This week in TV Guide: March 17, 1973

You probably don't recognize the name Robert Alan Aurthur; it stands out for me because he wrote two of the episodes that appear in my upcoming book. While he never attained the fame of, say, Rod Serling, Reginald Rose, or Paddy Chayefsky, he was one of television's more prolific playwrights, writer of more than 20 teleplays for Golden Age-anthology series such as Philco-Goodyear Playhouse, Studio One, and Playhouse 90. This week, in a new series of articles called "The Way It Was," Aurthur shares some memories of working in the early days of television, especially one particular script for Philco Playhouse.

We often hear that term, "Golden Age" bandied about — I used it up there myself. And Aurthur is among the first to say that not everything that aired during that era was great. "Only some were great. Some were terrible. Most were just OK. But in each and every one we aspired, quality limited only by individual ability." That's a pretty good way to describe the era, I think. Writers wanted to produce high-quality work, even when they didn't. And, Aurthur points out, everything in those early years of anthologies was live. No repeats, no do-overs, no pauses in the action. And speaking of action, there were "No shoot-outs or punch-ups to resolve hokey melodrama — and no cars. In some 30 hours of drama I never wrote an automobile scene, and except perhaps for a walk-on or bit I never wrote a part for a doctor, lawyer or cop." I don't think network television could survive today under those limitations.

To illustrate what it was like back in those days, Aurthur points to a 1955 Philco script called "A Man is Ten Feet Tall." You might have heard of that, even if you don't know (or remember) what it was about. The inspiration for the drama, Aurthur says, came from a trip to the movies he made with a fellow writer, where he saw Blackboard Jungle, starring a young Sidney Poitier. He was struck by Poitier's work, his presence on the screen; he was also depressed that an actor of such obviou talent had such limited opportunities, merely because of the color of his skin. He remembered a short story he wrote, some years past, which could be adapted into a television play that could serve as a vehicle for Poitier.

In those days, he says, "there were no committees to convince, no network officials to consult, no elaborate outlines to write." He had only to convince the producer, Gordon Duff, who gave it the go-ahead with one provision: he couldn't ever remember a black actor playing the lead in a television play. His suggestion: "Write it without describing the guy as a Negro. Then, after we cast Poitier, it'll be too late for anyone to complain." As events transpired, Philco was to be cancelled at the end of the season, concluding an eight-season run; it was decided that "A Man is Ten Feet Tall" would be the final production. (Remarkably, the kinescope exists; why not check it out here?)

Poitier and Aurthur on the set of The Lost Man  

Poitier's agent was onboard; the actor would be paid top dollar for the show, $1,000. Philco was no problem; they were only "moderately nervous" about the play. The problem turned out to be NBC — they were nervous that Poitier had once been on the blacklist, and was therefore unacceptable. Duff was outraged, and demanded a meeting with network officials and Poitier. Aurthur was not part of the meeting (Duff was "afraid I'd punch a lawyer"), but Poitier appeared, with great reluctance. Questioned about his relationship with Canada Lee, a black actor and activist, with whom Poitier had worked in South Africa in Cry, the Beloved Country. As Poitier recalled how they were allowed in the country only as indentured servants to the film's producer, he broke down crying, and fled the room. 

Aurthur informed the network that if there were any further questions about politics, he and Duff would notify the newspapers of the story. The network readily agreed that if he could talk Poitier into accepting the role, there would be no more questions. After a great deal of persuasion, he finally agreed to take the role, for $2,000. "A little revenge for Sid, cheap enough for us." Aurthur was kept busy with rewrites right up until the time of broadcast. It was a huge success; Aurthur recounts receiving more than 1,100 cards, letters, and telegrams in praise of the play; it wound up winning seven awards. On the flip side, two Southern newspapers called Aurthur a Communist, six Philco distributors threatened to cancel their franchises, and 6,000 people signed a petition saying they'd never watch the show again. Of course, since this was the last episode, it was a hollow threat.

