas-in-March movie on the late show, Larceny, Inc. (11:30 p.m., KPIX), with Edward G. Robinson as a paroled criminal who buys a luggage shop in order to break into the next-door bank at Christmastime, only to find the luggage business too successful for him to quit. 

Tuesday is the day of the Wisconsin primary, and all three networks plan coverage during the evening. With President Johnson out of the race, Eugene McCarthy is the big winner on the Democratic side, garnering 56 percent of the vote, his last major hurrah before Robert Kennedy wins the Indiana primary the following month. In the Republican primary, former Vice President Richard Nixon is the landslide winner, garnering nearly 80 percent. For something considerably more enjoyable, check out NBC's Petula Clark special (8:00 p.m.), with special guest Harry Belafonte. You'd have thought that this would be a pretty uncomplicated program, but in this interview, Pet talks about the controversy generated by "this nice little white lady touching this large black gentleman on the hand." Have you noticed, by the way, how much race plays a role in so many of this week's programs?

On Wednesday, Country singer and Hee Haw co-host Roy Clark makes his TV acting debut on The Beverly Hillbillies (8:30 p.m., CBS) in a dual role as Cousin Roy and his mother Myrtle; seems Roy's planning to market Myrtle's homemade medicine, in competition with Granny. Following that, a two-part Green Acres begins with Arnold the Pig on his way to Hollywood after starring in a local play (9:00 p.m., CBS). Yes, the wonderful world of Hooterville. 

Anything on Thursday is bound to look trite in retrospect, but let's look at a hard-hitting episode of Ironside (8:30 p.m., NBC) that sounds as if it could have been taken from The A-Team: "Ironside's efforts to break a Vietnam hero’s appointment with the gas chamber are jeopardized by the condemned man’s buddies, a trio of avenging paratroopers who have threatened death to everyone connected with the conviction." Gary Collins is the hero, and Gavin MacLeod one of the avenging paratroopers. Later, Dean Martin welcomes Jimmy Stewart, George Gobel, and Shecky Greene (and couldn't we all use a laugh?), the highlight being Jimmy's impression of Dean as host.

Without doubt, the highlight of Friday's entertainment is the NET Playhouse presentation of Chekhov's drama "Uncle Vanya" (9:00 p.m., NET), starring Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir Michael Redgrave, Joan Plowright, and Rosemary Harris. Chekhov's bleak play "focuses on three people who must admit that the man they idolize is a pompous, self-serving nonentity." Could it be a parable for today? Who knows; what I do know is that it's wonderful to run across these old classics in such clean, crisp restorations. Go Chek it out and see what I mean. Later, CBS Reports (10:00 p.m.) is scheduled to present an American profile of "Home Country USA," a look at the great forgotten resources of grass roots America, including shipwrights constructing wooden sailing ships, doctors returning to their rural roots, an ironworks that hires poverty-stricken former cotton laborers, and more of what America used to be all about. Meanwhile, ABC's documentary The Confrontation (10:00 p.m.) takes a look back at the Army-McCarthy hearings. 

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We could probably stand for something light right about now, so what better time for Dick Hobson's article on "Four Days with the Remarkable Mrs. Morton," aka Lucille Ball. 

The scene opens Monday morning at the script reading, held in the dining-cum-conference room that was once occupied by the likes of Joseph P. Kennedy, Dore Schary, and Howard Hughes, and here we get some insight into Lucy's show biz acumen; turning to head writer Milt Josefsberg, she critcizes a bit on page 12: "That's awfully radio! It's just radio exposition! I kept hoping there’d be a joke coming up, not just a lot of words!" To Josefsberg, she says, "Let's go! Don’t just sit there with your chin on your expensive hand!" When husband Gary Morton offers a one-liner, with the explanation that "I was just thinking by myself over here," Lucy replies, "No, darling." Later, Morton will talk about life with Lucy: "She thinks she’s an actress playing Lucy Carmichael. She thinks she puts Lucy Carmichael away for the night at the studio. But I’ve been living with Lucy Carmichael at home for six years! At breakfast we'll do that Laurel and Hardy shtick. She won’t be aware the toast is burning. I’m watching. Then she has that way of saying, ‘There goes the toast!"

