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 

If you enjoyed this article, I hope you'll consider being a regular visitor to It's About TV! Updated four times weekly; also on Facebook and Twitter. Thanks! 

Burke's Law: the cop show with a heart—or at least wallet—of gold

A badly wanted to do comedy," Gene Barry said in a profile for the November 23, 1963 issue of TV Guide. "I searched the scripts for the inherent comedy that can be found in almost any drama. I searched for the twinkle, the lift of an eyebrow [that] could change the tone of a serious sentence. I read Burke’s Law. I envisioned the twinkle in it."

And so, after three seasons as the Western hero Bat Masterson, after having said he would never do another television series, Barry returned to the small screen to portray Amos Burke, millionaire captain of the LAPD homicide division (and eventual secret agent, but we’ll get to that later), in the whimsical mystery that ran on ABC, in two different formats, for a total of three seasons.

When you keep finding new-old programs to watch, you have to be careful not to forget the old-old programs you’ve already enjoyed. It's been close to a decade since we last watched Burke's Law, and so last month we reintroduced it into the Saturday night schedule. Sometimes when you revisit an old favorite, you find your ardor somewhat diminished, but it's not the case here; it's every bit as enjoyable now as it was back then. 

I never saw Burke’s Law when it was in first-run. My only recollection of it was from the reruns in syndication in the late-60s, and from that all I can remember is the Rolls Royce tooling down the road while a woman’s voice cooed, "It’s Burke’s Law!" To tell you the truth, that voice kind of scared me a bit. (Of course, I hadn’t yet learned the meaning of the world "sultry.")

Based on the premise alone, it would have been impossible to produce Burke’s Law without that twinkle Barry mentioned. Burke is indeed a millionaire (the source of his money is never definitely stated, though he refers to an inheritance from his father, and implies that he’s multiplied that fortune through shrewd investments*) who lives in a mansion, is often clad in a tuxedo and surrounded by beautiful women, and is chauffeured to crime scenes in a Rolls Royce by his driver/valet, Henry (Leon Lontoc).

*Gene Barry himself was no slouch when it came to investing. That same 1963 TV Guide article mentions Barry’s ownership of a 40-acre orange ranch, mines in Nevada, a half-share of a construction company, and prime land in Los Angeles on which he and his partners planned to put up office buildings and apartments. Substituting Burke for Berry does a pretty good job of filling in the gaps.

Which, of course, begs the question: why does a man who clearly doesn’t have to work for a living choose a profession that’s not only difficult, but dangerous, one that required him to work his way up the ladder from beat cop to captain of homicide and could claim his life at any moment? I don’t know if Barry was one of those actors who composed backstories for each of the characters he played, but he does drop hints as to his concept of Burke. He is "a carry-over of the Old World, but part of this world," cultured, mannered, sophisticated, worldly. "Police work is as important to Amos Burke as building a building is to me. Hell, he wouldn’t be happy sitting in a stock-exchange seat. He is alive, vital, now." Probably the best answer comes from fellow detective Tim Tilson, who in the premiere episode is asked by a bystander at a crime scene why a millionaire would bother being a cop. "Why are you a construction man?" Tilson counters. "That's what I do best," the man says, to which Tilson replies, "That's why he's a cop."

It's a premise that requires some selling, but Barry is just the man to do it. Producer Aaron Spelling describes him as a man "at home in [a tuxedo], secure in it," and his portrayal of Burke owes much to his previous turn as the Western dandy Masterson. In this updated environment Berry is still a crimefighter, albeit with a gun instead of a walking stick. And, as his colleagues are quick to remind others, a millionaire is what he is, but a policeman is who he is.

Given its various elements, Burke’s Law could have gone in several directions, but its success derives from the direction it chose. Neither traditional police drama nor comedy, each episode is centered on a spectacular murder (with the victim identified by the episode title Who Killed …) and a cast of flamboyantly eccentric (to put it lightly) suspects, mostly played by big-name guest stars (listed in alphabetical order in the opening credits, and frequently making little more than cameo appearances). Given that, one could hardly be blamed for expecting the investigating detectives to be just as zany, but far from it: Burke and his two cohorts, Sergeant Les Hart (veteran actor Regis Toomey) and Detective Tim Tilson (Gary Conway), could have been buffoons or broad caricatures, but instead they’re skilled cops who understand that murder is a deadly business and take their jobs seriously (if not always how they do them). They’re very smart, and very, very good.

L-R: Regis Toomey, Gary Conway,
and Gene Barry

The show’s premise also offers Burke an unusual advantage, never overtly stated but often implied, that as a millionaire he has the ability to deal with rich, powerful suspects on an even footing. Their money can’t intimidate him (he’s probably as wealthy as they are), nor can their influence scare him off. He’s beholden to nobody but the public, and he doesn’t scare easily.

The interplay between the three is one of the show’s delights. Hart is the veteran, wizened cop and mentor to the young Tilson, who has an encyclopedic knowledge of almost everything but lacks the experience and intuition to put the pieces together. Burke and Les obviously go back a long way (Les will on occasion drop the formality and refer to Burke as "Amos,"), and while Tim can sometimes be a bit of a showoff, it’s clear that Burke has a paternal affection for the young detective, often imparting a bit of his collected wisdom. ("Never ask a question unless you already know the answer—Burke’s Law.") The three men split up the investigative work, with Burke generally reserving for himself ("Your old Captain") the interrogation of the most interesting suspects. Those suspects are frequently also beautiful women, and their attraction to the handsome, dashing Burke may be genuine—or an attempt to throw him off the trail.

Indeed, Burke is seldom out of the company of an attractive female—the episode often begins with him in the embrace of some such lovely companion—but the moment the phone rings, with Les or Tim calling him to the scene of yet another murder, Burke is all business. The debonair playboy is gone, replaced by the determined homicide captain. There’s never an attempt to avoid his job, just a request to his female companion that she not go away.

And that, I think, is one of the main reasons I find this show so enjoyable. For all of the light touches— and the mix of comedy and drama works surprisingly well—Amos Burke is a policeman before all else, a damn good one who understands the importance of his job. His suspects may include glamorous women, but their beauty never blinds him to the possibility that behind their makeup may be the face of a killer. He’s not afraid to trade either punches or gunshots, and he’s not satisfied until the killer is apprehended.