That says a lot about what television, and American culture, was like in 1955. It's an example of one of the prime reasons this blog exists — to illustrate how much we can learn about America through television; not just racial issues, but so many other things as well. As for the power of TV, Aurthur concludes with what he called "the most thrilling moment," which came the night after the show aired. He received a phone call about 8 p.m. from Poitier, calling from a Harlem drugstore. He'd ducked in there to get some space from a mob who'd seen the play and wanted to tell him how much they'd liked it. "Listen to them," he shouted. "They're right outside the booth." He told the fans, "I'm talking to the guy who wrote it. Tell him what yiou think." Aurthur could hear loud cheering on the other end of the line. "Sidney laughed, and then he said, "Hey babe, I'm glad we did it." 

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From 1963 to 1976, TV Guide's weekly reviews were written by the witty and acerbic Cleveland Amory. Whenever they appear, we'll look at Cleve's latest take on the shows of the era. 

A Touch of Grace, ABC's new sitcom, is graced, if you will, with two exceptional actors: Shirley Booth, "who can be counted on always to special-deliver" her lines; and J. Pat O'Malley, so fine an actor that "he can make something of nothing." Unfortunately, as Cleveland Amory found out, nothing is plentiful in this lame knockoff of the British series For the Love of Ada, and that begins with anyone in the cast who isn't name Booth or O'Malley.  

The premise finds Grace Simpson (Booth), living with her daughter and son-in-law, played by Marian Mercer and Warren Berlinger, who — for comic effect, we assume — are "so square they are less funny than pathethic." Berlinger is Walter, a hen-pecked husband who works at a supermarket "and is always taking about things like celery and radishes — which the writers think should be funny," while the status-conscious Myra mother-hens her mother by "always worrying about Grace's beau (Herbert, played by O'Malley) not being a gentleman." Grace, of course, is the complete opposite, sprightly and full of fun. O'Malley's punchline is that he works as a gravedigger, and he makes the most of it, especially in his readings of headstone incriptions; he is, says Cleve, "a riot."

The problem, as we've seen, is that Booth and O'Malley have nothing to work with. The plots are what belong in the graveyard, posits Amory; "If it's possible to base a whole episode on what is a tasteless idea to begin with, these writers will do it." One plot dealt with Grace giving Herbert her late husband's suit and watch, outraging Myra; another week will center on Herbert wanting to take Grace on a trip to Sausalito, outraging Myra; a third features Grace, wanting to show she can still support herself, getting a job as a ladies'-room attendant, outraging Myra. Well, you get the idea. Never far from the surface, Amory complains, are "Two Basic Jokes": one, that old people having sex is funny; and two, that Grace's life is unfulfilled because she's not yet a grandmother. If anyone can make these work, it's Booth and O'Malley, but too often "it makes you feel fabuely uncomfortable, if not downright annoyed." On the heels of All in the Family and Sanford and Son, the producers must have thought another American adaptation of a British sitcom would be a similar hit; 13 episodes later, they found out otherwise. Television, Cleve says, has plenty of room for a seniors' sitcom, but "this isn't it." 

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I know you're going to find this hard to believe, but Hollywood studios have been hit by a movie and TV writers' strike. (Imagine that.) According to Richard K. Doan, Writers Guild members are predicting the strike (the first one since the five-month long strike in 1960) could last for weeks, or even months; the networks are already foreseeing "utter chaos" with the fall season. Up to now, there had been general agreement that the new season would begin on September 10, but that's all in flux. What appears to be more certain is that some "tryout" shows planned for the summer may have to be shelved. In the event, the strike lasts for 111 days; it doesn't have a catastrophic effect; ten weeks in, more than 150 independent producers (comprising more than 50 percent of primetime television) have signed the new contract, with the boycott pared back to just the major studios.

Elsewhere in The Doan Report, Broadway producer Joseph Papp is engaged in a bitter dispute with CBS over a postponement of the planned March 9 presentation of Sticks and Bones, an antiwar drama about a blind Vietnam veteran's unhappy homecoming. According to the network, 69 of 184 affiliates had already refused to air the movie after having viewed a preview showing; the network suggested it might reschedule after the POW homecomings. Papp replied that it was a "cowardly cop-out" and threatened to renege on his four-year contract with the network. Sticks and Bones does eventually air later in the year, with 94 affiliates refusing to show it (in eight cities, it was carried by non-CBS affiliates). I wrote about this a couple of years ago; in the key quote, "One CBS insider, who said that the show was 'not even good drama,' guessed that 'the tune-out in the first half hour must have been astronomical.' " 

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It's that time of the year, when pilots come out of hibernation and vie for a coveted spot on the fall network schedule, and Saturday sees a pair of "world premiere" presentations on NBC, beginning with The Magician (8:00 p.m. ET), starring Bill Bixby as a magician who uses his art to help others. That one does make the fall lineup; the same can't be said for Jarrett (9:30 p.m.), a tongue-in-cheek detective series starring Glenn Ford as a P.I. specializing in fine-arts cases. Did the network make the right decisions? Check them out for yourself and see.