  The Mortons warm up the audience

In the projection room where Citizen Kane was first screened, Lucy sits alone, watching the rough-cut of the episode where Vivian Vance guests, and offering her feedback: "No, open with the long shot." "Go to that face." "Let’s move her over in the two-shot." "Go out on me." Later, she and regular Mary Jane Croft begin rehearsal on a scene. "Mary Jane, in this scene coming up, give a beat there after your first line." Mary Jane: "Do you really want me to say that line about 'I’ve got to go catch the movie at the Paramount'?" Lucy: "Well, if you want to stay friends with Mr. Bluhdorn, you’d better." That reference to the chairman of Gulf & Western, the company that bought out Desilu for a cool $17 million, is a reminder that the "little studio that could" no longer exists. Says Hobson, "It still makes her cry when she thinks about it." Later, after a call to last week's guest star, Carol Burnett ("Carol, darling, you were marvelous! I always said you’d make it, if you’d just pay attention."), the day ends with a script conference, and more feedback for Josefsberg, who tells her he has four options for a joke t0 fill out a scene: "There's no time now. You can give them to me for Christmas. You never know what to give me. Now, don't worry, fellas, I'll simply do something."

Wednesday is blocking day, and Lucy has to deal with this week's guest star, Buddy Hackett, who complains that "Lucy doesn't understand my comedy. She’s basic, while I am not of this world." Lucy's constantly battling over his continuous ad-libs, to which Buddy replies, "All right, if you’d rather have a plebeian laugh instead of something intellectual." When Lucy says "I'd rather have it," Hackett says, "You can say anything you want. I'll get even with you when we get on the air." This breaks Lucy up; she "yowls, stamps her foot, throws her arms around his. neck, and kisses him on the forehead. The Bad Boy beams." We also get a glimpse of Lucy's former husband, Desi Arnaz. "I’ve rented him space in one of my studios and he’s working again." His hair is now almost totally white; the rating on his own production, The Mothers-in-Law, are holding up, keeping him on the comeback trail.

Finally, it's Thursday: shooting day. Lucy bursts from her dressing room, "Quiet on the set!" Hackett's still having some problems with his lines, and asks, "Do I always have to sayh the same lines?" By 8:00 p.m., the audience of 400 has made its way into the studio's bleachers. Gary warms up the audience, introduces Hackett, who promises "I'm going to ad-lib a lot. We're on film. Lucy can't stop me," and then Lucy herself, "the star of our show." She's a little concerned that son Desi hasn't shown up yet: Desi IV, one of the most famous babies in television history, "who was welcomed at birth 15 years ago by 20,000 letters and 2000 telegrams." When he makes a belated appearance in the audience, everyone cheers.

And when it's all over, Lucy returns to being Mrs. Gary Morton. She climbs behind the wheel of her car and looks at the note she's attached there: "Stop for bagels for Gary."

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MST3K alert: The Mole People (1956) In Asia, a scientific expedition discovers an ancient tribe of Sumerians. John Agar, Synthia Patrick, Hugh Beaumont. (Saturday, 11:30 a.m., KNTV in San Jose) This is the fourth and final appearance on MST3K by Hugh Beaumont, but without question his most memorable "appearance" is on Lost Continent, when, during one of the host segments, Mike Nelson portrays him as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. ("I come bearing a message of unholy death. I'm really going to give you the business, destroy you, your world, and all that you know. But first, a stern talking-to.") In all the long history of MST3K, it's perhaps the most absurd moment ever, which is why it's so great. But a last word on The Mole People: although he's not listed in the TV Guide, the cast also includes Alan Napier. So we've got Ward Cleaver, Alfred the butler, and the former Mr. Shirley Temple. How cool is that?  TV

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Around the dial

 

At Comfort TV, David moves through the 1970s to primetime Thursday, 1977, and if you're any kind of vintage TV fan, you'll recognize the hits on this list, from The Waltons to Barney Miller, and CHiPs thrown in for good measure.

John's latest at Cult TV Blog is the 1980s British anthology series Unnatural Causes, which is what it sounds like (strange deaths), and the play "Ladies' Night," written by the great Nigel Kneale, whose name readers of Darkness in Primetime will recognize, and starring one of my favorites, Alfred Burke. Good stuff.

Actress Valerie Perrine died this week, age 82, after a long battle with Parkinson's; Gil at Realweegiemidget and Terence at A Shroud of Thoughts both have tributes to her long and successful career. 

Terence gets a second mention this week, because he also has a 100th birthday feature on Gene Shalit, the longtime movie critic on Today. Like Terence, I grew up watching Gene on the show; there were times when he was the only sufferable person on the show. Happy birthday!

If it's Friday, then you know it's time for Roger's weekly review of The A-Team at The View from the Junkyard, and this week it's the episode "The Bells of St. Mary's," which is in no way to be confused with the movie of the same name, but a group of pop singer-damsels in distress from their corrupt management company. (Is there any other kind?)