Then there's that twinkle in the eye that Barry talked about, the priceless reactions when Burke meets yet another crazy suspect or has to listen to yet another ridiculous story. It’s when Burke lets us know that it’s a joke, and that we’re in on it. Throw in some great supporting players, such as Michael Fox as the droll medical examiner and Eileen O’Neill as a desk sergeant who doesn’t have to take second place to any of Burke’s beauties, and you’ve got the ingredients for a great show.*

*And by the way, speaking of beauties, did I mention that Anne Francis’ detective series Honey West was a direct spin-off from Burke? She was introduced in the second-season episode "Who Killed the Jackpot?" and would go on to a one-season run in 1965-66.

Which is why the third and final season is such a disappointment. Caught up in the spy hysteria of the early James Bond years, for 1965 the series changed format completely. Amos Burke was now a secret agent (hence the show’s new title: Amos Burke, Secret Agent), working for a spymaster known only as "The Man" (Carl Benton Reid). It had a flashy opening title and fun gadgets and even more beautiful women, if that was possible. It even had Burke’s Rolls. What it didn’t have was the chemistry of the original. No Les, no Tim, no Henry. It ran for 17 episodes, and by January 1966 it was over.

Apparently, Amos Burke tired of the secret agent business and returned to the LAPD, or at least that’s what had happened in the 1994-95 revival of Burke’s Law. Burke was now a chief, his sidekick was his son Peter (during the intervening years Burke had married and was now a widower), and Henry was back behind the wheel of his Rolls (albeit with a different actor). It was a middling success, running for 24 episodes over two seasons.

Burke’s Law could have been many things. It could have been a comedy, a la Barney Miller or Car 54. It could have been a police procedural, like any one of the cop shows on at the time. Instead, it was a one-of-a-kind, a comedy-mystery, a sophisticated whodunit. Most of all, Burke’s Law was fun. It wasn’t searing drama, it didn’t involve impossibly convoluted plots. It was easy to watch, and easy to enjoy. It has suffered from one of the most frustrating of DVD issues, with the first season coming out in 2008, and nothing since. Fortunately, it has aired on Me-TV in the past (which is where I caught it), and hopefully it will again. It's also available on YouTube—all three seasons, including Amos Burke, Secret Agent. And whether you're watching it for the first time or rekindling an old memory, you'll feel the same way.  TV      

This week in TV Guide: August 7, 1965

Xou all know about my affection for Gene Barry's detective series Burke's Law. (If you don't, you haven't been reading very closely.) It was a stylish mix of humor and police drama, all done with tongue-in-cheek and twinkle-in-eye. But Burke's Law, as we know it, is now done. Starting this fall, the show's jumping on the secret agent bandwagon popularized by The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Amos Burke, Secret Agent retains Barry's suave style (and Rolls Royce) amidst a bevy of beauties, but the supporting cast that did so much to make Burke fun—Gary Conway, Regis Toomey, Leon Lontac and Eileen O'Neill—is long gone, never to be seen again.* And Amos Burke, Secret Agent will be gone before long itself; the reboot lasts a mere 17 episodes before the series bites the dust.

*Except for a cameo appearance by O'Neill as one of Burke's "secret agent" operatives. Though she doesn't play the Sergeant Ames character, I think it's significant that she's one of the few female operatives working with Burke in the new series who doesn't get killed.

According to the article by Peter Bogdanovich (!), network executives feel the Burke's Law format was getting stale, "running 'out of gas'." And despite the protestations of Tom McDermott, president of Four Star Productions that Amos Burke will not be a carbon copy of U.N.C.L.E.—"The last time I saw U.N.C.L.E., they looked like they were doing Burke's Law"—there's no doubt that the spy spoof has played a big role in the retool of Burke. It's a James Bond world now, and we're all just living in it.

Barry himself professes to be excited about the new format. "We made TV history," he says of the cameo-laden, sly humor of Burke, "and now the time is ripe to enlarge the format of the show." And to its credit, Amos Burke doesn't try to deny its past. As the season progresses, there are several references to Burke's previous career as the head of the L.A. homicide department, and Burke continues to drive his Rolls. In fact, Barry's sophistication, which everyone agrees was the major selling point of Burke, should have been tailor-made for a globe-trotting secret agent. But without the supporting cast of the previous two years, the spark just isn't there anymore. The shows are pleasant, but nowhere near as entertaining. Which once again proves that if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Besides Amos Burke, Secret Agent, the 1965-66 television season also sees the premieres of I Spy, The Wild Wild West, and Get Smart. They all go on to longer, more successful runs than Amos Burke. And when Gene Barry reprises the role of Amos Burke in 1994, it will be under the moniker of Burke's Law. As it should be.

t t t

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

Palace: Host Steve Lawrence inroduces Mickey Rooney and Bobby Van in a spoof of the movie "Bridge on the River Kwai"; operatic soprano Jean Fenn; the Backporch Majority, folk singers; choreographer-dancer Jack Cole; comic Gene Baylos; plate spinners Alberta and Rosita; the Gimma Brothers, novelty act; and 4-year-old drummer Poogie Bell.

Sullivan: Ed welcomes Steve Lawrence, Victor Borge, the rock 'n' rolling Dave Clark Five, comics Rowan and Martin, the Israeli Ballet, puppet Topo Gigio, the tap dancing Mattison Trio and John, a balancer.

As I typed these listings, I was thinking to myself that I really wanted go go with Palace this week because I like Steve Lawrence, but beyond Rooney and Van the lineup's pretty weak.  And then I come over to Sullivan and who do I see?  Steve Lawrence! As far as I remember, this is the first time we've had an act appear on both Palace and Sullivan the same week. Of course, it helps when both shows are in reruns. But Ed has more than Steve—try the very funny Borge, the occasionally funny Rowan and Martin, and the stylish Dave Clark Five. And if that isn't enough, you've got a puppet and a ballet company! No more calls, ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner—Sullivan takes it in a song.

t t t

Throughout the 60s and early 70s, TV Guide's weekly reviews were written by the witty and acerbic Cleveland Amory. Whenever we get the chance, we'll look at Cleve's latest take on the shows of the era. 

Before Daniel Boone was a big man, before Mr. Smith went to Washington, before Davy Crockett was king of the wild frontier, there was Fess Parker. And, according to Cleveland Amory, this is where the problem starts.