Buckley interviewing Smith on Firing Line

On Sunday, Bob Cromie's Book Beat (7:30 p.m, PBS) features convicted murderer Edgar Smith, author of Getting Out, the story of his 15-year quest for freedom that ended with his release in 1971. Actually, I should describe it this way: Edgar Smith, the convicted murderer who duped William F. Buckley Jr. into believing his story that he was an innocent man wrongly convicted. Smith had been found guilty and sentenced to death for the 1957 murder of a 15-year-old girl. While on death row, he started a correspondence with Buckley, who, convinced of Smith's innocence, financed a legal team to advocate for Smith's innocence. His conviction was overturned, and in a plea bargan deal he pleaded guilty to second-degree murder in return for being released for time served. In 1976, Smith kidnapped and murdered a 33-year-old woman. Smith called Buckley for help, but Buckley, realizing he'd been wrong, instead called the FBI and Smith was arrested and convicted of murder, confessing in prison that he had, in fact, committed the 1957 murder as well. He was sentenced to life, and died in prison in 2017. 

A CBS News Special on Monday looks at a prime example of how some things never change; "The Long War" between Congress and the Presidency over issues such as war decisions and spending authority. (10:00 p.m.) If this sounds familiar, it's because this is a conflict that dates back to the nation's birth. Since this is only a one-hour report, reporters Dan Rather and Roger Mudd are limited to looking back at conflicts between Congress and Presidents Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon, but if you think what we're seeing today is new, you've got another think coming.

Another pilot made good can be seen on Tuesday, in the movie The Police Story (8:00 p.m., NBC), with Vic Morrow starring as a tough cop working on a team set up to crash crimes as they're being committed. Chuck Connors is the chief bad guy, and the supporting cast includes Ed Asner, Harry Guardino, and Diane Baker; minus the article in the title, the anthology series debuts in the fall as Police Story. And speaking of criminals, the made-for-TV movie Beg, Borrow . . . Or Steal (8:30 p.m, ABC) featuers some nice stunt casting, with Mike Connors of Mannix, Michael Cole of The Mod Squad, and Kent McCord of Adam-12 as three man planning a museum robbery. Hmm; I wonder if this fine-art robbery will be investigated by Glenn Ford?

Another successful pilot! On Wednesday, Tony Musante stars as Toma, based on the real-life story of a detective who uses his talent for disguise to infiltrate a gambling ring. (8:30 p.m., ABC) In one of the more famous examples of such, Musante quits the series after one season, saying that he had never intended to do the series any longer than that; despite entreaties from the network, including an offer to convert Toma into a series of occasional specials, Musante sticks to his guns, and Toma eventurally morphs into Baretta, starring Robert Blake. Following that, Owen Marshall, Counselor at Law (10:00 p.m., ABC) gives us an prime example of how legal dramas of the 1970s are handling more controversial, contemporary issues: "Lesbian seduction is the charge as Marshall defends a diving champion accused of seducing a teen-age girl." You're not going to see that on Perry Mason!

Thursday's highlight comes from the world of syndicated repeats, as The Twilight Zone (9:30 p.m., Channel 27) airs the classic episode "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet," with William Shatner hamming it up as the man convinced he sees a creature on the wing of an airliner; the way Shatner chews the scenery, I'm surprised the plane had any wings left. Elsewhere, Jimmy Stewart and Frank Sinatra Jr. are the guests on The Dean Martin Show (10:00 p.m., NBC), with one of the highlights being a skit in which Jimmy and Dean report being robbed by a gang of nudists. 

Greg and Marcia stage a knife fight to the death for an attic bedroom that ends in tragedy for The Brady Bunch. (Friday, 8:00 p.m., ABC) Actually, I'm exaggerating a bit about the storyline—can you tell I'm getting bored here?—but you have to admit that this sounds a little more exciting, doesn't it? And CBS has a failed pilot, Gene Roddenberry's Genesis II, as its Friday night movie. (9:30 p.m.) Better to go for The Bobby Darin Show (10:00 p.m., NBC), with Bobby's guests Sid Caesar, Dusty Springfield, Jackie Joseph, and the a cappella soul group the Persuasions.

