Around the dial

On Wednesday, you saw my contribution to the Aaron Spellingverse Blogathon hosted by Gill at Realweegiemidget; well, now that it's all done, head over there to see all of the entries, including those by blogs I'd ordinarily be mentioning here, such as The Last Drive In. By the end, you'll know more about Aaron Spelling than you ever thought possible!

Last week I mentioned the death of Peter Marshall, and that we'd likely be reading about him in this space this week. As promised, Terence has a look at the great man's career at A Shroud of Thoughts. Continue reading, and you'll also read his fine appreciation of the late Phil Donahue, who died earlier this week.

This week, Jack's Hitchcock Project at bare-bones e-zine shines the spotlight on one Evan Hunter, who under that name wrote Blackboard Jungle, while under the pen name Ed McBain he wrote the long series of 87th Precinct novels, several of which are on my bookshelf. Here, we're concerned with his only Hitchcock contribution, "Appointment at Eleven," a terrific adaptation of Robert Turner's short story.

At Cult TV Blog, John has spent the past few weeks reviewing the dystopian series The Guardians, and this week he comes to the conclusing episode, after which he offers some of his own conclusions as to the provocative series. Thanks to you, John, I've had to add this series to the lengthy list of programs I have to watch if I live long enough.

Guess what came from Amazon last week? The complete series of F Troop! We'd always enjoyed this series when it was originally on, but I'd be lying if I didn't give some of the credit for my renewed interest to Hal at The Horn Section and his F Troop Fridays. This week, he returns with a look at "Reunion for O'Rourke," celebrating the Sergeant's 25th anniversary in the service.

At Comfort TV, David muses on what he calls his "least favorite sitcom plot," as seen in the Doris Day Show episode "The Matchmakers," and how an annoying cliche can nonetheless teach a valuable life lesson for those open to it. I probably ought to take a page or two from these episodes myself.

Next to the annual Christmas catalogs from Sears and Penneys, one of the most exciting days of the year, for me at least, was when the TV Guide Fall Preview issue came out. Somewhat to my surprise, they still publish one, although I've not paid any attention to broadcast television for years. At Television Obscurities, reliable Robert reminds us that it's out there, if you can find it.

I'm not sure that a week goes by when I don't see character actor Jay Novello appearing in one classic TV episode or another; sometimes I might see him twice in one night. Travalanche looks back at Novello's long career, and even if you don't recognize the name, he'll tell you what to watch so you can recognize the face. TV  

Burke's Law: the detective show that became Aaron Spelling's first TV hit

Aaron Spelling and Gene Barry: the duo reponsible for the success of Burke's Law
.

The following is part of the Aaron (Spellingverse) Blogathon, sponsored by Realweegiemidget Reviews. Be sure to check here for more great entries in the series, running August 19-21.

I've written about Burke's Law before—you can catch up here if you're not familiar with it—but until Gill invited me to participate in this year's Aaron Spelling Blogathon, I'd never really thought about the program in conjunction with him.

The TL;DR is that Burke's Law, which debuted on ABC in the fall of 1963, stars Gene Barry as Amos Burke, a suave, urbane millionaire crimefighter who lives in a mansion, rides in a chauffer-driven Rolls, and always seems to have a beautiful woman resting her hands on his tuxedo-clad arm. Unlike those other wealthy crimefighters, though—Bruce Wayne or Tony Stark or Lord Peter Wimsey, for example—Burke does this for a living, as captain of the Homicide Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. Aided by his able assistants, Detective Sergeant Les Hart (Regis Toomey) and Detective Tim Tilson (Gary Conway), and with the lovely Sergeant Gloria Ames (Eileen O'Neill) always ready to provide a helping hand back in the office, Burke deals with a slew of eccentric suspects each week, sorting through leads and red herrings until he runs across that one clue that tips him off to the killer's identity.

With his inherited wealth (which has increased through his own shrewd investments), he obviously doesn't need to risk his life each week tracking down murderers, so why is he a cop? A witness asks that very question in the first episode of Burke's Law, to which a detective counters, "Why are you a construction worker?" "It's what I do best," the witness replies, and the detective says, "That's why he's a cop."  

All well and good, you may be thinking, but where does Aaron Spelling enter the picture? This isn't a Gene Barry Blogathon, after all. 

You've got a point there.

Spelling was, in fact, the producer of Burke's Law, and the man who, next to Barry, was probably the most responsible for the show's success. Barry had been looking for a comedy for his next project, he told an interviewer in a 1963 TV Guide profile. "I searched for the twinkle, the lift of an eyebrow [that] could change the tone of a serious sentence," he said. "I read Burke’s Law. I envisioned the twinkle in it." Spelling, in the same interview, describes Barry as a man "at home in [a tuxedo], secure in it." In other words, the perfect actor to play a millionaire police captain.

Burke's Law would be Spelling's first successful television project to that point, the first hit of a career that would span 40 years, and it displays many of the trademarks that would come to define an Aaron Spelling production, starting with the guest cast. One of the challenges inherent in crafting a successful mystery is keeping the audience guessing as to who the killer is. Often, since it's such a juicy part, the role goes to the most prominent guest star in the cast; identify that actor, and you've got your murderer. 

Spelling's answer to this was to populate each episode with as many as six or eight recognizable guest stars, from Hollywood veterans like Broderick Crawford, Mary Astor, and Ida Lupino to up-and-comers like Tina Louise and Barbara Eden, to fish-out-of-water appearances by the likes of Don Rickles, Paul Lynde, and the Smothers Brothers. You couldn't depend on the recognizable name being the guilty party; you recognized them all! (Does that remind anyone of, say, The Love Boat or Fantasy Island?) One reason Spelling was so successful in obtaining name guest stars was that they seldom appeared in more than a scene or two at the most; it was an easy payday for them. The female guest stars could also be counted on to display their most attractive . . .well, assets. As actress Corinne Calvet suggestively intimates to Burke in one episode, "I have life insurance, but I’m not as fully covered as I should be."

Like those shows, Burke's Law was a mix of comedy and drama; although the very premise suggests a show that doesn't take itself too seriously (and shouldn't be taken too seriously by viewers either), the mysteries themselves were generally played in a straightforward way, and, like the crew of the Pacific Princess, Burke and his detectives were always treated with respect, never as joke characters.

Each episode of Burke's Law followed a familiar and dependable formula (another Spelling trademark), beginning with the discovery of the dead body, followed by a call to Burke, invariably interrupting one of his romantic assignations, and leading to the opening credits, in which a breathy female voice coos "It's Burke's Law!" while Amos is driven to the scene of the crime by his loyal chauffer/valet, Henry (Leon Lontoc). During the course of the investigation, Burke, Les, and Tim are confronted with multiple suspects, all of whom display characteristics that fall somewhere between eccentric and sociopathic. Those of us actually trying to solve the crime are pulled in two or three different directions, as first one suspect, then another, comes to the fore. Finally, the lightbulb goes on over Burke's head, as a seemingly insignificant clue leads to the breakthrough that, in turn, leads Amos to the guilty party. With the case wrapped up, Amos is now free to resume his pursuit of yet another delictable beauty.

Obviously, all this suggests Burke's Law isn't going to be one of those dark, heavy dramas so typical of today's police procedurals. And yet there's one episode that stands out, precisely because it goes against the grain of the well-established formula, and it's worth singling it out for a moment.