Martin Grams turns to the written word with information for Twilight Zone fans as to where they can find more of the same kinds of stories. From short story collections to the magazine Gamma, Martin has some great suggestions.

At Drunk TV, Paul takes a break from the mundane horrors of modern life to look at season four of The Odd Couple, one of the really underrated classic sitcoms. I mean, people generally know it's good, yet it's often overlooked on best-of lists. Find out how good season 4 is.

If you'll remember, last week at Classic Film and TV Corner, Maddie presented the first in a series of photos, both candid and publicity shots, from classic film and television. This week, she's back for a second go-around, and many of these shots are just as fascinating and descriptive as the others. Check them out. TV

If you enjoy the content here and want to support my broader creative work, please consider making a donation at my Ko-fi page. Any amount you contribute helps me continue writing, researching, and sharing these articles and projects. Thank you!

Hadley's Three Laws of Television Writing

The community of writers, to which I belong by virtue of having written four (soon to be five!) books, is a great one for rule-setting. I mentioned in a recent Substack essay that being a writer nowadays means being confronted with a whole series of rules, many of which do their very best to stifle any kind of creativity you might have: don't use flashbacks, don't include prologues, don't make your chapters too long, don't this-or-that-or-the-other. (You'll notice almost all of these rules start with Don't.) 

Well, that got me to thinking, and this being a television site and all, you can probably guess where this is headed. If there's a rulebook for book writing, there ought to be one for television writing as well. And who better to come up with said rules than yours truly? 

I was spurred to this decision by a recent episode of Adventures in Paradise that we watched a couple of weeks ago. I've mentioned before that Adventures in Paradise isn't a great show; sometimes it isn't even a particularly good one. It is, however, often a fun show, and Gardner McKay is a compelling lead, a genuine example of an actor who has true star power even though he's not the world's greatest actor. This particular episode, however—it was, and is, called "The Trial of Adam Troy," from the third (of four) seasons—was so bad, and broke so many obvious rules, that it seemed to me a good time to set the key rules down, and use this episode as an example of what not to do when coming up with a storyline for an episode.

Note that this list is not meant to be all-inclusive. I've overlooked some of the more obvious rules, for instance, the one that characters—especially regulars—should behave in ways that are always and everywhere consistent with the establishment of their true characters, the qualities that they've displayed throughout the series. If someone suddenly acts in a way that's totally contrary to how they've behaved in the previous seventy-five episodes, then you've either got a problem with your writers or your lead has suddenly developed schizophrenia. 

It's my feeling that rules like that one should be, as Jefferson might say, so self-evident that they don't even need to be set down. There are others, however, that might not occur to you at first thought—that might, in fact, not even be on the radar until you actually see a violation in an episode of one of your favorite shows. And it is to this purpose that I've chosen to present to you Hadley's Three Laws of Television Writing™.

The first rule of television storytelling is one I've brought up many times in the past: Do not put the hero in a situation where we already know the outcome. You've experienced my rants about false jeopardy before; basically, it involves a storyline that puts our main character in a situation where he or she is supposed to be at risk, but one in which you and I know is obviously impossible: being accused of murder, for example, or being in a life-or-death situation from a deadly illness or accident. We know the outcome is predetermined because Sergeant Saunders is not going to die as a result of the wounds suffered during an attack in Combat!, Perry Mason is not going to lose to Hamilton Burger, and Joe Mannix is not going to be convicted of the murder for which he's so obviously being framed. Unless the actor playing the character is in a contract dispute, there's no way he's going to be killed off, jailed, or otherwise put out of the way. So you've created a storyline in which one of the major sources of suspense has already been eliminated. Yawn.

Now there's one exception to this, and it's a flimsy one: the resolution to the fake jeopardy has to be so compelling, so exciting, so fraught with suspense, that it overcomes any doubts you might have about the outcome. In Combat!, for instance, we know that Sergeant Saunders and his men are going to get out of that German ambush (we're not so sure about the guest stars, though); what's compelling is in watching just how they do it. The solution usually requires some foresight, some manuever executed due to the experience Saunders has gained from the years spent fighting in the war. In other words, cleverness counts. Likewise, if Mannix is able to escape from police custody long enough to track down the real killer, we may buy it, but only if the outcome is so propulsive, so fraught with suspense and surprise, that we watch just to see how it turns out. I mean, if you know who didn't do it, the payoff has to come from the unwinding of the story to see who did. (It also helps if Mannix beats the hell out of the killer before the police arrest him, but that's another story.)