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This week's Eastern New England edition has a full-page ad for Chuck Scarborough, anchor of WNAC's 6:00 and 11:00 p.m. news. It's the first major-market anchor job for Scarborough, who joined WNAC last year, and in the two years he worked in Boston he took the station to first place in the ratings. From there, he moved on to WNBC, where he became co-anchor of the station's 6:00 and 11:00 news, in addition to doing occasional reports and prime-time updates, for the network.

I mention this all because last December, Chuck Scarborough retired from WNBC after 50 years as their anchorman. It was only in 2017 that he cut back his schedule to only working the 6:00 news; even then, he'd occasionally fill in at 11:00. (His anchor partner, Sue Simmons, had retired in 2012 after having worked with Scarborough since 1980.) When he retired, it was as the longest-serving anchorman in New York television history. Here, we get to see him in his early years, destined for greater things. But who knew the kind of career he'd have?

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MST3K alert: The Black Scorpion (1957) features excellent special effects by Willis O'Brien (King Kong). It's about mammoth man-eating creatures that terrorize Mexico City. Richard Denning, Mara Corday, Carlos Rivas. (Wednesday, 11:30 p.m., CBS) It's not often that we're graced with a review by Judith Crist, but it isn't often that an MST3K movie gets a network run, albeit in the late-night spot. It's "a 1957 sci-fi with creaky oversized bugs out to rule the world, staring in Mexico. They lose — but nobdy watching wins." She's right, of course, which is why it winds up on MST3K — and that means everybody wins. TV  

Around the dial

We start off the new year by looking back 50 years, to 1975, as David continues his Comfort TV voyage through television of the 1970s andTuesday nights in 1975. It's the beginning of ABC's dominance in the ratings, and with shows like Happy Days and Welcome Back Kotter, it's not hard to see why. But don't ignore Police Story and Good Times.

The "Ann Way Season" continues at Cult TV Blog, and this week, John looks at The Dick Emery Show, which ran on British TV from 1963 to 1981, and Ann's appearance in the episode "The Daily Grind." If you like Benny Hill, it sounds as if Dick Emery might be your kind of show.

Cult TV Lounge returns to the world of TV tie-in novels, in this case Michael Avallone's novel The Blazing Affair, based on The Girl from U.N.C.L.E. It tells a tale of baddies trying to revive the Third Reich, and has a somewhat more serious tone than the TV series itself.

At Drunk TV, Jason reviews the 2020 telemovie A Ring for Christmas, one of those wretched Christmas movies that pollute our TV screens; this one presents one of those absurd plots that, taken in limited doses, can make for good fun. Not for me, perhaps, but not everyone's like me!

The View from the Junkyard wrapped up The Avengers a while ago, but not to fear: they've moved on to The New Avengers! Its first episode, "The Eagle's Nest," introduces Steed's new sidekicks, and it's a nice continuation in tone from the old series.

Travalanche celebrates "Science Fiction Day" (January 2) with a look at TV's kid-oriented sci-fi shows of the late '40s and early '50s. As was the case with TV Westerns, the sci-fi genre would eventually become more adult-oriented, but here are eight that are still fun.

At A Shroud of Thoughts, Terence pays tribute to the late Linda Lavin, who died last week at 87. Although she's most-known for her starring role in Alice, she had a long career on Broadway and television, and Terence looks at some of the many highlights.

Cliff Norton was one of those character actors you might not recognize by name, but you may recall him when you see one of his many TV appearances. Those Were the Days gives us a capsule look at some of his roles, on shows from The Dick Van Dyke Show to Green Acres.