"Who Killed My Girl?" is the 29th episode of the first season, and from the start it differs in that it is both more serious and more personal than usual. You see, this week's victim, beautiful heiress Diana Mercer (Barbara Michaels) was not only known to Burke—she was "his girl," beautiful, sophisticated, fun, with wealth of her own—the one woman who stood a chance to be "Mrs. Amos Burke" if Amos had been the marrying kind. He isn't, of course; although it's a cliche, he really is married to his job. Any time a female friend even suggests the possibility of marriage, Burke starts looking for the exits. 

But Diana was different; she had a hold on him like no other woman. He finally broke it off, knowing that it wouldn't work out, despite her protestations. That was in the past, but recently she'd reentered his life, asking if they could get together for old times' sake. It's obvious something's bothering her, but she won't tell him what it is. Unable to do anything for her, the evening ends. The next thing we know, there's a phone call. This time it catches Amos, not in the arms of another beautiful woman, but in bed, asleep. And the news from Tim is crushing: Diana is dead.

The easy way out for an episode like this would be to make Burke the prime suspect. He was, after all, the last person known to have seen her alive, witnesses saw him leaving her place. I call this kind of a plot "false jeopardy," because we know from the outset that Amos isn't the killer; putting him under some kind of suspicion is simply adding an unnecessary complication. And it's to the show's credit (the episode was penned by TV stalwart Tony Barrett) that it doesn't go there. 

It does, however, give us a side of Amos Burke that we haven't seen before. He's haunted by the possibility that he's somehow responsible for Diana's death, flipping through old pictures and buried memories, unable to shake the thought from his mind. If only he'd been able to get her to tell him what was wrong—even worse, if only he'd married her back in the day—then she'd still be alive. 

Out of that grows a determination, almost a personal vendetta, to track down Diana's killer. Tim, Les, and Gloria worry that he's too emotionally wrapped up in the case, too close to it to see what might be important. He refuses all offers of help, though. This is his case, and he's going to see it through to the end. His first surprise comes when he runs across Diana's little black book—he had no idea. And as he goes through the names, he discovers a darker side to her, one that he didn't know existed. Is it possible that he never really knew her at all, or were these secrets somehow a result of their breakup? It isn't until Burke is attacked in his home that he realizes he must be getting close to uncovering the killer. At this point, he finally acknowledges the need for help from his colleagues. 

Befitting an episode that's more serious than usual, Gene Barry demonstrates that there's more to Burke than a tuxedo; he can be tough, even ruthless, when the situation calls for it; the rest of the regular cast displays a similar sensitivity. As usual, there's a boatload of guest stars, including Richard Carlson, Jane Greer, Ruta Lee, Stephen McNally, Gene Raymond, Don Taylor. I'm not going to spoil the ending for you here; if you want to find out how the story ends, you can stream the series at Amazon Prime, or email me, and I'll tell you whodunnit. (That's a cruel thing to do, isn't it?) 

But the point here is that, in some way, the mystery isn't really what this episode is about. As things wrap up, with the killer in custody, Amos is left alone in his home, sitting at his desk, lost once again with his memories, as Henry brings him dinner. But then Les, Tim, and Gloria "just happen" to drop by, each one of them bringing an armload of food, enough for a party. Without forgetting the past completely, Amos realizes that it's time for him to return to the present, and to the friends who care about him. It's a putatively happy ending, but one gets the feeling that there's still a shadow there, one from which Amos Burke will never be entirely clear.

(L-R) Regis Toomey, Gary Conway,
and Gene Barry

Burke's Law ran for two moderately successful seasons, 1963-64 and 1964-65. For the 1965-66 season, ABC, over the vehement objections of Spelling and Barry, announced a change in format. Attempting to capitalize on the spy craze engendered by the James Bond movies and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. television series, the show's title was changed to Amos Burke, Secret Agent. Burke, no longer with the LAPD, was now an operative for an American spy organization, traveling the world to fight nefarious international plots against freedom. (He did get to keep his Rolls, although now he had to drive it himself.) The rest of the cast was jettisoned; the only regular in the new version was Carl Benton Reid as "The Man," Burke's spymaster, in charge of sending him on various assignments. The lightness of the original was toned down somewhat; tellingly, most of Burke's female operatives are killed in this version.

Amos Burke, Secret Agent was not a hit with viewers or critics, and only 17 episodes were aired before the show was cancelled in January, 1966. That wasn't the end of the line for Amos Burke, though, for apparently he grew tired of the secret agent business and returned to the LAPD. At least, that's where we was working when Burke's Law was revived for the 1994-95 season. Spelling Productions was once again driving the series, and Gene Barry was back, dapper as ever, as now-Deputy Chief Amos Burke. His new sidekick was his son Peter, himself a detective with LAPD, played by Peter Barton (during the intervening years Burke had married and was now a widower), and Henry was back behind the wheel of the Rolls (albeit with a different actor). The trademark humor, occasionally verging on camp, had returned, as did the big-name guest star lineup. It was a middling success, running for 24 episodes over two seasons. One of the highlights of the revived series was an appearance by Anne Francis, whose character, private detective Honey West, had first appeared in a 1965 episode of Burke's Law before being spun off into her own series, which ran for one season*. In the Burke revival, her character was called "Honey Best" for copyright reasons, but those in the know knew who she really was.

*Fun fact: Aaron Spelling's original first choice to play Honey West was Honor Blackman, who'd previously starred in The Avengers and the Bond film Goldfinger. Blackman turned Spelling down; I wonder if Honey West would have been more successful with her in the role?

Burke's Law was a delightful show, great fun to watch, with Barry masterful in the role, and the byplay between Burke, Les, and Tim was one of the highlights of the series. The first season of the show was released on DVD way back in 2008, but neither the second and third seasons have seen the light of day, relegated to reruns on MeTV. It's a pity, because it's deprived so many people from discovering the pleasures of Aaron Spelling's first hit. And who knows where this blogosphere would be today if we hadn't had Burke's Law? TV 

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Two of a kind: the odd couple that makes Harry O worth watching

David Janssen and Anthony Zerbe, stars of Harry O and a very mismatched couple

The following is part of The Mismatched Couples Blogathon, running this weekend at many of your favorite blogs. Be sure to check the sponsors, Cinematic Catharsis and Realweegiemidget, throughout the weekend for the latest posts. "Around the Dial" will return next Friday—same time, same channel.

Somewhere in the dusty archives housing the history of television, there must be a playbook on private detective shows that states the P.I. must always have a love-hate relationship with a foil in the police department: someone who can be counted on to grumble about how our hero is always meddling in his cases, holding out on information he's discovered, and operating just outside the law. Nevertheless, said foil can always be counted on to come through in the clutch, showing up just in time to save the detective's bacon—or, more often, to slap the cuffs on the bad guys just after our hero has single-handedly subdued them with his gun, his fists, or both. Case solved, they can go out together afterward for a beer (or two). It's a dependable formula, responsible for more than one hit action series over the years. Of these relationships, one of the most unique is that between private detective Harry Orwell and detective lieutenant K.C. Trench of the Santa Monica Police Department. By any definition, they can be considered one of television's mismatched couples. 