The long and short of it is that false jeopardy is always a loser unless you can knock the viewer's socks off with the resolution. And, having watched a lot of television over my lifetime, I can tell you that this does not happen very often. When it does, it can save the episode. When it doesn't, that's when I usually start checking my email.

Closely related, but not exactly the same, is my next rule: Do not require something just short of divine intervention to get the hero out of a jam. This one gets violated more often than I'd like to admit, and when it does, it often leaves me feeling disappointed. My feeling is that a truly heroic television character always remains in control of his fate. A sports analogy here may help out. We've often heard an analyst say that Team A has their fate in their own hands, meaning that if Team A wins the remainder of their games, no matter what any other team manages to do, Team A is going to win the championship. On the other hand, many times a team will be in the position of depending on external factors out of their own control. Team A's chances of making the playoffs may depend not only on their winning the remainder of their games, but also on Team B losing at least once. But as we've seen above, if Team B wins all their games, then Team A is out of luck.

Now, obviously, television shows would be pretty dull if there weren't some manner of suspense involved. If your hero is Superman, and all of his opponents are mere mortals, you can be pretty sure that no matter what life has to throw at him, he's going to come out of it on top. He doesn't need any stinking badges, or anything else for that matter, to get him out of trouble. But suppose your hero isn't Superman, just Jim Rockford, and that he and Beth are being held hostage by a killer who's determined to eliminate them both—permanently. There are a number of ways for this to happen, but for it to be effective, it has to pass through what I like to call the "Plausibility Meter." 

In writing, I use the Plausibility Meter to determine whether or not I should pursue a particular storyline. Now, by plausible, I don't mean that this has to be the only outcome, or even the likely one; it just means that it has to be realistic enough that the reader is going to buy into whatever it is you're proposing, without requiring a suspension of disbelief so massive as to be virtually impossible. To go back to our situation with Rockford and Beth, if Dennis knows that Jim was headed out to that deserted factory to find the clue pointing to the identity of the killer, and if he knows the killer is also headed for that factory, then it's entirely plausible that Dennis will head there as well; therefore, when Dennis shows up (invariably) just in the nick of time to save our hero and his girl, we're going to buy it. It might not have been the most likely resolution to the situation, but it's certainly a plausible one. We can buy the cavalry coming to the rescue at the last minute if we know that a cavalry exists, and if the cavalry knows there's trouble afoot. 

On the other hand, when the hero requires a virtual Act of God to get out of a jam, then we're apt to roll our eyes. Which is what I mean when I say that the hero's fate should never be out of his own hands. Rockford works with Dennis, knows Dennis, trusts Dennis (at least most of the time). Therefore, being rescued by Dennis is, in a very real sense, a result of Rockford's own action. But when we see the equivalent of the two scientists standing at the blackboard working on a formula which can only be completed by inserting "and then a miracle occurs," we're in trouble. If the hero's survival depends on a change of heart by a heretofore cold-hearted character, or if the bad guy is knocked out just before pulling the trigger by a falling ceiling beam that just happened to have come down exactly where the bad guy was standing—well, then, Houston, we've got a problem. A very good series is entitled to a mulligan like this every once in a while, but the series has to be very good, and the frequency of this happening has to be very rare.

And now we come to Hadley's Third Law of Television Plotlines: Don't deny the viewer the pleasure of the payoff. The mystery writer Dorothy L. Sayers once said that for a mystery story to have a payoff, justice has to be visible; the balance of right and wrong must be redressed. It is why, in her opinion, any story in which the bad guys won was a violation of the natural law of things. If justice is not dispensed in a story, there can be no equilibrium, no restoration of truth.

You may think that this doesn't come into play in the examples we've been looking at here. If Saunders and his men win their battle with the Germans, if Rockford is rescued, if Mannix finds the real killer, doesn't that mean that justice has triumphed? Well, yes, but remember that storytelling is a visceral experience for the viewer or reader. In other words, the payoff at the end has to make everything they've experienced worth it. We all know by now that writers manipulate our emotions all the time; they make us hate the villain, love the heroine, boil at the sight of injustice. If they really do it well, we're not aware that we're being manipulated, but whether or not it's done well, that's what they're doing. And for this manipulation to have been worth it, we need a payoff.

What do I mean by this? Take the story of a particularly heinous criminal, a murderer, a child rapist, the worst of the worst. The capture of this vermin by the end of the story is a given (unless we're dealing with a true story, or the writer is trying to prove a larger point, which is itself an iffy proposition), but admit it—you don't want to see the detectives just slap the cuffs on them, and take them away, do you? Of course not. In a story like this, that's too good for them. You want to see the hero beat them to within an inch of their lives. You want to be assured that not only will they suffer in the process, but their future suffering is also assured. You want a visceral form of justice to prevail. If you've never felt that way, you're not human.