There was something magic about doing live television, and at The Lucky Strike Papers, Andrew gives us an excerpt from a 1963 essay in which Norman Mailer writes about how the end of live TV meant the loss of a particular connection with viewers. Something to think about. 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  

This week in TV Guide: August 7, 1953

I've remarked in the past that live television is a breed apart from recorded programming, enough so that it's a genre of its own, just like Westerns and crime dramas. Part of this is because of the limitations imposed on live television; it's obviously difficult to capture the grandeur of a John Ford Western in a TV studio. But not only does live TV tell particular types of stories, it does so in a particular way; it requires a different type of storytelling, a different type of acting, and it forms a different relationship with the viewer, one with more immediacy, more intimacy. We see the difference between live and recorded television this week in this week's "Great Debate," with Fred Coe, Executive Producer of TV Playhouse, affirming that live broadcasts are best for "timely programs and creative drama," while John L. Sinn, President of Ziv Television Programs, favors filmed shows for "greater scope, better acting, fewer mistakes."

Now, it shouldn't be a surprise that the executive producer of a live anthology and the president of one of the most prominent producers of syndicated programs should take their respective positions. Both men agree on the need for both methods, and assume a continuing need for both. As Coe points out, "it would be absurd to choose a film pickup (even for a few hours) of the World Series," and includes elections and conventions, along with regularly scheduled news broadcasts (excluding unscheduled news events, where film is required "to record events for delayed broadcasts"). Coe concedes that it would be pointless for a show such as Dragnet to be broadcast live, when the writers, actors, and directors work with the same premise each week. It is in the area of "an honest theatrical production" of thirty minutes or an hour, where live television shines. "Except for a few isolated cases, there are no drama series on film that as yet compare week in and week out to. . .live programmng." Think of it as an event, a Broadway opening, a play that focuses the audience on the actors and the script, rather than its surroundings. There is an energy in the live performance that film cannot capture.

I wish I had one of these in our house.

But Sinn foresees a day when as much as 80% of programming will be on film. As he points out, all of Ziv's programs (Boston Blackie and I Led Three Lives are two of Ziv's better-known programs, and the future will bring popular shows such as Sea Hunt, Highway Patrol, Bat Masterson and Science Fiction Theatre), but that's not why he speaks in defense of filmed shows. He feels that the "first night" feeling of spontaneity that occurs with live programming is "vastly overrated," and even if it weren't, that wouldn't be a good reason for trapping television shows within the narrow confines of a studio. Film also allows for a more finished product, giving the viewer the best possible entertainment experience. Most important, though, film is also important to preserve such programs for future posterity, although, as Coe mentions, videotape and kinescopes will make such preservation possible. Whereas live programs leave nothing behind "but the script and the memories of those who saw them," film is forever; it "can go into the files as a living history book."

In the end, it's hard to say. I know; a classic copout, right? But Coe is right in that most of what television carries can be accomplished on film (or, later, tape). It is the anthology, the theatrical presentation, the concert, that thrives from an audience witnessing it simultaneously with the performance. And, of course, that's precisely the type of program that's no longer seen with any regularity on television. Coe may win the battle with his argument that live TV is necessary, but he loses the war when the survey of contemporary fare is conducted. More's the pity.

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As I've mentioned, there's not a lot of differentation in the week-to-week offerings of these early TV Guides, which encourages us to look at some of the things that add a local flavor to the proceedings, if you will. Advertising, for instance: when I last read TV Guide, while it was still in the distinctive smaller size, the non-television advertising in the programming section was pretty much non-existant. (Now, of course, it's the programming section itself that has almost disappeared.) But look at some of these ads from Chicagoland, 1953-style:

And while there's plenty of advertising teasing upcoming shows, most of it is either for local programming or supplied by local stations:

Is this just a way for me to take up more space? Sure it is, but it's more than that. It's a testimonial to how TV Guide in the 1950s and much of the 1960s was a local publication more than a national one., one that had formed something of a community bond, if you will, with the readers. The ads themselves are not as slick, more innocent, less assaulting than those that would follow. You'll even see small reminders for readers to remember their civic duties. It doesn't mean that the 1950s themselves were more innocent; after all, the threat of the bomb was hovering overhead wherever you looked. It's just different, and it gives you as much of a flavor of the times as the shows and the stars that each week's issue is promoting.

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So what is on TV this week? One way to tell is with these handy highlights, found for each day's listings:

One of the interesting things about these pictorial guides is how the captions alternate between actor and character. For instance, Gertrude Berg is the star of The Goldbergs (7:00 p.m. CT, NBC), and Jay Jackson is the host of Twenty Questions (Friday, 9:00 p.m. CT, WGN), but Pam and Jerry are Mr. and Mrs. North (9:00 p.m., CBS), played by Barbara Britton and Richard Denning, respectively. It's your snapshot of what's on.