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David Janssen enjoyed an enviable career in television. He starred in two hit series in which he played iconic characters—Richard Diamond, Private Detective and The Fugitive—and he guested in a plethora of dramatic series and made-for-TV movies. (His movie career wasn't bad either, although he never attained the success he hoped for.) He was an intelligent and skilled actor, popular with viewers, and was capable of making a show better than it should have been simply by his presence. He died much too soon, at age 48, in 1980. But before then, he had one last memorable role up his sleeve—that of private detective Harry Orwell in the series Harry O.

Orwell was a former detective on the San Diego police department; he'd retired after having been shot in the back, and when the series premiered in September 1974, he was working out of his beachfront home as a private detective. For inside information, he relied on Lieutenant Manny Quinlan (Henry Darrow), and while Orwell could occasionally try Quinlan's patience, their relationship was based on a personal friendship, as well as respect between former colleagues who'd solved many cases together.

However, halfway through that first season, the series underwent a retooling. Harry had found himself in Santa Monica on a case, and following the case's resolution, had decided to stick around. Naturally, he needed a new foil, in the form of Lieutenant K.C. Trench, played by Anthony Zerbe. Zerbe was one of television's better-known character actors, appearing in virtually every dramatic series of the 1960s and 1970s, usually as some type of greasy heavy. Harry O was his first co-starring role in a television series, and he made the most of it, winning an Emmy in 1976 for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama Series. He shines in the role, and the relationship between Orwell and Trench will become the highlight of the remainder of the series.

Orwell runs afoul of Trench fairly early in the going, in the episode "For the Love of Money." Like most police investigators, Trench doesn't particularly appreciate interference by private detectives, especially when he thinks they're holding out on him. "You know I'm about to book you as an accessory, Orwell," Trench says in that first exchange. "Accessory to what?" Orwell replies. "Don't play dumb," Trench snaps. "I'm not playing dumb," Harry says. "That's the real me, coming through." 

But Trench takes the time to check out Orwell's background, and he knows that Harry was a good detective on the force, and is likely a good detective in private practice as well." At the end of that first case, Trench concedes this. "I like the way you operate, Orwell. Like a cop. Who knows? Maybe we'll get along. Just don't ever keep anything from me." Famous last words, right?

However, it's the second season opener, "Anatomy of a Frame," that sheds the most light on Trench and helps explain his relationship with Orwell. In this story, Trench is framed for the murder of an informer, and with nowhere else to turn, he comes to Harry for help. "The only person available to whom I can unburden my soul is a middle aged beach bum of somewhat questionable repute," he explains to Harry, who replies, "You have a problem." Orwell has no doubts as to the lieutenant's innocence: "Trench, you have tunnel vision about your work. By your own admission, you do not drink in public, you do not socialize with the other members of the department. You're a snob, you're opinionated, and what's worse, you're usually right." But Harry knows that Trench is an honest cop, not a murderer. And Trench knows that Orwell is good; furthermore, he trusts him in a case that may be the most important in the lieutenant's life.

(Orwell is able to clear Trench, of course, for which Trench is sincerely thankful. But when he extends his had to shake Harry's, Harry instead hands him a crumpled piece of paper: his bill. The bill itself doesn't bother Trench; I think he would have been offended had it been otherwise—that's not the way Trench does business. But it's just a handwritten mess, sloppy, difficult to read. "Has it occurred to you to get a typewriter?" Trench asks, stuffing the bill in Harry's coat pocket. "I expect things to be done in a businesslike manner. That's why I hired you, Orwell.")

Over time, the two become something approaching frenemies, with Harry casually strolling into Trench's office whenever he feels like it, something that drives the lieutenant crazy. ("Orwell, I do not appreciate it when people walk into my office without knocking," he tells him, at which point Harry steps back out of the office, closes the door, knocks, and walks in without waiting for an invitation.) Trench may find himself giving Orwell a new lead or a look at a file, often against his better judgment, in return for Harry's promise that he'll share with Trench whatever he finds out, a promise that Orwell may or may not keep. They frequently clash, such as when Orwell's convinced that Trench is after the wrong suspect, or Trench accuses Orwell of seeing clues that aren't really there. Their arguments can get heated at times. Seldom, however, is there a suggestion from one that the other doesn't know what he's doing. It's that mutual respect for the abilities and the integrity of each that binds the two and allows them to work together. 

Still, that doesn't stop Trench from becoming irritated at Orwell's constant presence in an apparently open-and-shut case, or Harry's frustration that Trench doesn't see the connections that Harry does, connections that point to his client's innocence. At times, it seems to the long-suffering Trench that there's no escaping Harry. "At first, I thought it was just a bad dream; Orwell wasn't really all over this building, in every room and corridor that I pass," he says after running into Orwell in the pathologist's office. "It would be too much, even for a nightmare. But then I thought, 'Trench, maybe reality is really worse than a dream, maybe this apparition is indeed a fact.'" Turning to the pathologist and nodding in Trench's direction, Harry says, "He really likes me." 

"Orwell, I do not want to see you around here   
again, do you understand?" 

And indeed, one suspects that, beyond Trench's sarcasm, his exaggerated formality and theatrical way of speaking, there is the possibility that, down deep, he actually does—like?—Harry. In the episode "The Acolyte," Trench visits Orwell after a gunshot pierced the window of Harry's beach house. "Do you have any specific notions as to who might have taken a shot at you," he asks Orwell, "or shall I just start going through the phone book?" But when it turns out that Harry might be in actual trouble, Trench rushes to the scene, telling his assistant, Sergeant Roberts (Paul Tulley), "I hope we're not too late." So he is worried about Harry! But if he ever actually let on to such an emotion, he probably would add, "If you ever tell Orwell I said that, you'll be walking a beat for the rest of your natural life."

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Harry O ran on ABC from 1974 to 1976; it was, from the start, an unconventional detective series. For starters, Orwell walks around with a bullet still lodged in his back, a remnant of the shooting that forced his retirement from the force, which serves to restrict his mobility (although as the series progresses, the network's desire for action scenes necessitated a marked improvement in Harry's physical condition). There are also very few high-speed car chases, since Harry's beater of a car spends far more time in the repair shop than it does in his driveway, with the result that he spends a good amount of time riding the bus to meet his clients. Orwell's voiceover narrations were often noir-like, more closely resembling existential interior monologues than mere plot advancers.

All this means that the climax to a typical Harry O episode is far less likely to involve Harry shooting, beating up, running down, or otherwise physically incapacitating his prey than in other detective shows (i.e. The Rockford Files). It does mean that Lieutenant Trench is often on the scene, slapping the cuffs on the suspect, witnessing that Orwell's hunches have paid off once again. And while they're not apt to head off to the bar together for that celebratory beer, there is the satisfaction of a job well done.

For this reason, Harry O was never a ratings success in the same way as other, more action-oriented P.I. shows. It was different, though, and the critics looked upon it favorably. David Janssen poured himself into the role, and felt the series contained some of his best work; Anthony Zerbe, as I mentioned, won an Emmy for his performance as Trench. But in an effort to boost the ratings, the network couldn't help but meddle. The location was changed, the narration became more conventional, more action and gunplay was added, and Harry was given a proto-girlfriend in Farrah Fawcett-Majors. Ratings did improve, and had it not been for programming chief Fred Silverman and his preference for jiggle TV, it might have continued. But, alas, Harry O was out, and Charlie's Angels, complete with Farrah, was soon in. And so it goes.