Don't get me wrong; like Amory, I like Fess Parker, both personally and as an actor. If he has not always been a great actor, or even a very good one, he has been a pleasant one, which can get you a long way with viewers, But, quite frankly, in this first season of Daniel Boone, Parker has a lot to fess up to. (Don't blame Amory; that one belongs to me.) Cleve has only two things to say about Parker's acting: "(1) He can keep up with the dialog. (2) He can out-act the Indians." When it comes to the acting, though, you can't blame Parker entirely: "[T]he only possible explanation for the dialog in this show is that it was written by writers who live in canyons—the echo techique whereby every question is asked and then reasked, answered and then reanswered." And over and over. As for the Indians, "they are fascinting in their inepitude. They play almost every scene as if someone had just told them they were not going to be paid after all." So bad are the actors playing the good guys, "one way we have found to enjoy it is to root for the bad guys, who are, at least sometimes, good actors." 

Believe me, I tried to find something good about Daniel Boone in this review, but the best I could do was an episode called "The Sisters O'Hannrahan," and, says Amory, that was good "if for no other reason because it at least had an idea for a plot." I can't really speak to the series myself; it was not a show I had any real interest in watching when I was growing up. I do know that Daniel Boone ran for six seasons and continues to be popular today. I also know that many series take awhile to get going, and the latter episodes bear only a passing resemblance to the initial ones. And finally, I know that Cleveland Amory doesn't always get it right; he is, after all, a curmudgeon. But if you enjoy someone who obviously takes great pleasure in the use of words, then this column, if not this show, is for you.

t t t

Football? This early in August? Of course. The sporting landscape changes dramatically this week, with our usual summer fare of baseball, golf and bowling being joined on Sunday by the return of the American Football League as the Buffalo Bills and Boston Patriots face off in a pre-season tilt from Boston (1:00 p..m. CT, NBC). This is the first year of the AFL's new television contract with the network, which will give the AFL the necessary finances to launch the bidding war that ultimately results in the league's merger with the NFL.

Not to be outdone, CBS presents an NFL game opposite the AFL, but we're really talking apples and oranges here. The CBS offering (1:00 p.m.) is the Baltimore Colts inter-squad game, taped the previous night. The focus is on Baltimore's preparation for the regular season, in which they'll be out to avenge their 24-0 loss to the Cleveland Browns in the previous year's NFL championship game. In fact, it's Cleveland, not Baltimore, that makes it back to the title game, where they're waxed by my favorite team of the era, the Green Bay Packers, 23-12. Better that you should tune in a day earlier and catch their broadcast of the Washington Redskins and Philadelphia Eagles from Hershey, PA. (1:00 p.m., CBS)

t t t

Kellam de Forest is my kind of guy. His research company regularly vetts scripts for accuracy and liability, and is on call to answer questions that producers and scriptwriters might have about, say, how to peel a pearl (The Richard Boone Show) or what day December 30, 2022 falls on (The Twilight Zone). And while some of these items may seem like they're not such a big dea—after all, anyone with an internet connection can tell you that 12/30/22 is a Thursday—others can be very important, not only for the show's accuracy, but its financial well-being.

For one thing, de Forest conducts a vigorous background check into character names that appear in scripts. This service would have been particularly advantageous had the producers of Dr. Kildare taken advantage of it. They're currently in the midst of a $5 million lawsuit because of a recent episode in which a fictional doctor stands accused of covering up a medical mistake that resulted in the death of a young child. Seems that there's a real doctor out there with the same last name, who didn't take kindly to having that name besmirched, whether the TV doc was fictional or not. Sending the script de Forest's way could have saved the producers a lot of grief, for a fraction of the cost.

De Forest and his staff

I first read about de Forest many years ago, in Marc Scott Zicree's Twilight Zone Companion, in which de Forest applied his trade to the 1963 episode "In Praise of Pip." Rod Serling's original script contained a reference to American military action in Laos, with Jack Klugman's son Pip dying in a place where "There isn't even a war there," but de Forest pointed out that the Geneva Treaty on the neutrality of Laos stipulated the removal of all foreign troops from the country. "The implication that the U.S. has troops fighting in Laos (even in The Twilight Zone) could be an embarrassment and might cause repercussions.," de Forest noted. "U.S. Special Forces are fighting ('in an advisory capacity') in South Vietnam. Suggest South Vietnam." That wasn't his only suggestion for the script. A line from Klugman states, "There isn't even a war there," but, wrote de Forest, "In South Vietnam it is common knowledge that there is a Civil War, but U.S. troops are not supposed to be fighting there. Suggest 'There isn't even supposed to be a war there.'"

It's a fascinating line of work, at least to me. De Forest sits in his office, surrounded by a library of over 5,000 books "run[ning] the gamut from "The History of Orgies" to Dr. Spock's 'Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care.'" A script comes in, from an episode of Profiles in Courage set in the late 1800's. Among 54 research points, de Forest issues recommendations regarding the phrases "Little old bird dog, that's me" ("the term 'bird dog,' referring to one who hunts and finds objects, didn't come into use until circa 1930") and "to take in a water cooler around the bend in the corridor" ("the modern cooler was invented about 1910, though there were can-top coolers earlier"). Another Profiles script called for a scene of "great shouting and commotion" at the 1924 Democratic National Convention.  De Forest, on his own, added "The 'official' record indicates specific cries of 'soak it to them, boys, soak it to them.'"

In years to come, de Forest would continue to prove his worth to various producers, often through his name-checking. For instance, Archie Bunker was originally named "Wally" Bunker, until de Forest discovered there was already a "Wally Bunker" living in Queens. Wally quickly became Archie—the name Norman Lear wanted in the first place. Very cool, don't you think? He also did key research and technical advise for the original Star Trek; he was responsible for the stardate format by suggesting that the writers use the Julilan rather than the Gregorian calendar. (It would "not only be more precise, but more futuristic.") Kellam de Forest died in January of this year, at age 94, supposedly of Wuhan.

I don't have a Kellam de Forest Research Services at hand for my use, although the resources of the internet probably provide me with more data than de Forest could have dreamt of. It's knowing how to use the research that counts. And when it comes to storytelling, it's the details—putting a war in South Vietnam instead of Laos, or taking care to avoid historical anachronisms—that can make all the difference. 

t t t

Some quick programming hits for the week:

Saturday, as we noted, is the return of exhibition football on CBS. That night, Al Hirt, summer replacement for Jackie Gleason (and beneficiary of a feature article elsewhere in this issue), features a pretty good middlebrow lineup, with satirist Stan Freberg (one of the funniest men in radio or television), Met Opera soprano Anna Moffo , ballet dancers Edward Villella and Patricia McBride, pop singer Dionne Warwick, rockers Chad and Jeremy, harpist Robert Maxwell and jazz pianist Willie Smith. (6:30 p.m., CBS) And then, of course, there's Al's trumpet. Pretty good lineup; to be honest, it might top Ed and Palace this week.