One of the things that makes Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer books so satisfying is that you're assured of this kind of payoff at least three or four times in every book. You live for that moment when Hammer locks the door, rolls up his sleeves, and turns the radio up high, so that nobody will hear the perp's screams as Hammer puts the fist, the boot, and the butt of the gun to them. Maybe you don't need to see all the gory details, but you need more than a subtle fade-out to the next scene to be satisfied. It's a variation of Chekhov's Gun, the principle that every element introduced in a story must be significant and relevant to the plot. In other words, if something is mentioned, like a gun, it should have a purpose later in the story; otherwise, it shouldn't be included at all. If the bad guy is as vile a character as you've been made to believe, you sure as hell want some kind of satisfaction at the end.

In the case of the Adventures in Paradise episode I mentioned at the outset, this story managed, unbelievably, to violate not one, not two, but all three of these principles before it had ended. To recap the episode, we find Adam Troy (Gardner McKay) facing the loss of his captain's license, and possibly more, due to his negligence in the death of a passenger while on a voyage. Said victim was a young man with a background of wealth and privilege, with a father determined to avenge his son's death by whatever means necessary—in this case, by blaming Adam for his son's accident. 

Right away we're faced with a clear-cut case of false jeopardy: since we're in the middle of the third season, and since the very premise of the series involves McKay's adventures on his schooner, we know damn well that he's not going to be found guilty here, of negligence, or of anything else. So already we've had the violation of Hadley's First Law: the main character is in no real danger, regardless of what the writers want us to believe. We know Adam wasn't negligent, through the extensive use of flashbacks (whoops!) that show us what really happened. The trick is to get the authorities to believe it, when the only possible evidence is the testimony of a girl who can't be found, having been stashed away by the rich kid's father, henceforth known as the Rich Bastard.

Now, let's give them credit that they probably realize we're on to this trick, and therefore, they've tried to inject as much suspense as possible. Will Adam be able to find the girl in time and convince her to testify on his behalf? And here, I have to give them a little credit, because they do try to string us along for a bit. Adam does manage to find her, and she does tell him the truth, but guess what: she lies on the witness stand, because her father works for the Rich Bastard, and if she tells the truth, that the son was responsible for his own death, then daddy will find himself out of a job. But guess what? At the last minute, Dad stands up and says he'll not allow his daughter to perjure herself on his account, and insists she tell the truth.

This obviously breaks Hadley's Second Law, in a couple of ways. First, Adam had to put his trust in his ability to persuade the girl to come to his defense. This isn't necessarily an outright violation, but it does start to put a strain on the Plausibility Meter. But then we get this out-of-nowhere statement from Dad, which basically saves Adam's bacon. Who could have anticipated that? There simply wasn't enough time in a one-hour drama to develop the characters to the point that you can buy a turn of events like this. Therefore, it becomes a textbook example of being bailed out due to an improbability—a miracle, if you will.

So good triumphs over evil, Adam's name and reputation are cleared, and the Rich Bastard winds up losing. At least that's what we're told, for we don't see him actually suffer the consequences. Does he go to prison? Do the shareholders revolt, does the bad publicity cause the business to suffer, does he face public shame for his nefarious actions? Who the hell knows, because none of it gets played out on screen. There is no payoff: no comeuppance, no visible punishment. Adam doesn't even get the chance to belt him in the mouth, which was the least to which he was entitled. And us too, by the way. What is it that Mick says about not getting any satisfaction? It really had the feel of an episode in which they ran out of time and had to sum it all up in a sentence or two. 

Now, lest you think I'm picking on Adventures in Paradise—well, in a way, I am. It was a disappointing episode, without a doubt. But it's far from the only series to fall into these traps, to break Hadley's Three Laws™, and it hasn't stopped us from continuing to watch. 

It is rare, however, to see a single episode that manages to violate all three of these laws in the same story; a trifecta, if you will, or maybe a triple crown. Not one I'd want to win, though, because with an episode like this, there are no winners. TV

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What's on TV: Friday, March 25, 1960

Ahe highlight of today's programming, as we saw on Saturday, is the TV Guide Awards show at 7:30 p.m., but there are other things of interest as well. For example, let's take a look at CBS this afternoon, with For Better or Worse at 1:00 p.m., followed by Art Linkletter's House Party at 1:30, where Art's guest is marriage counselor Dr. James A. Peterson—the host of For Better or Worse. I tell you, if there's an award for self -promotion, that takes the prize. The listings are, as you probably already know, from the Minnesota State Edition.