Still, Harry O is an enjoyable series to watch, often good, occasionally better than that. But even its lesser episodes have something to offer that's worth watching, and that's the relationship between our hero: cynical, rumpled, wearing a sportscoat with a tie that's often askew and rarely pulled tight, and a crooked smile that tells you he's already seen more than most people; and his upright police foil: formal, precise in his language, always dressed in a three-piece suit, and likely with a bottomless supply of aspirin in a desk drawer. Harry O and Lieutenant Trench are among the oddest and most unlikely of couples, mismatched in every way except their desire for justice. They're proof that opposites do attract, and it's why Harry O is a series worth watching. TV  

Around the dial

Norman Lear died this week, aged 101, with a resume that includes All in the Family, The Jeffersons, Maude, Sanford and Son, Mary Hartman, One Day at a Time, and others. That's more than enough to ensure his place in television history, and at A Shroud of Thoughts, Terence looks back on his career.

At Cult TV Blog, John takes on another Brit series that I've actually seen: Sapphire and Steel, starring Joanna Lumley and David McCallum as, what? Supernatural investigators, I suppose, although it's a little to explain without having seen it. Anyway, this week it's Assignment 6 Part 1, and for once even the investigators seem puzzled about why they're there.

Sticking with British TV, Cult TV Lounge (not to be confused with the above) continues to explore the color (colour?) episodes of The Saint. Did you find yourself having a preference for the series in black-and-white, or are you just fine with it moving into the color era? Check out some of these episodes.

Maddy celebrates the first anniversary of Classic Film and TV Corner with an update on her health and her latest projects; be sure to keep this blog on your reading list.

At Reelweegiemidget, it's a summary of a blogathon I'd have enjoyed being part of, but I just didn't have the time: a tribute to the films of Hammer and Amicus, featuring  some fun horror flicks, with stars like Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing, Judy Matheson, Charles Gray, Joan Collins and Britt Ekland. I've linked to the first installment, but be sure to check out the links running through the week.

Paul returns to NBC's 1970s Best Seller series at Drunk TV, with the third of the miniseries to be shown under the umbrella title: Seventh Avenue, starring Steven Keats and a cast of dozens. It's a hard-to-find series; find out from Paul whether or not the effort to track it down was worth it.

One of Roger's complaints in his Avengers reviews at The View from the Junkyard is that the writers often prioritize silliness over the plot itself. Such is not the case in this week's episode, "Something Nasty in the Nursery," with Steed and Peel and killer nannies and hypnosis; who could ask for more?

The subject of Les Crane came up in my most recent podcast, and so it's appropriate to look at this post from Travalenche on the man whose star shone brightly momentarily with his eponymous late-night talk show, and should be better-remembered today than he is.

And speaking of which, my latest video conversation with Dan Schneider is now available; we're talking about the television of my favorite decade, the fabulous and terrible Sixties; let me know what you think! TV  

Around the dial

I'm not going to ask if you're planning to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas this year, only if you've already watched it. Whether or not you have, you might find this Smithsonian article interesting on the flop that wasn't. 

At bare-bones e-zine, Jack introduces us to the third Jerry Sohl script to air on Hitchcock, "The Doubtful Doctor," a suggestion of what you get when you cross It's a Wonderful Life with The Twilight Zone, with Dick York and Gena Rowlands. It doesn't happen at Christmas, but this is a good time to read about it.

One of the Christmas episodes we watched recently was from Window on Main Street, the single-season series that starred Robert Young in his follow-up to Father Knows Best. It gives you a chance to really appreciate how fine an actor he was, and at Comfort TV, David goes a step further and highlights the elegant prose and poetry read by Young and others during the run of Father Knows Best. They don't write 'em like that anymore.

Gill has been at it again at RealWeegieMidget, with her latest co-host blogathon being on the great Christopher Plummer. Here's the final installment, but you'll want to check out her other entries to see what everyone's had to say. I got to see him perform in person once, doing a reading of Henry V to music by William Walton, performed by the Minnesota Orchestra. Those were the days.

At Classic Film & TV Cafe, Rick rates the Dirty Harry movies of Clint Eastwood from best to worst. I'm including this for three reasons: I like Rick's website, I like Dirty Harry, and I saw all of these movies on television rather than in the theater.

Speaking of watching movies on TV (and Christmas as well), most of you have probably seen both Holiday Inn and White Christmas on television; this week Herbie Pilato compares the two classics. Head over there to see which one comes out on top. 

At Cult TV Blog, John travels back to the 1970 British series Tales of Unease (gotta like that name, right?), which presented supernatural tales of horror—but then, are there any other kind? This week is the episode "The Old Banger," about a discarded car that just won't stay away.

Let's stay with the Brits for a sec more: Classic Film and TV Corner reviews the terrific spy drama Callan, which aired from 1967 to 1972 and starred Edward Woodward in what was probably his best-ever role. If you haven't seen an episode yet, it's worth checking out. 

That should do it for this week—get well soon, Terence! TV  

Donald Pleasence delivers in "The Changing of the Guard"

The headmaster delivers the news to Professor Ellis Fowler (Donald Pleasence) in "The Changing of the Guard"

The following is part of The Devilishly Delightful Donald Pleasence Blogathon, running this weekend at many of your favorite blogs. Be sure to check our sponsors, Cinematic Catharsis and Realweegiemidget, throughout the weekend for the latest posts. "Around the Dial" will return next Friday—same time, same channel.

The motto of Antioch College, in Yellow Springs, Ohio (about 20 miles east of Dayton) is, "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity." Horace Mann, the first president of Antioch, a former member of the U.S. House of Representatives, and one of America's most revered educators, used the quote in his commencement address to the school's first graduates, and it has remained a part of the school's culture ever since. 

The quote, and the Antioch experience, obviously made an impression on one of its more renowned graduates, Rod Serling. Serling used it in a script which he wrote for his television series, The Twilight Zone, and not long after completing the script, he accepted a teaching position at Antioch. And it is that quote, mounted on the base of a statue of Horace Mann and read by a character named Ellis Fowler, that serves as the fulcrum for the episode, "The Changing of the Guard." Not surprisingly, the success of the episode will depend on the performance of its star, Donald Pleasence.

There is a tendency, not without merit, to think of "The Changing of the Guard" as a Christmas episode of The Twilight Zone, given that the story takes place over the course of one day—December 24, Christmas Eve—but in fact it aired on June 1, 1962, the thirty-seventh and final episode of the series' third season. It has the usual trappings of a seasonal story, though: a wintery landscape of a small New England prep school, Christmas music on the radio, a plot that, in the wrong hands, has the potential for tear-inducing sentimentality. And, by the end of the story, you might find yourself reacting that way. But, as you'll see, there are good reasons why this episode appears on The Twilight Zone and not, say, the Hallmark Channel.