Sunday is public affairs day, starting with Lamp Unto My Feet (9:00 a.m., CBS). This week's topic is "Reunification of Mankind," featuring historians Arnold Toynbee and William McNeil, and the question is "Can religion help man adjust to rapid and profound social, political and technological change?" I cannot possibly imagine a more prescient topic today, given that we live in a world of profound social, political and technological change that's pretty much rendered our society a shambles, precisely because of a decline (for whatever reasons) in religious belief. This is just what Toynbee's concerned with, given his view of religion as "a powervul force in shaping man's responses to human and environmental changes." 

Later, the public affairs program ABC Scope commemorates the 20th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. (Noon, ABC) We hear about this on an almost annual basis around this time of year, but in 1965 it was still pretty fresh in people's minds. Correspondent Lou Cioffi (incorrectly identified as Gioffi in this issue) reports on how the city has changed since then; I wonder how much discussion concerned the use of the bomb in the first place? I'm always interested in intense conversations about this today, conducted mostly by people who weren't alive then and have little feeling for the context and climate in which the decision was made.

Monday's rerun of Andy Williams (8:00 p.m., NBC) features an odd pairing of guests: Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and Jonathan Winters. "In a circus spot, Roy demonstrates his marksmanship and Jonathan portrays a lion tamer." On the other hand, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (7:00 p.m., NBC), which is coming to camp mode by this time, has a story about "a strange disease [that] killed the entire population of a small English coastal village—by afflicting the inhabitants with old age." With a couple of tweaks, that could almost be The Andromeda Strain, couldn't it?

We're seeing the summer season wind down, and with it the shows that won't be returning in the fall. NBC has a pair on Tuesday; Moment of Fear (7:30 p.m.), which is showing an episode that originally came from G.E. Theater in 1959, and Cloak of Mystery (8:00 p.m.), which shows a failed pilot episode. Hullabaloo, also on NBC, will be back next summer, but it ends this year's run with a show hosted by Frankie Avalon, with Barbara McNair, Joanie Sommers, the Supremes, Peter and Gordon, the Byrds, and Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs. (9:00 p.m.)

Wednesday: It's Our Private World, the first prime-time program spun off from a daytime soap, in this case As the World Turns. (You'll remember Cleveland Amory reviewing this a few issues ago.) It airs twice weekly, on Wednesdays and Fridays (at 8:30 and 8:00 p.m., respectively), and stars the legendary soap actress Eileen Fulton in her ATWT role of Lisa Miller Hughes. It would have been interesting had this show taken, to have a bifurcated story universe running in both daytime and nightime; that is, even though the shows (and storylines) are separate, the participants inhabit the same universe. Alas, the show, which started in May, only makes it through to September and the beginning of the fall season.

On Thursday, the Minnesota Twins and New York Yankees wrap up a series at Yankee Stadium (7:00 p.m., WTCN, KCMT, WDSM, KROC). It's an informal changing of the guard; the Twins, who were mostly miserable as the Washington Senators, are headed for the American League pennant in 1965, as part of a run that includes a second-place finish in 1967 and West Division titles in 1969 and 1970. For the Yankees, on the other hand, it's the Twilight of the Gods: American League champions for the last five years and 22 of the last 29, the Yanks are headed for a sixth-place finish in 1965, followed by a total collapse into the cellar in 1966. They won't make it back to the World Series for another decade.

Finally, what would Friday be without a beauty pageant, or "Beauty Spectacular," as the listings put it? It's the 14th annual International Beauty Pageant, live from Long Beach, California. (9:00 p.m., NBC) John Forsythe is the host, with an all-star panel (well, kind of) of judges including actress Virginia Mayo, pin-up illustrator Alberto Vargas, and Tom Kelley, the fashion photographer, who took a very famous photo of Marilyn Monroe against a red background which we probably, ah, shouldn't link to here.

Interestingly enough, this lesser-known pageant is still around (although last year's pageant was cancelled due to Wuhan), and is one of the few that doesn't judge solely on looks. Its "contestants are expected to serve as 'Ambassadors of Peace and Beauty', demonstrating tenderness, benevolence, friendship, beauty, intelligence, ability to take action, and, most importantly, a great international sensibility. The ultimate goal of the Miss International beauty pageant is to promote world peace, goodwill, and understanding."

In other words, just like this blog, right? TV  

When Western heroes don't shoot straight

GENE BARRY AS BAT MASTERSON

I was watching an episode of Bat Masterson the other night, it being one of the bedtime half-hour dramas we watch during the week. Masterson, played by Gene Barry as a slightly younger version of Amos Burke, occupies an unusual place in the television Western; it's not exactly one of the kids' shows that were prevalent in the early days of TV - Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy and the like - and yet it's not quite one of the "adult" Westerns of the late '50s onward - shows like Wyatt Earp, Bonanza, Gunsmoke et al. Masterson, unlike the earlier cowboys, didn't have comic relief, and had a fine eye for the trim ankle, but the show stays clear of the psychological morality play that typifies the later series. And it's this fish/fowl dichotomy that sets up today's question. A trite one, perhaps, but I'm going to indulge it anyway.

It's a typical Masterson episode in that it involves gambling, beautiful women, ornery-looking criminals, and Bat himself. As we look in on the scene, we see Bat raking in the dollars from a successful card game, which he takes to deposit in the town's bank. Unbeknownst to Masterson, however, two shady characters see him leaving the saloon with his hatfull of money and heading for the bank, and as soon as he's left, they enter the bank, hold up the banker and his assistant, and abscond with the cash, but not before fatally shooting the two employees.