This week in TV Guide: March 19, 1960

As you'll learn at the end of this week's piece, one of the most popular series on television is the legal drama Perry Mason*, and this week, we're going to take a look at some of the inside keys to the show's success.

* Interestingly, Perry Mason was always categorized in TV Guide as a "Mystery" rather than drama, as is usually the case with legal procedurals. I think that's fair; Mason's really as much a detective as he is an attorney. It's probably best classified as a hybrid detective/legal series.

One of the secrets to the success of Mason, according to this unbylined article, is its strong supporting cast, each of whom brings something special to his or her role. Take Bill Talman, for example, who plays Perry's nemesis Hamilton Burger. According to Talman, Mason creator Erle Stanley Gardner didn't think much of the D.A. "Erle detested Berger," Talman says, "and drew him as the prototype of the loud, blustering sorehead, like the one who used to plague him as a young lawyer." Talman has worked to flesh out the character, to reduce the temptation by viewers to see him as a heavy. "Otherwise, it would be no credit to Perry to set him down every week."

Ray Collins, the honest (if quick to judge) detective lieutenant Arthur Tragg, is an old pro, one who "can sense other actors' needs and throw the scene their way." For instance, if a young actor, perhaps one playing his first big role, is struggling with his lines, Collins will start fumbling his to take the pressure off—if, that is, Talman or Raymond Burr don't beat him to it.* But, as Collins adds, "we are professionals. Therefore, no matter how fond we are of one another, we all try to protect ourselves. If Willie Talman can get better lighting than I can, well, I assure you I'll try to change that." Barbara Hale, Perry's loyal secretary Della Street, says "It's like the competition in a family."

*I wonder about this. Collins was, by all accounts, a generous colleague, but it's been said that as his health began to fail (he died in 1965), he began to have more trouble memorizing and delivering his lines. It could be that Talman and Burr, almost certainly the sources of this anecdote, were in fact using it to cover for Collins. It's the kind of thing mensches would do.

William Hopper, son of the famed columnist Hedda, has learned his share of tricks of the trade, thanks both to his mother and veteran actors. He, too, has become a pro over the years; "If all you know is tricks, you're dead."

It's a tight cast, even if they do compete for better lighting and close-ups. Says Talman, who has shared a dressing room with Hopper for three years, "Can you think of rooming with a guy for three years and never having a quarrel or argument? I can't. But that has happened with Bill and me." Collins adds that "There's something else—call it a great affection, like a legit show on the road. When it closes you may never see each other again. Sometimes we think of that. And so we still speak to each other." "And laugh at each other's jokes," Talman adds.

At the center of it all is Raymond Burr, and Collins accurately sums up the man and his impact on the cast. "Take Raymond, a man doing 39 hour-long shows a year, appearing in almost every scene, knowing his lines letter-perfect, and who still devotes himself to making it better for other people." He and Talman are inveterate practical jokers, both on each other and on other members of the cast; Hale, who's a favorite target for Burr, once found everything in her dressing room—sink, flower pots, everything—filled with green gelatin.

Judging by the lack of jealousy among the cast, that must be the only thing that's green.

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Starting in 1954, Steve Allen helmed his own NBC variety show which, at the beginning, aired opposite that of Ed Sullivan. It didn't run as long as Ed's, of course, but then Allen said his goal was never to conquer Ed, but to coexist with him, which he did for four seasons. Let's see who gets the best of the contest this week.

Sullivan: Ed presents circus stars from all over the world. In London: Popov, famed Soviet clown; the Boxing Russian Bears. In New York: Emmett Kelly, celebrated American clown; the De Donge Chimps; Linon, high-wire clown; and the Three Murkies.

Allen: Steve's guests are actress Ann Blyth, Nick "The Rebel" Adams, comedian Jan Murray and the Nikolais dancers.

No contest here; unless you're a big fan of circuses, the only name you may recognize from Ed's lineup is Emmett Kelly, although I'll admit to having a soft spot for boxing bears. On the other hand, Steve has an actual lineup of stars, and while it may not be the strongest hand, it's the best one this week. The verdict: Allen takes the week.

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"For the Record" reviews one of the bigger television stories in recent history: the return of Jack Paar, after his celebrated walkout, on the March 7 Tonight Show. His sidekick, Hugh Downs, counted down the seconds, and then, "Here's Jack!" and out stepped"the lachrymose comedian with the porcupine-quill wit," to complete what the column calls "the most emotional, if not dramatic, re-entry in TV history." Paar's average nightly audience more than doubled, with a multi-city Arbitron rating of 25.5 tuned in to see him, "obviously laboring under great stress" as he resumed the late-night chores. Eyes of a Generation has an excellent recap of one of television's most controversial episodes, including a clip of his triumphant return.