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Professor Fowler and his boys

Professor Ellis Fowler (Pleasence) is an aging English literature teacher ("a gentle, bookish guide to the young," Serling describes him in the opening narration) at the Rock Spring School for Boys, a prep school in Vermont. It's the final day of the term before the Christmas break, and we see Fowler, reciting A.E. Houseman's poem "When I Was One and Twenty" to his classroom full of bored, restless, bemused boys, eager for the end of the term. The poem tells the story of a young man who'd ignored the advice of an older and wiser man and now, a year later, broken-hearted by the trauma of a failed love affair, rues not having listened to him.  

Following the final bell, Fowler is summoned to the headmaster's office, where the headmaster (Liam Sullivan) gently but firmly informs him that, after 51 years of teaching at the school, the board of trustees has made the decision not to renew his contract for the spring; they feel that someone younger might be more relevant, "more beneficial to the students." Despite the headmaster's efforts, the news shocks Fowler to the core, leaving him reeling and speechless.

The scene shifts to his home, where he looks through old school yearbooks, remembering all the boys who've come and gone through his classroom. "They all come and go like ghosts," he tells his housekeeper, Mrs. Landers (Philippa Bevans). "I gave them nothing at all. Poetry that left their minds the minute they themselves left. Aged slogans that were out of date when I taught them. Quotations dear to me that were meaningless to them. I was a failure, Mrs. Landers, an abject, miserable failure. I walked from class to class an old relic, teaching by rote to unhearing ears, unwilling heads. I was an abject, dismal failure—I moved nobody, I motivated nobody. I left no imprint on anybody." He smiles sadly. "Now, where do you suppose I ever got the idea that I was accomplishing anything?" He leaves, telling her that he is going out for a walk; afterward, she discovers to her horror an empty gun holster in his desk drawer.

A professor, a statue, and a gun

Fowler wanders through the campus until he reaches the statue of Horace Mann, where he reads the famous quote inscribed on the base. In what he must think an act of brutal, honest self-appraisal, he tells the statue, "I won no victory for humanity." Intending to kill himself, he raises the barrel of the gun to his temple and is about to pull the trigger when he hears the chime of class bells, summoning the students to their classrooms. Angered by the disturbance, Fowler strides to his empty classroom, where, before his stunned eyes, a room full of his former students materializes. They are from different classes, different eras, but they all have one thing in common—they are now all dead. 

One by one, they begin to tell Fowler of how he had impacted their lives. Most of them were killed in wartime, but one boy (Russell Horton) died from radiation poisoning while researching cancer treatments; he recites lines from a poem Fowler had taught them, Howard Arnold Walter’s "My Creed":

          I would be true, for there are those who trust me; 

          I would be pure, for there are those who care; 

          I would be strong for there is much to suffer; 

          I would be brave for there is much to dare; 

          I would look up, and laugh, and love, and lift.”

Voices from the grave

Another boy, Dickie (Buddy Hart), who served on the U.S.S. Arizona and was the first person to die at Pearl Harbor while trying to rescue his shipmates, reminds him of the famous words of John Donne in "No Man is an Island": "Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." The message is clear: every man who lives, no matter what he does, has had an impact on the lives of others, whether or not he is aware of it. By caring about them, and what he taught them, he had helped them all to face life—and death—with bravery. Their testimony moves the professor to tears. 

Fowler returns to his home a changed man. He reassures the worried Mrs. Landers that everything is now all right, and he is content to hand things over to a newer generation of teachers. Hearing the sound of carolers outside, he opens the window and finds his students singing; they wish him a Merry Christmas and move on. Fowler smiles, this time not from sadness or bitterness, but quite contentment. He now understands how his life had changed the lives of his boys, and how they have validated his in return. As Serling says in his closing narration, Professor Fowler "discovered rather belatedly something of his own value."

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There are obvious parallels between "The Changing of the Guard" and two other Christmas classics, Frank Capra's movie It's a Wonderful Life, and Charles Dickens's story "A Christmas Carol" (choose any version you want). Like these stories, "The Changing of the Guard" deals with the supernatural appearance of ghosts; like them, the protagonist leaves the encounters a profoundly changed man, with a new outlook not only on the future, but the past. As George Bailey discovered in It's a Wonderful Life, no man is a failure who has friends; Fowler learns that the same is true for those who have impacted the lives of others—in short, everyone.

Anyone seeing "The Changing of the Guard" for the first time, and I hope there those of you out there who will get just such an opportunity, will admire for many things about it: the writing, the makeup, the photography, the performances of the secondary players, use of the stock music. But one overriding feature will grab you and stay with you long afterward: the performance of Donald Pleasence as Professor Ellis Fowler. 

Professor Fowler and Mrs. Landers

Although Donald Pleasence had been an actor in England since 1939 and had first appeared on British television a decade later, "The Changing of the Guard" was his first professional experience in the United States. Producer Buck Houghton recalled that "Pleasence was an idea of the casting director's, I'd never heard of him. Boy, damn the expense; we brought him from England. He was just wonderful in it. He's a very nice man." Pleasence was, Houghton said, "a little apprehensive of this whole experience because he arrived on a given day and five days later it was all going to be over. So he had a lot to absorb." But he did it, and working with director Robert Ellis Miller, he became confident in the role, and turns in a bravura performance. 

Serling's script for "The Changing of the Guard" is simple and elegant; for reasons I'll get to shortly, the subject matter was very close to him. Given all that, as Twilight Zone Companion author Marc Scott Zicree writes, the role of Fowler is not an easy one; Pleasence himself was only 42 at the time of filming and was heavily made up by William Tuttle to look the part of a man at least 30 years older. And considering Serling's writing style, the part could come across as "talky and clichéd." A.V. Club reviewer Zach Handlen echoes the importance of Pleasence's performance to the success of the ghost story:  "If Fowler’s gentleness isn’t obvious, and if his shift into depression wasn’t sincere and heartbreaking, then everything else falls apart into sentimental treacle." 

With that, Pleasence's performance is magnificent. As Handlen notes, there's "a fundamental fragility to all of Donald Pleasence’s work, a kind of raw, gentle vulnerability," even in a character like the Bond villain Blofeld. Here, Pleasence is tasked with bringing out that vulnerability in a man, closer to the end than the beginning of his life, who is suddenly and unpleasantly forced to contemplate his life's accomplishments, knowing that there will be no opportunity to create more, and finding his account (he thinks) to be empty. "Pleasence manages to convey all of this in his early scenes, and the shock, when it hits, is effectively heartbreaking." Brian Durant, writing at The Twilight Zone Vortex, calls Pleasence's performance "as moving and honest as any the show ever saw."

Rod Serling

In considering "The Changing of the Guard," Durant makes the very good point that Serling, at heart, was an autobiographical writer, and Fowler's existential dilemma mirrors those being realized at the time by Serling and others in the Twilight Zone company. The episode, as I mentioned earlier, was the final one to air in the third season, and there were no guarantees that the show would be back for a fourth. The era of prestige television, which Serling had done so much to enhance, had moved on; live drama was gone, his Western television series The Loner had been cancelled, and in later years "he often told interviewers that his work would likely be forgotten and that to simply be remembered as a writer would be sufficient enough." Faced with an uncertain future, Serling chose to accept the teaching position at Antioch. Likewise, producer Buck Houghton and other long-time members of the crew moved on to other projects; when The Twilight Zone did return, their absence would be noticed.