Bat's given a chance to recoup his losses when an old-timer offers to stake him in another card game in return for Masterson agreeing to help deliver a valuable cargo for him. Bat agrees to the deal, whereupon he wins big again, this time (although he doesn't realize it) defeating one of the bank robbers, the hot-headed one, from whom he wins back all of his previously stolen money. The hot-head wants to fill Masterson full of head right then and there, but his partner, a much more level-headed criminal, prevents him from taking such action, telling him that he overheard the conversation between Masterson and the old-timer, and if they simply rob the wagon Masterson has been hired to help deliver, they'll be able to get not only the money but the valuable cargo as well. What they don't know, though, is that the cargo turns out to be not lucre, but instead three beautiful women, mail-order brides who are on the way to meet their prospector-husbands. With me so far?

The robbers, accompanied by two Indian mercenaries, ambush the wagon, shooting and killing the old-timer. Bat returns the fire, killing the two Indian braves, bringing the cumulative death toll to five. The robbers attempt to kidnap one of the brides and hold her for ransom, but when the hot-head attempts to have his way with her, the level-head objects. The two men fight, and the level-headed man is killed. By my count, that makes six dead so far. Bat confronts the hot-head, who asks Bat, "You aimin' to take me in?" He draws on Bat, but Bat is quicker, and from about five feet out, he shoots him. In the arm, disarming him. He does in fact take him in, while also delivering the brides, and everyone (except the six dead men and the survivor) lives happily ever after.

Now my questions start, the most important of which is this: Why did Bat take the risk of disarming the robber instead of simply killing him? G. Gordon Liddy once said you never take out your gun unless you intend to use it, and the purpose of using the gun should only be to eliminate the threat. Any law enforcement official will tell you that shooting to disarm is one of the most dangerous things anyone can do. It's a high-risk shot in the best of times, and the odds of success are low enough that you leave yourself wide open. In other words, you're not giving yourself the best odds of eliminating the threat.

I could understand Bat shooting to disarm if he was Roy Rogers or Hopalong Cassidy, but he isn't, and besides, six people had already been killed. It's not that Bat would have been killing an innocent man; the outlaw draws first. It's not that Bat's a bad shot - we've seen evidence that he's an excellent one, and from that short distance there's no way he could have missed, so he deliberately shot to disarm. It's not that Bat has some code that he doesn't kill; it's true that he often whacks the bad guys with his cane (hence the nickname "Bat"), but remember he's already killed two men in this episode.* I could even understand if the object was to show justice being meted out by the courts, but the last we see is Bat, the brides and the bad guy heading off into the sunset. The actor playing the outlaw doesn't even have any lines after he's shot - he just sits there on a horse, all tied up.

*Unless, and I hesitate to mention this, but the two men he killed were Indians. Are we to think they didn't count, that killing an Indian warrior wasn't quite the same thing as killing a white man? Considering the stereotypes of the era, I'm not putting that above the realm of suspicion.

Worst of all is the opportunity that was missed. To fully appreciate it, imagine that Bat Masterson is being played not by Gene Barry, but Clint Eastwood. The bad guy, looking as menacing as all get-out, has one hand on his gun and the other arm wrapped around the woman. It almost writes itself.

Bad Guy: "You aimin' to bring me in, Masterson?"
Bat: "Nope. Just aimin'."

Whereupon Masterson puts a slug right through the bad guy's chest. He flings himself backwards, eyes flying, in a death scene any cowboy can appreciate. The End. It's not only more satisfying, it's probably a lot more realistic.

Westerns both adult and kids versions, were always considered violent. Even if people aren't being shot and killed, plenty of them are having the snot beaten out of them. If this show had been made in, let's say, August of 1968 there would have been a motive to avoid needless violence, and therefore the criminal was merely disarmed. If you were making this show for kids, you would want Bat to apprehend him without firing a shot. But this episode was made in 1960, and it wasn't made for kids.

Lacking anything to the contrary, therefore, I can only conclude that there's one word to describe the ending of this episode of Bat Masterson, and that word is "stupid." Anyone care to take the other side?

This week in TV Guide: August 7, 1965

It's back to the '60s for a week after last week's preliminary incursion into the '80s. If you liked last week, though, don't worry; we'll be back there before you know it.

***

Regular readers are familiar with my affection for Gene Barry's detective series Burke's Law.  It was a stylish mix of humor and police drama, all done with tongue-in-cheek and twinkle-in-eye.  But Burke's Law, as we know it, is now done.  Starting this fall, the show's jumping on the secret agent bandwagon popularized by The Man From U.N.C.L.E.  Amos Burke, Secret Agent retains Barry's suave style (and Rolls Royce) amidst a bevy of beauties, but the supporting cast that did so much to make Burke fun - Gary Conway, Regis Toomey, Leon Lontac and Eileen O'Neill - is long gone, never to be seen again.*   And Amos Burke, Secret Agent will be gone before long itself - the reboot lasts a mere 17 episodes before the series bites the dust.

*Except for a cameo appearance by O'Neill as one of Burke's "secret agent" operatives.  Though she doesn't play the Sergeant Ames character, I think it's significant that she's one of the few female operatives working with Burke who doesn't get killed.

According to the article by Peter Bogdanovich (!), network executives feel the Burke's Law format was getting stale, "running 'out of gas'."  And despite the protestations of Tom McDermott, president of Four Star Productions that Amos Burke will not be a carbon copy of U.N.C.L.E. - "The last time I saw U.N.C.L.E., they looked like they were doing Burke's Law" - there's no doubt that the spy spoof has played a big role in the retool of Burke.   It's a James Bond world now, and we're all just living in it.

Barry himself professes to be excited about the new format.  "We made TV history," he says of the cameo-laden, sly humor of Burke - "and now the time is ripe to enlarge the format of the show."  And to its credit, Amos Burke doesn't try to deny its past.  As the season progresses, there are several references to Burke's previous career as the head of the L.A. homicide department, and Burke continues to drive his Rolls.  In fact, Barry's sophistication, which everyone agrees was the major selling point of Burke, should have been tailor-made for a globe-trotting secret agent.  But without the supporting cast of the previous two years, the spark just isn't there anymore.  The shows are pleasant, but nowhere near as entertaining.  Which once again proves that if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Besides Amos Burke, Secret Agent, the 1965-66 television season also sees the premieres of I Spy, The Wild Wild West, and Get Smart.  They all go on to longer, more successful runs than Amos Burke.  And when Gene Barry reprises the role of Amos Burke in 1994, it will be under the moniker of Burke's Law.  As it should be.