That's not all the Hugh Downs news for this week; according to the TV Teletype, Downs will be appearing in a straight dramatic role in an upcoming episode of Riverboat, starring Darrin McGavin and Burt Reynolds. (If any further evidence is needed, that's him over there, to the left of McGavin.) And, speaking of Perry Mason as we were in the lede, CBS has confirmed that the show has been renewed for a fourth season. 

There's also a note that Reginald Rose has completed work on what Bob Stahl says may be "the most controversial TV play of the season," "The Sacco-Vanzetti Story," planned as a two-part Sunday Showcase presentation in May on NBC. Rose says that his "intensive research" shows that the anarchists, who were executed after being convicted of robbery and murder in South Braintree, Massachusetts, were framed due to their political beliefs. Martin Balsam and Steven Hill are scheduled to portray Sacco and Vanzetti; Sidney Lumet will direct. In the end, the production, which actually airs in June, wins critical acclaim from most critics (with New York Daily News columnist Ben Gross calling it "a blasting indictment of Massachusetts justice," and criticism from Boston Globe legal editor Joseph Harvey, who accused it of being unfair and unbalanced, albeit "absorbing" drama. It goes on to garner four Emmy nominations.

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To coin a phrase, we've got some really big stars in specials and regular fare alike, and that dominates our look at the week.

On Saturday Jack Benny gets a full hour special (9:00 p.m. CT) in addition to his regular weekly series, and he fills it up with Phil Silvers and Polly Bergen. Among the highlights, Jack interviews a "typical" TV Western viewer, gives his opinion on television commercials, and wonders about the runner taking the Olympic torch from Squaw Valley to Rome for the Summer Games.

Sunday brings us the return of Dr. Frank Baxter, whom we've enjoyed here before, in another Bell Telephone Science Special, "The Alphabet Conspiracy." (5:00 p.m., NBC) Dr. Baxter plays Dr. Linguistics, who's out to "prevent three plotters who are determined to do away with the alphabet and thus destroy all languages." Who knew they'd go on to invent emojis instead? Hans Conried plays The Mad Hatter, who for all I know may or may not be one of the plotters. If you missed this when it was first on 14 months ago, you may opt for this week's roundtable discussion on Small World (5:00, CBS), featuring Pablo Casals, Isaac Stern and Ernest Ansermet discussing the musician's political and social responsibilities. CBS follows that up at 5:30 with The Twentieth Century, as Walter Cronkite profiles "Patton and the Third Army."

Sunday evening brings a pair of specials; first, Our American Heritage (7:00 p.m., NBC) tells the story of "Autocrat and Son," also known as Oliver Wendell Holms Sr. and Jr. Sr. is played by Sir Cedric Hardwicke, Jr. by Christopher Plummer, and the whole thing was written by Ernest Kinoy, who wrote great teleplays into the 1990s, everything from The Defenders to the TV-movies Victory at Entebbe and Skokie. Then, at 8:30 p.m. on CBS, the General Mills Special Tonight series presents "The Valley of Decision" with Lloyd Bridges and Nancy Wickwire.

Compared to Sunday's lineup, Monday is pretty tame, but it does have its benefits, with Arlene Francis as Jack Paar's Tonight guest-host for the week (NBC, 10:30 p.m.), while Jack's in England taping next week's shows. (Speaking of Jack, as we were earlier.) Was Arlene the first woman to host Tonight? I think so, but don't hold me to it; I'm not sure at this point in history who else in might have been.

Tuesday starts off with Playhouse 90's chilling adaptation of Robert Shaw's novel "The Hiding Place" (7:00 p.m., CBS) starring James Mason as a Nazi holding two British flyers (Richard Basehart, Trevor Howard) prisoner in his cellar. They've spent years chained up in there, with Mason as their only contact to the outside world. What he doesn't tell them is that the war has been over for seven years. If that's too dark for you, you can check out a rare television appearance by Rex Harrison in Startime's "Dear Arthur" (7:30 p.m., NBC), co-starring Sarah Marshall and Hermoine Badderly, with Gore Vidal adapting the play by P.G. Wodehouse.