With this as the background for "The Changing of the Guard," there's no question as to its impact on the atmosphere that pervades the story. It is moving without being sentimental, delicate without being cloying, and ends on an optimistic note that feels genuine rather than contrived. It has the right touch of the supernatural—who's to say, after all, that on the eve of a day dedicated to the coming of God as man, that those ghosts weren't angels, come to deliver the message of life to a weary man just as they had, nearly two thousand years before, to a weary world? In a article I wrote several years ago on this episode and its relationship to the season, I quoted the seldom-performed third stanza of the Christmas carol "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear," and I still think it sums things up quite well, especially the performance of Donald Pleasence:

          O ye beneath life's crushing load,

          Whose forms are bending low,

          Who toil along the climbing way

          With painful steps and slow;

          Look now, for glad and golden hours

          Come swiftly on the wing;

          Oh rest beside the weary road

          And hear the angels sing.

Perhaps, just perhaps, "The Changing of the Guard" is a Christmas episode, after all. And if that seems a little far-fetched to you, just remember: this is the Twilight Zone. TV  

Around the dial

Ah, remember that? Back in the good old days, when Labor Day was actually something to look forward to (other than getting a three-day weekend, which was always pretty nice). I'm afraid those days are gone now, but, as you'll see, we can still read about them.

Here's something I found particularly interesting, and hopefully you do as well: from the Broadcasting Archives, a link to a video showing how directors choreographed camera shots and stage directions in the era of live television. I think it's well worth at least a few minutes of your time.

At RealWeegieMidget, Gill has another of her great blogathons, this one on the career of the great Donald Pleasence. (Well, that is, if you ignore The Pumaman.) He was such an elegant actor, capable of playing sensitive, weak, determined, or evil characters; there should be some very good pieces in this.

I'm not quite sure why, but I've been thinking of space movies lately, perhaps as a reaction to what's on the news nowadays, so I like this a lot: the Secret Sanctum of Captain Video looks at comic adaptations of movies and TV shows that took place on the moon. And no, it's not true that all of them were on MST3K.

John's not round the bend at Cult TV Blog, but he is looking at an Australian children's series called Round the Twist, another entry in the "TV in a Time of Strife" series. John points to this episode, "Know All," as one that "best demonstrates the quality of this show in that it can be understood on several different levels and never ever talks down to the kids."

Television's New Frontier: the 1960s is back with a closer look at the 1962 episodes of Hazel, the sitcom standard that starred Oscar-winner Shirley Booth as the "indefatigable and unconventional maid" who wasn't afraid to take anyone on, and was usually right.

Herbie J. Pilato makes an eloquent statement on the value of classic television as he discusses the Classic TV Preservation Society: "We celebrate the integrity of classic television." There, in seven words, he says more about the value of classic TV than I've been able to do in a dozen years. Read more here.

That's a wrap; hopefully I'll see you back here tomorrow, but if you're traveling or otherwise on holiday, have a great Labor Day weekend, and remember to be safe or be sorry. TV  

Around the dial

What with the raft of deaths we've had in the last couple of months, it's kind of nice to celebrate the career of someone who's still alive, don't you think? That's where we'll start this week, with David's retrospective at Comfort TV on the top TV moments of the lovely and talented Teri Garr.

It's a pretty good chance that an episode with the title "You'll Be the Death of Me" has a double meaning, and comes to no good. Head over to Jack's latest Hitchcock Project at bare-bones e-zine and see if that's the case with William D. Gordon's ninth-season story, starring the great Robet Loggia.

At Cult TV Blog, John looks at the first television effort of the British radio comedian Tony Hancock, his eponymously named 1956 sketch comedy show, with the show's fourth episode. I'm always interested by these British shows, even (or especially?) the ones where both the show and the star are a mystery to me. I have to take the time to further my collection; maybe after I'm retired?

RealWeegieMidget's Odd-or-Even Blogathon has wrapped up; I wish I'd had time to take a crack at this one, but Gill promises there'll be more opportunities coming up, and hopefully I'll be in a better position to be part of them. And speaking of which, at A Shroud of Thoughts, here's Terence's entry: the 1967 heist film The Jokers, starring Michael Crawford and Oliver Reed, which sounds like a winner.

From Television Obscurities, something to think about if you're available on February 10: the UCLA Film and Television Archives will be streaming "The Sty of the Blind Pig," a play presented as part of the PBS series Hollywood Television Theatre in 1974, directed by Ivan Dixon and starring Mary Alice, Maidie Norman, Richard Ward, and Scatman Crothers.

One of the news stories that I remember vividly from my childhood was August 1, 1966, when Charles Whitman took a rifle to the observation deck of the tower at the University of Texas in Austin and used it to murder 16 people. (I particularly remember the eerie scenes of television cameras trembling slightly as they focused on the tower while Whitman was shooting.) At Drunk TV, Paul recalls the event while reviewing the 1975 telefilm The Deadly Tower, starring Kurt Russell as Whitman.

Finally, ending on an upbeat note, at The Lucky Strike Papers Andrew has been sharing some pictures of his mother and father; he wrote about his mother, singer Sue Bennett, in the delightful The Lucky Strike Papers: Journeys Through My Mother's Television Past, which I reviewed here. TV  

Doctor Who comes to the big screen

The following is part of the Third Great Hammer-Amicus Blogathon, running this weekend at many of your favorite blogs. Be sure to check our sponsors,Cinematic Catharsis and Realweegiemidget, throughout the weekend for the latest posts.

In a just world—that is to say, one that responded to our every whim and folly—the two Doctor Who movies made by Peter Cushing would have featured not only the Daleks, but The Master, who of course would have to have been played by Christopher Lee. The sky would have been the limit: Cushing as the brilliant, eccentric genius, against not only the most malevolent creatures science fiction has ever seen, but Lee as the most suave, charming, and sinister villain anyone could ask for. Think of it!

Alas, the world is not just, which is why we still have to put up with taxes and rainy days and Jimmy Kimmel on late night television (or any television, for that matter). Instead, our story opens with Terry Nation, the mastermind behind The Doctor's eternal adversaries, the murderous metallic marauders of the universe, the Daleks. In an era when monsters (including those seen on Who) were frequently little more than stunt men in rubber suits, the Daleks were a revelation: they bore no resemblance whatsoever to a human being, had no visible means of propulsion, and spoke in a harsh, grating voice, threatening anyone who attempted to get in their way with "extermination." They were also cruel, ruthless, and virtually indestructible, not to mention ideal for product tie-ins. Their appearance in the second serial of Doctor Who in 1963 made them instant stars, soon to appear in books and a comic strip. 

Nation, who conceived and wrote the early Dalek stories, was eager to capitalize on the popularity of his creation, and harbored hopes that he could spin them off as a separate entity, into the United States. As a possible first step, Nation sold the film rights to his first three Dalek serials—The Daleks, The Dalek Invasion of Earth, and The Chase—for £500 to a pair of Americans, Milton Subotsky and Max Rosenberg, who in 1964 had founded Amicus Productions, specializing in in low-budget sci-fi and horror films. 

The potential for a series of movies featuring the Doctor and his arch enemies must have been the cause of great excitement on the part of Whovians, which probably lasted until they heard of Subotsky's plans to turn the stories into thrillers—for kids. While it's true that the TV series was often seen as children's programming, there was a subliminal adult sensibility to many of the stories, and the Daleks themselves were an allegorical representation of the Nazis. As well, many of the Who stories during the first few seasons were historical dramas set against the background of real events such as the French Revolution. In other words, the show's appeal to children was based on excitement and adventure, with just enough education to satisfy the BBC.