***

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

Palace: Host Steve Lawrence inroduces Mickey Rooney and Bobby Van in a spoof of the movie "Bridge on the River Kwai"; opoeratic soprano Jean Fenn; the Backporch Majority, folk singers; choreographer-dancer Jack Cole; comic Gene Baylos; plate spinners Alberta and Rosita; the Gimma Brothers, novelty act; and 4-year-old drummer Poogie Bell.

Sullivan:  Ed welcomes Steve Lawrence, Victor Borge, the rock 'n' rolling Dave Clark Five, comics Rowan and Martin, the Israeli Ballet, puppet Topo Gigio, the tap dancing Mattison Trio and John, a balancer.

Well.  As I typed the listings, I was thinking to myself that I really wanted go go with Palace this week because I like Steve Lawrence, but beyond Rooney and Van the lineup's pretty weak.  And then I come over to Sullivan and who do I see?  Steve Lawrence!  As far as I remember, this is the first time we've had an act appear on both Palace and Sullivan the same week.  Of course, it helps when both shows are in reruns.  But Ed has more than Steve - try the very funny Borge, the occasionally funny Rowan and Martin, and the stylish Dave Clark Five.  And if that isn't enough, you've got a puppet and a ballet company!  No more calls, ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.  Sullivan takes it in a song.

***

Football?  This early in August?  Of course.  The sporting landscape changes dramatically this week, with our usual summer fare of baseball, golf and bowling being joined on Sunday by the return of the American Football League as the Buffalo Bills and Boston Patriots face off in a pre-season tilt from Boston.  This is the first year of the AFL's new television contract with NBC, which gives the AFL the necessary finances to launch the bidding war that ultimately results in the league's merger with the NFL.

Not to be outdone, CBS presents an NFL game opposite the AFL, but we're really talking apples and oranges here.  The CBS offering is the Baltimore Colts inter-squad game, taped the previous night.  The focus is on Baltimore's preparation for the regular season, in which they'll be out to avenge their 24-0 loss to the Cleveland Browns in the previous year's NFL championship game.  In fact, it's Cleveland, not Baltimore, that makes it back to the title game - where they're waxed by my favorite team of the era, the Green Bay Packers, 23-12.  Better that you should tune in a day earlier and catch their broadcast of the Washington Redskins* and Philadelphia Eagles from Hershey, PA.**

*This being a retro TV site, we have no problem using the "R" word.
**Where, a couple of years earlier, Wilt Chamberlain had his famed 100-point basketball game.

***

On Monday, You Don't Say! begins a one-week stint by celebrity panelists Dr. Joyce Brothers and Dr. Frank Baxter.  "Who's Frank Baxter?" my wife sensibly asks, and though I kind of knew the answer, the always-reliable Wikipedia provides the rest of the story.

Born in Newbold, New Jersey, Baxter is best remembered for his appearances from 1956–1962 as "Dr. Research" in The Bell Laboratory Science Series of television specials. These films became a staple in American classrooms from the 1960s through the 1980s. The Bell series combined scientific footage, live actors and animation to convey scientific concepts and history in a lively, entertaining way; and the bald, bespectacled and affable Baxter served as narrator, lecturer and host. These films made Baxter (who was not a scientist) something of a scientific icon among baby boomers. Several of Baxter's science films have been released on DVD.

Baxter also appeared (as himself) in a prologue to the 1956 film The Mole People, in which he gave a brief history of theories of life beneath the surface of the earth.

In 1966, Baxter hosted a popular TV series called The Four Winds to Adventure, featuring filmmakers exploring little-known areas of the world, whether across continents, oceans, or local people and animals in a particular region.

Baxter died at age 85 in Pasadena, California. His body was cremated, but his ashes were scattered in Colorado, NOT placed in a vault in California, as some sources maintain.

What I love about this is that only in television of the '50s and '60s could a man become a cult celebrity, a guest on game shows in fact, by appearing in science specials.  Fat lot of good chance of that happening today, unless your name is Neil Degrasse Tyson.

You might not remember the name, but I'll bet you'd recognize him if you saw him.  To give that a test, here he is (along with Eddie Albert!  Directed by Frank Capra!) in the acclaimed Our Mr. Sun.

***

Kellam de Forest is my kind of guy.  His research company regularly vetts scripts for accuracy and liability, and is on call to answer questions that producers and scriptwriters might have about, say, how to peel a pearl (The Richard Boone Show) or what day December 30, 2022 falls on (The Twilight Zone).  And while some of these items may seem like they're not such a big deal - after all, anyone with an internet connection can tell you that 12/30/22 is a Thursday - others can be very important, not only for the show's accuracy, but its financial well-being.

For one thing, de Forest conducts a vigorous background check into character names that appear in scripts.  This service would have been particularly advantageous had the producers of Dr. Kildare taken advantage of it.  They're currently in the midst of a $5 million lawsuit because of a recent episode in which a fictional doctor stands accused of covering up a medical mistake that resulted in the death of a young child.  Seems that there's a real doctor out there with the same last name, who didn't take kindly to having that name besmirched, whether the TV doc was fictional or not.  Sending the script de Forest's way could have saved the producers a lot of grief, for a fraction of the cost.

I first read about de Forest many years ago, in Marc Scott Zicree's Twilight Zone Companion, in which de Forest applied his trade to the 1963 episode "In Praise of Pip."  Rod Serling's original script contained a reference to American military action in Laos, with Jack Klugman's son Pip dying in a place where "There isn't even a war there," but de Forest came back with the following recommendation:

The Geneva Treaty on the neutrality of Laos stipulated that all foreign troops be removed.  At present the only U.S. military in Laos is a small mission with the Embassy.  There are officially no combat or special forces in Laos.  The implication that the U.S. has troops fighting in Laos (even in The Twilight Zone) could be an embarrassment and might cause repercussions.  U.S. Special Forces are fighting ("in an advisory capacity") in South Vietnam.  Suggest South Vietnam.

There was also a suggestion as to the wording in the script:  "In South Vietnam it is common knowledge that there is a Civil War, but U.S. troops are not supposed to be fighting there.  Suggest 'There isn't even supposed to be a war there.'"