I like the sound of Perry Como's show on Wednesday (8:00 p.m., NBC), with Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé, and Don Adams. (Might be the best variety show of the week, for that matter.) You can also check out Richard Boone, taking time out from Have Gun—Will Travel to star in "The Charlie and the Kid" on The U.S. Steel Hour (9:00 p.m., CBS), with Geraldine Brooks.

The big event on Thursday is a local one, the start of the Minnesota State High School Basketball Tournament. (For boys, of course; it is 1960, after all.) I think most people think of hockey when they think sports in Minnesota, but in the years before professional sports came to town, the basketball tournament was very, very big stuff. The tournament ran for three days, with eight teams battling for the title, ending on Saturday night when nearly 20,000 would pack Williams Arena, home of the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers, to watch the final. If they're lucky, it would be a David-vs-Goliath story, with an unsung small school out of nowhere taking on the big city schools.

In 1960 that's exactly what happened, as Minnesota staged its very own version of Hoosiers, starring the team from tiny Edgerton, Minnesota (population 961). Edgerton, led by coach Rich Olson (so young that security guards demanded to see his identification before letting him into Williams Arena), had finished the regular season undefeated, then knocked off several large schools before making it into the tournament, where the standing-room only crowds adopted the tiny school as its own, cheering them on as they upset top-ranked Richfield in the semifinals before defeating Austin in the final. Edgerton was the smallest school ever to win the state championship, and to this day the tournament remains one of the most storied moments in Minnesota sports history.

On Friday, Robert Ryan and Ann Todd star in a live adaptation of Hemingway's story "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" (7:30 p.m., CBS), which must have been quite an accomplishment considering our hero leads a life of adventure all over the world. At least they have the right man at the helm, with John Frankenheimer directing. Pretty good supporting cast as well, with Janice Rule, Jean Hagen, Mary Astor and James Gregory.

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There's often a healthy dose of irony contained in TV Guide headlines from this era, and this week's example is the header on the cover, "How Bob Cummings Stays So Young." The short answer, contained in the story, is "advanced thinking on the subject of diet." The longer, and more interesting, answer is only partially found in the article; the rest of it can be tracked down in various articles about Cummings's problems later in life.

Cummings is a big believer in supplements, mostly in tablets and pills. "They're just vitamin, mineral and amino acid pills, but they're organic in origin, not synthetic," he tells the unidentified interview. It's not unusual for him to "gulp down as many as two dozen of these," and he downs "anywhere from 30 to 300 a day." When asked how to get on a supplemental diet, he says simply, "See your doctor and do what he says"

Well, Cummings's doctor was Max Jacobson, the infamous "Dr. Feelgood," who was doctor to many Hollywood celebrities, and once treated President Kennedy with a mixture of steroids and amphetamines. According to the always-reliable Wikipedia, "While Jacobson insisted that his injections contained only "vitamins, sheep sperm, and monkey gonads", they actually contained a substantial dose of methamphetamine." Cummings eventually became an addict, and after Jacobson was stripped of his medical license, Cummings was forced to find his own connections for the drugs. He wound up broke, living in various homes for indigent actors.

Now, I hasten to add that I don't know whether or not Cummings was seeing Jacobson at the time of this article; his quotes only refer to "pills," and Jacobson apparently trafficked in injections. However, Cummings was thought to have become addicted to meth by the mid-1950s, an addiction that continued to the end of his life. It's a sad footnote to a talented and very likable actor.

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And the winner is: Finally, the TV Guide Awards are presented live and in color on Friday night (7:30 p.m., NBC); before the Emmys attained their current level of credibility, the TV Guide Awards, along with other awards shows from magazines such as Look, were considered industry standard presentations. The categories are, obviously, much broader than one would see from the Emmys, but no less important, given that readers of TV Guide voted for the winners.

Robert Young, Nanette Fabray, and Fred MacMurray not only host, they perform in some pre-recorded skits, while the awards themselves are presented in both New York and Hollywood, depending on where the winner is. The show's producer is Bud Yorkin, and it's directed by Norman Lear.

Anyway, may I have the envelope please?

Favorite Series of One Hour or Longer: Perry Mason

Favorite Half-Hour Series: Father Knows Best

Best Single Musical or Variety Program: Another Evening with Fred Astaire

Most Popular Male Personality: Raymond Burr (Perry Mason)

Most Popular Female Personality: Loretta Young (The Loretta Young Show)

Best News or Information Program: The Huntley-Brinkley Report

Best Single Dramatic Program: "The Turn of the Screw" (Startime)

TV

If you enjoy the content here and want to support my broader creative work, please consider making a donation at my Ko-fi page. Any amount you contribute helps me continue writing, researching, and sharing these articles and projects. Thank you!