Another important element, however, was the ability to provide children with a good fright. The show had become known for the image of kids hiding behind the sofa, peering around the corner to watch the Daleks that they couldn't quite stop watching. As anyone who's been a child—which basically means all of us—knows, kids find the prospect of being scared to be equal parts daunting and enthralling. This, however, was not what Subotsky had in mind, as he told Kinematograph Weekly in April 1965:

We’ve taken Terry Nation’s first seven episodes of the tv serial and re-written them into a screenplay, at the same time injecting a considerable amount of comedy. On tv, they take themselves so deadly seriously. This is all action, excitement and comedy. We intend to full use of the colour, spectacle, and action that make the difference between large and small screen entertainment. One of the things we have to make it different and better is splendour.

I find this kind of surprising, to be honest, considering the reputation that Amicus would have over the years for horror movies. Not only that, but they had Van Helsing himself, Peter Cushing, playing the Doctor. But then, I've never been in the movie business, so I don't pretend to understand how the moguls think. Or don't as the case may be. 

With that in mind, let's take a brief look at the two movies that resulted from the Amicus-Nation deal, and why true Doctor Who fans should give them a look despite their, ur, limitations.

Dr. Who and the Daleks (1965)

SCREENPLAY BY MILTON SUBOTSKY  |  DIRECTED BY GORDON FLEMYNG

The first, and perhaps most critical, decision was to strip the Doctor of his unearthliness. No longer was he a renegade Time Lord, on the run from his own people. In fact, he wasn't any kind of alien; instead, Dr. Who (a title and a name, not a question) was one of those eccentric inventors that we've all come to know and love over the years, experimenting (as all eccentric inventors must, it seems) with a machine capable of time travel. Why the change? Well, in addition to helping streamline the story without getting bogged down in details, there was a very real reason for the change: as writer Kyle Anderson points out, the deal Subotsky made with Terry Nation didn't include anything other than what was in Nation's Dalek scripts; since the premise of the series was laid out in the very first episode, the Time Lord concept (which was the IP of the BBC) couldn't legally be adapted into the movie. 

Dr. Who has not one, but two granddaughters: Susan (played by Roberta Tovey) and Barbara (Jennie Linden). Barbara's old enough to have a boyfriend, Ian (Roy Castle), so we still have the Barbara-Ian dynamic. Best of all, we have the Daleks—big, bold, and colorful. (The television version on steroids, so to speak.) The plot, adapted to accommodate the changes to the premise and not constrained by the need to segue into the subsequent story, roughly follows that of the TV version: our heroes are whisked off in the time machine that Dr. Who has been working on, a machine he calls Tardis, and wind up on a barren planet called Skaro (although it's not referred to as such until the sequel). The Doctor tricks the others into journeying to the large city they see in the distance, telling them that Tardis' fluid link is leaking and they must try to locate mercury to repair the leak; in reality, there is nothing wrong with the link; the Doctor just wants to investigate.

As they are exploring, the Doctor and his companions are taken prisoner by the Daleks, who confiscate the fluid link from the Doctor, trapping the four on the planet. While in captivity, the Doctor overhears the Daleks talking, and finds out that  find themselves in the middle of a civil war between the human-looking, pacifist Thals and the murderous, Nazi-like Daleks. They also find out that the planet is contaminated by radiation: it keeps the Daleks prisoners inside their casing and the city, and it means death to the travelers unless they can get the anti-radiation drug that conveniently happens to be inside the Tardis. The Doctor makes a deal with the Daleks: if they allow Susan to return to the Tardis and bring back the drug, they will share the drug with the Daleks. 

Stick 'em up!

On her way back from the Tardis, Susan meets Alydon (Barrie Ingham), leader of the Thals, the other race on the planet. The Thals and Daleks are old enemies, having fought the nuclear war that contaminated Skaro. The Thals also have an antidote to the radiation poisoning, but they have problems of their own: their crops have failed, and they're hoping to trade it with the Daleks in return for food. The homicidal Daleks, though, don't need it anymore (thanks to the Doctor), so they lay a trap for the Thals, hoping to wipe them out and take over the planet. 

In a wonderful scene, the Doctor and his companions are able to overwhelm a Dalek, and escape from captivity. They haven't really escaped, though; as long as the Daleks have the fuel link (remember that?), they remain stranded on Skaro. They try to convince the Thals to help them recover the link, but not so fast: remember, the Thals are now pacifists, horrified by the war and vowing never to fight again. But the Doctor, devious as ever (and when it comes to that, Cushing need not take a back seat to William Hartnell), makes as if he's willing to trade the Thal woman Dyoni (Yvonne Antrobus) for the link. In fighting to prevent Dyoni from being used as a hostage, the Thals find out they aren't such pacifists after all, and they launch an attack on the city

The Daleks, for all their fearsomeness, have always had an Achilles wheel, I suppose you would call it; I think it was Tom Baker's Doctor who speculated that it was their inability to think the way humans do, but I've forgotten the details. Anyway, in the movie version they retain that knack for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory; the link is recovered, Ian is able to trick them into accidentally blowing up their own control counsel, and everyone lives happily ever after, or at least until the next movie.*

*James Bond isn't the only one with no time to die, after all. The Daleks never really do disappear, do they?

The movie was, I suppose, successful enough; the always-reliable Wikipedia reports that it was the twentieth biggest British box office moneymaker in 1965. (The #1 movie at the box office that year? The Sound of Music, which could have used a Dalek or two.) The critics hated it, as they often do with movies of the genre; my favorite review is Stuart Heritage's 2013 retrospective look, in which he said, of Roy Castle's Ian, "to call him hammy would be to provide the greatest disservice to pigs." It is perhaps the single biggest mistake that the movies would make; making the Doctor an eccentric scientist is questionable enough, but defensible when considering the terms of the contract. The television version of Ian Chesterton, though, was cut from the bolt of heroic cloth, an intelligent and compassionate teacher who nonetheless maintained his cool when thrust into what would have been an incomprehensible situation for anyone. He was not, under any circumstances, a buffoon, and Castle's portrayal, whether or not dictated by the director and the script, brings credit to no one.

The movie won plaudits for the sets and use of color, but everyone agreed that Cushing, in attempting to take on a role that had already been made iconic by William Hartnell, was in a no-win situation; as a human Doctor, he couldn't possibly satisfy fans of the series, but Subotsky's script* didn't give him enough to do.

*Even though Subotsky was assisted in both movies by David Whitaker, the TV series' first script editor, as well as the ghost writer of the Dalek comic strip. 