It's a fascinating line of work, at least to me.  De Forest sits in his office, surrounded by a library of over 5,000 books "run[ning] the gamut from "The History of Orgies" to Dr. Spock's 'Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care.'"  A script comes in, from an episode of Profiles in Courage set in the late 1800's.  Among 54 research points, de Forest issues recommendations regarding the phrases "Little old bird dog, that's me" ("the term 'bird dog,' referring to one who hunts and finds objects, didn't come into use until circa 1930") and "to take in a water cooler around the bend in the corridor" ("the modern cooler was invented about 1910, though there were can-top coolers earlier").  Another Profiles script called for a scene of "great shouting and commotion" at the 1924 Democratic National Convention.  De Forest, on his own, added "The 'official' record indicates specific cries of 'soak it to them, boys, soak it to them.'"

I don't have a Kellam de Forest Research Services at hand for my use, although the resources of the internet probably provide me with more data than de Forest could have dreamt of.  It's knowing how to use the research that counts.  And when it comes to storytelling, it's the details - putting a war in South Vietnam instead of Laos, or taking care to avoid historical anachronisms - that can make all the difference.

***

Some quick programming hits for the week:

SOURCE: HADLEY TV GUIDE COLLECTION

Saturday, as we noted, is the return of exhibition football on CBS.  That night, Al Hirt, summer replacement for Jackie Gleason (and beneficiary of a feature article elsewhere in this issue), features a pretty good middlebrow lineup, with satirist Stan Freberg (one of the funniest men in radio or television), Met Opera soprano Anna Moffo , ballet dancers Edward Villella and Patricia McBride, pop singer Dionne Warwick, rockers Chad and Jeremy, harpist Robert Maxwell and jazz pianist Willie Smith.  And then, of course, there's Al's trumpet.  Pretty good lineup - to be honest, it might top Ed and Palace this week.

On Sunday ABC's public affairs program ABC Scope commemorates the 20th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima.  We hear about this on an almost annual basis around this time of year, but in 1965 it was still pretty fresh in people's minds.  Correspondent Lou Cioffi (incorrectly identified as Gioffi in this issue) reports on how the city has changed since then; I wonder how much discussion concerned the use of the bomb in the first place?  I'm always interested in intense conversations about this today, conducted mostly by people who weren't alive then and have little feeling for the context and climate in which the decision was made.

Monday's rerun of Andy Williams features an odd pairing of guests: Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and Jonathan Winters.  "In a circus spot, Roy demonstrates his marksmanship and Jonathan portrays a lion tamer."  On the other hand, NBC's The Man From U.N.C.L.E., which is coming to camp mode by this time, has a story about "a strange disease [that] killed the entire population of a small English coastal village - by afflicting the inhabitants with old age." With a couple of tweaks, that could almost be The Andromeda Strain, couldn't it?

Tuesday - we're seeing the summer season wind down, and with it the shows that won't be returning in the fall.  NBC has a pair - Moment of Fear, which is showing an episode that originally came from G.E. Theater in 1959, and Cloak of Mystery, which shows a failed pilot episode.  Hullabaloo, also on NBC, will be back next summer, but it ends this year's run with a show hosted by Frankie Avalon.

Wednesday: It's CBS' Our Private World, the first prime-time program spun off from a daytime soap, in this case As the World Turns.  It airs twice weekly, on Wednesdays and Fridays, and stars the legendary soap actress Eileen Fulton in her ATWT role of Lisa Miller Hughes.  It would have been interesting had this show taken, to have a bifurcated story universe running in both daytime and nightime - that is, even though the shows (and storylines) are separate, the participants inhabit the same universe.  Alas, the show, which started in May, only makes it through to September and the beginning of the fall season.

On Thursday, the Minnesota Twins and New York Yankees wrap up a series at Yankee Stadium, broadcast on WTCN, Channel 11.  It's an informal changing of the guard; the Twins, who were mostly miserable as the Washington Senators, are headed for the American League pennant in 1965, as part of a run that includes a second-place finish in 1967 and West Division titles in 1969 and 1970.  For the Yankees, on the other hand, it's the Twilight of the Gods: American League champions for the last five years and 22 of the last 29, the Yanks are headed for a sixth-place finish in 1965, followed by a total collapse into the cellar in 1966.  They won't make it back to the World Series for another decade.

SOURCE: HADLEY TV GUIDE COLLECTION

Finally, what would Friday be without a beauty pageant, or "Beauty Spectacular," as the listings put it?  It's the 14th annual International Beauty Pageant, live from Long Beach, California.  John Forsythe is the host, with an all-star panel (well, kind of) of judges including actress Virginia Mayo, illustrator Alberto Vargas (yes, that Vargas), and Tom Kelley, the fashion photographer, who took a very famous photo of Marilyn Monroe against a red background which we probably, ah, shouldn't link to here.

Interestingly enough, this lesser-known pageant is still around, and is one of the few that doesn't judge solely on looks.  Its "contestants are expected to serve as 'Ambassadors of Peace and Beauty', demonstrating tenderness, benevolence, friendship, beauty, intelligence, ability to take action, and, most importantly, a great international sensibility. The ultimate goal of the Miss International beauty pageant is to promote world peace, goodwill, and understanding."

In other words, just like this blog, right? TV  

Burke's Law: the cop show with a heart—or at least wallet—of gold

This post is part of Me-TV's Summer of Classic TV Blogathon hosted by the Classic TV Blog Association. Go to http://classic-tv-blog-assoc.blogspot.com to view more posts in this blogathon. You can also go to http://metvnetwork.com to learn more about Me-TV and view its summer line-up of classic TV shows.

A badly wanted to do comedy,” Gene Barry said in a profile for the November 23, 1963 issue of TV Guide. “I searched the scripts for the inherent comedy that can be found in almost any drama. I searched for the twinkle, the lift of an eyebrow [that] could change the tone of a serious sentence. I read Burke’s Law. I envisioned the twinkle in it.”

And so, after three seasons as the Western hero Bat Masterson, after having said he would never do another television series, Barry returned to the small screen to portray Amos Burke, millionaire captain of the LAPD homicide division (and eventual secret agent, but we’ll get to that later), in the whimsical mystery that ran on ABC, in two different formats, for a total of three seasons.

I never saw Burke’s Law when it was in first-run. My only recollection of it was from the reruns in syndication in the late-60s, and from that all I can remember is the Rolls Royce tooling down the road while a woman’s voice cooed, “It’s Burke’s Law!” To tell you the truth, that voice kind of scared me a bit. (Of course, I hadn’t yet learned the meaning of the world "sultry.")

Based on the premise alone, it would have been impossible to produce Burke’s Law without that twinkle Barry mentioned. Burke is indeed a millionaire (the source of his money is never definitely stated, though he refers to an inheritance from his father, and implies that he’s multiplied that fortune through shrewd investments*) who lives in a mansion, is often clad in a tuxedo and surrounded by beautiful women, and is chauffeured to crime scenes in a Rolls Royce by his driver/valet, Henry (Leon Lontoc).

*Gene Barry himself was no slouch when it came to investing. That same 1963 TV Guide article mentions Barry’s ownership of a 40-acre orange ranch, mines in Nevada, a half-share of a construction company, and prime land in Los Angeles on which he and his partners planned to put up office buildings and apartments. Substituting Burke for Berry does a pretty good job of filling in the gaps.

Which, of course, begs the question: why does a man who clearly doesn’t have to work for a living choose a profession that’s not only difficult, but dangerous, one that required him to work his way up the ladder from beat cop to captain of homicide and could claim his life at any moment? I don’t know if Barry was one of those actors who composed backstories for each of the characters he played, but he does drop hints as to his concept of Burke. He is “a carry-over of the Old World, but part of this world,” cultured, mannered, sophisticated, worldly. “Police work is as important to Amos Burke as building a building is to me. Hell, he wouldn’t be happy sitting in a stock-exchange seat. He is alive, vital, now.”

It's a premise that requires some selling, but Barry is just the man to do it. Producer Aaron Spelling describes him as a man “at home in [a tuxedo], secure in it,” and his portrayal of Burke owes much to his previous turn as the Western dandy Masterson. In this updated environment Berry is still a crimefighter, albeit with a gun instead of a walking stick. And, as his colleagues are quick to remind others, a millionaire is what he is, but a policeman is who he is.

Given its various elements, Burke’s Law could have gone in several directions, but its success derives from the direction it chose. Neither traditional police drama nor comedy, each episode is centered on a spectacular murder (with the victim identified by the episode title Who Killed …) and a cast of flamboyantly eccentric (to put it lightly) suspects, mostly played by big-name guest stars (listed in alphabetical order in the opening credits, and frequently making little more than cameo appearances). Given that, one could hardly be blamed for expecting the investigating detectives to be just as zany, but far from it: Burke and his two cohorts, Sergeant Les Hart (veteran actor Regis Toomey) and Detective Tim Tilson (Gary Conway), could have been buffoons or broad caricatures, but instead they’re skilled cops who understand that murder is a deadly business and take their jobs seriously (if not always how they do them). They’re very smart, and very, very good.

L-R: Regis Toomey, Gary Conway,
and Gene Barry

The show’s premise also offers Burke an unusual advantage, never overtly stated but often implied, that as a millionaire he has the ability to deal with rich, powerful suspects on an even footing. Their money can’t intimidate him (he’s probably as wealthy as they are), nor can their influence scare him off. He’s beholden to nobody but the public, and he doesn’t scare easily.

The interplay between the three is one of the show’s delights. Hart is the veteran, wizened cop and mentor to the young Tilson, who has an encyclopedic knowledge of almost everything but lacks the experience and intuition to put the pieces together. Burke and Les obviously go back a long way (Les will on occasion drop the formality and refer to Burke as “Amos,”), and while Tim can sometimes be a bit of a showoff, it’s clear that Burke has a somewhat paternal affection for the young detective, often imparting a bit of his collected wisdom. (“Never ask a question unless you already know the answer - Burke’s Law.”) The three men split up the investigative work, with Burke generally reserving for himself (“Your old Captain”) the interrogation of the most interesting suspects. Those suspects are frequently also beautiful women, and their attraction to the handsome, dashing Burke may be genuine – or an attempt to throw him off the trail.

Indeed, Burke is seldom out of the company of an attractive female – the episode often begins with him in the embrace of some such lovely companion—but the moment the phone rings, with Les or Tim calling him to the scene of yet another murder, Burke is all business. The debonair playboy is gone, replaced by the determined homicide captain. There’s never an attempt to avoid his job—just a request to his female companion that she not go away.

And that, I think, is one of the main reasons I find this show so enjoyable. For all of the light touches— and the mix of comedy and drama works surprisingly well—Amos Burke is a policeman before all else, a damn good one who understands the importance of his job. His suspects may include glamorous women, but their beauty never blinds him to the possibility that behind their makeup may be the face of a killer. He’s not afraid to trade either punches or gunshots, and he’s not satisfied until the killer is apprehended.

Then there's that twinkle in the eye that Barry talked about, the priceless reactions when Burke meets yet another crazy suspect or has to listen to yet another ridiculous story. It’s when Burke lets us know that it’s a joke, and that we’re in on it. Throw in some great supporting players, such as Michael Fox as the droll medical examiner and Eileen O’Neill as a desk sergeant who doesn’t have to take second place to any of Burke’s beauties, and you’ve got the ingredients for a great show.*

*And by the way, speaking of beauties, did I mention that Anne Francis’ detective series Honey West was a direct spin-off from Burke? She was introduced in the second-season episode “Who Killed the Jackpot?” and would go on to a one-season run in 1965-66.

Which is why the third and final season is such a disappointment. Caught up in the spy hysteria of the early James Bond years, for 1965 the series changed format completely. Amos Burke was now a secret agent (hence the show’s new title: Amos Burke, Secret Agent), working for a spymaster known only as “The Man” (Carl Benton Reid). It had a flashy opening title and fun gadgets and even more beautiful women, if that was possible. It even had Burke’s Rolls. What it didn’t have was the chemistry of the original. No Les, no Tim, no Henry. It ran for 17 episodes, and by January 1966 it was over.

Apparently, Amos Burke tired of the secret agent business and returned to the LAPD, or at least that’s what had happened in the 1994-95 revival of Burke’s Law. Burke was now a chief, his sidekick was his son Peter (during the intervening years Burke had married and was now a widower), and Henry was back behind the wheel of his Rolls (albeit with a different actor). It was a middling success, running for 24 episodes over two seasons.

Burke’s Law could have been many things. It could have been a comedy, ala Barney Miller or Car 54. It could have been a police procedural, like any one of the cop shows on at the time. Instead, it was a one-of-a-kind, a comedy-mystery, a sophisticated whodunit. Most of all, Burke’s Law was fun. It wasn’t searing drama, it didn’t involve impossibly convoluted plots. It was easy to watch, and easy to enjoy. Hopefully, those who see it on Me-TV, whether for the first time or to rekindle an old memory, feel the same way.  TV