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Daleks' Invasion Earth: 2150 A.D. (1966)

SCREENPLAY BY MILTON SUBOTSKY  |  DIRECTED BY GORDON FLEMYNG

By the time we get to Daleks’ Invasion Earth: 2150 AD, we are now in, well, the year 2150, and rather than taking place on Skaro, the action has moved to earth itself, which the Daleks are now attempting to conquer. It was inevitable that there would be a sequel, given the relative success of the first movie and the continuing popularity of the Daleks. Once again, Peter Cushing is on hand as The Doc—I mean, Dr. Who, with Roberta Tovey as Susan. Thankfully, we're spared the Ian/Barbara duo; instead of Roy Castle's bumbling Ian, we have Bernard Cribbins* as bumbling policeman Tom, who accidentally stumbles into the adventure when he mistakes Tardis for a Police Box. (Imagine that.) And Dr. Who's granddaughter Barbara has been replaced by his niece Louise (Jill Curzon), meaning that the Doctor not only has a child out there somewhere, he also has a sibling. How big is this guy's family, anyway?

*Cribbins will return to the Whoniverse in 2007 as Donna Noble's grandfather Wilfred Mott, making him the only actor to play two different companions in any iteration of the story.

At any rate, the Doctor, Susan, Louise and Tom have traveled to London of the year 2150, and discover that the city in a state of near destruction at the hands of the Daleks. (They probably also discovered that even in 2150, England hasn't won the World Cup, but that's a different story.) A resistance has formed (more shades of the World War II allegory), including David (Ray Brooks) and Wyler (Andrew Keir); meanwhile, the Daleks have turned some captured prisoners into brainwashed Robomen (not to be confused with Cybermen or Cybernauts, of course), while other prisoners are forced to work in the mines in Bedfordshire.

The Doctor and his three companions take turns being captured and recaptured during the struggle between the Daleks and the Resistance. Eventually, it transpires that the Daleks' ultimate plan (as opposed to their Master Plan) is to use the mine to blow out the Earth’s core and turn the earth into an interplanetary spaceship from which they can maraud about the universe, and the various elements of the plot contrive to bring everyone to Bedfordshire for the climactic struggle. Looking at diagrams of the mineshafts, the Doctor realizes that an old shaft leads to a convergence between earth's magnetic poles, and that if the Dalek bomb can be redirected to blow up here, it would result in a force that would suck the Dalek saucer into the core, destroying it.

During the ensuing battle, Tom is able to create a ramp that will serve to redirect the bomb; meanwhile, Dr. Who uses the radio to order the Robomen to attack the Daleks, allowing all four of the earthlings to escape. While the Daleks are able to put down the rebellion and release the bomb, their plans are foiled when the bomb explodes and, as the Doctor anticipated, sucks the Daleks into the core, and brings their saucer crashing down on the mine, delivering a blow to the British mining industry perhaps, but saving the rest of the world. Dr. Who and his companions return to the present day, and everyone lives happily ever after—until the next time. . .

Reviews for Invasion Earth: 2150, as was the case with Dr. Who & the Daleks, were mostly negative, with the Times calling it "little advance on the first." The technical depiction of the Daleks once again was the most praiseworthy element of the movie, and critics had kind things to say about the climactic destruction of the Daleks' saucer. Compared to the first movie, Invasion was a financial disappointment, and plans for the third movie, The Chase, were abandoned.  

A criticism often made of Invasion is that Peter Cushing isn't given enough to do, and winds up being more of a device to advance the plot; in fact, Cushing became ill during production of the movie, with the result that his participation was cut back, with some of his scenes rewritten for other characters.

Even while acknowledging the changes that were made to the stories, whether required by the legal terms of the contract or by the running times of the movies (neither of which exceeded 90 minutes), the movies fall short of expectations. The Doctor's male companion, whether Ian or Bernard, is generally unherioc. The plots can be difficult to follow, and a warning should have been included that these movies could induce considerable eye-rolling in anyone over the age of six. There's also a decided superficiality to the movies; while the television series (at least originally) sought to be educational as well as exciting, and with a basis in history as well as rousing adventure, Invasion plays more like a Saturday-afternoon serial—all sugar and no nutrition. 

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And so you're forced to ask the question: why? Why make the movie, when the series is already there? Why use some aspects of the Whovian canon, and not other? In other words, why change it and yet leave it the same? And what does watching the movies today offer to the modern viewer, one who has had far more access to the Doctor Who universe than could have been imagined when the movies came out?

To answer the first question first, the movies offered the obvious appeal of seeing the Daleks in glorious color, and almost larger than life, compared to the television series. For modern eyes, especially those who tend to avoid anything in black-and-white, you can't underestimate the power that comes from seeing in crisp, vivid color for the first time something that's only been viewed previously in various shades of gray. It's almost like viewing a two-dimensional image in three-dimensions--perhaps not as stark, but not far off. 

In addition, there's the status of the movies as a historical document. As one critic perceptively noted, the great value of the movies is that they serve as a visual record of the Hartnell era at a time when those episodes weren't readily available. You might balk at that description, given how much canonical ahistoricality there is, but remember that back then, the original Hartnell episodes were rarely replayed--and, in the United States, they weren't seen at all, except perhaps in brief clips, until the late 1980s. It wasn't as simple as just popping a disc in the DVD player, or streaming it on the Doctor Who Roku channel; if you wanted to see, and not just read about, the genesis of the Daleks (no pun intended), this was about as close as you were going to get. Even with all the changes that the movies, the storylines would have been obviously recognizable to anybody seeing them at the time. And so while we might complain about them, we should also view them with a certain gratitude for the context they can offer.

If the movies do have something of the intellectual content of the Saturday-afternoon serials, it should also be remembered that those serials could be fun. Reviewing Invasion, the film critic for the Times wrote that "Grown-ups may enjoy it, but most children have more sense." Sometimes, though, grown-ups are right about these things; children may have sense, but they're also prone to being very literal, and maybe you need to be a grown-up to appreciate that kind of movie that we have to admit is just a bit silly.

Finally, of course, there's the performance of Peter Cushing himself as The Doctor. After all, he's Peter Cushing, and there's something charismatic just about that.  One of the concessions that the television series had made to William Hartnell's age was to cast William Russell, who had played Sir Lancelot in the ITV series of the same name, as schoolteacher Ian Chesterton; his Ian would be capable of providing the traditionally heroic, action-oriented stunts that an adventure series required. Cushing, however, was more than capable of convincing viewers that he could take care of himself; having played everything from Baron Frankenstein to Profession Van Helsing in the Hammer oeuvre, he didn't need a stand-in, as it were, to assume those duties for him. Perhaps the script does fall short, but Cushing has enough residual hero cred from over the years that he doesn't need the script in order to play the part. 

Unlike Hartnell, Cushing's Doctor is instantly likeable, and doesn't rely on Ian for masculine heroism (a good thing, too). As is so often the case, the best way to approach Dr. Who and the Daleks is to forget about the TV series altogether and just appreciate it for what it is. I didn't have the insight to do that the first time I watched it, back when I was in the throws of discovering the Whoniverse; as a matter of fact, I don't know that I'd even seen Hartnell's Doctor that first time. To watch it that way was a mistake, one I didn't repeat.

And so we're left to wonder what Cushing, an actor of great dignity, would have been like in the TV series.  "With those piercing eyes and his dramatic gravitas," as one critic put it, "he would have been marvelous" as the TV doctor. By the time William Hartnell had handed off the keys to the Tardis, he had morphed into the heroic Doctor that we've all come to know and love; Cushing would have fit that mold magnificently. 

I would quite like to have seen Peter Cushing play the Doctor, with all of his indefinably alien characteristics, on television. And of course, I'm still waiting to see Christopher Lee as The Master. TV