There's a movie on Friday night at 11:45 p.m. on WGN called Dragnet, not to be confused with the series of the same name. Rather than Jack Webb, it stars Rod LaRouque, and here's the description: "Conflict arises between the district attorney's office and a circle of crooks." I thought that pretty much describes the normal roles that the two parties play in everyday life, but I suspect there's more of a story to it than that.

Did you know that Larry Storch had a regular television series prior to F Troop? I'll bet you did, since it seems as if almost everyone hosted a variety show in the early days of the tube, and the title of his show is, appropriately, The Larry Storch Show (Saturday, 7:00 p.m., CBS). This week, Larry's guest is singer Monica Lewis, and among the sketches, Larry impersonates a Frenchman giving a New York travelogue. That I'd like to see. Not from the show, but here's how Larry plays a Frenchman:


Hoagy Carmichael is the host of Saturday Nite Revue, the 90-minute program filling in for Your Show of Shows (8:00 p.m., NBC), but will it get knocked out by Phillies Saturday Night Fights from Chicago (8:00 p.m., ABC), featuring unranked welterweights Alan Moody and Irvin Steen, or Wrestling from Marigold (8:30 p.m, DuMont)? Who knows?

On Sunday, Ed Sullivan's Toast of the Town (7:00 p.m., CBS) welcomes guests Jay Lawrence and Burt Lancaster. and the 1953 version of the What's My Line? panel—Arlene Francis, Bennett Cerf, Dorothy Kilgallen and Steve Allen—join John Daly live (9:30 p.m., CBS). Monday means Burns & Allen on CBS (7:00 p.m.), and if you're familiar with the show from either radio or television, you'll easily understand this week's episode, in which "George and Gracie get locked out of their house [and] the locksmith called in the emergency almost loses his wife because of complications brought on by Gracie." If you're not sure how this could happen, don't ask. John Newland, Vaughn Taylor and Elizabeth Montgomery are among the stars on Robert Montgomery Presents (8:30 p.m., NBC), and on Abbott & Costello (9:30 p.m., ABC), "Lou rescues a gorilla from a trap and they become inseparable friends." Tuesday is filled with music on Summertime U.S.A. (6:45 p.m., CBS) with Teresa Brewer, Mel Tormé, and the Honeydreamers; that's followed by adventure on The Gene Autry Show (7:00 p.m, CBS) when "gene rescues a little boy from his outlaw captors." Those who forget that Mike Douglas was a bandsinger before becoming a talk show host could be reminded on Music Show (7:30 p.m., DuMont), and Bob and Ray are among the guests on Eddie Albert's variety show Nothing But the Best (8:00 p.m., ABC).

There's more music Wednesday on TV's Top Tunes (6:45 p.m., CBS) with Bob Eberly and Helen O'Connell, and more wrestling on Wrestling From Rainbo Arena on Chicago's North Side (8:30 p.m., ABC). On a summer repeat of This Is Your Life (9:00 p.m,. NBC), the honoree is Rock Hudson. And how about a pleasant way to end the evening, with The Liberace Show (9:30 p.m., WGN) as "Liberace plays your favorite piano melodies." Thursday brings us one of the most reliable anthologies of the era, Four Star Playhouse (7:30 p.m., CBS). The four stars, who generally rotated in appearances, are Charles Boyer, Ida Lupino, David Niven and Dick Powell (they also comprised Four Star Television), although tonight's star is Merle Oberon, a woman who "Swallows her pride, obtains the hearing aid she needs, and thus learns of her husband's infidelity." Barbara Billingsley is one of the guest stars; let's hope Mrs. Cleaver isn't up to something funny.

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Apparently, more and more movie stars are looking to television for their next dollar. Why? Well, for one thing, the studio system is in its long descent to obsolecense. Studios are cutting back on their contract lists, and those actors and actresses still under contract find they're not necessarily being paid regardless of whether or not they work, as was once the case. For the entertainer looking for a steady income, what could be better than a sitcom? A successful series can earn the star as much as $5,000 per week, not including profits, and they'll still have a chance to do a movie during the off-season. Is it any wonder, then, that stars from Loretta Young and Adolph Menjou to Ray Milland and Joan Caulfield are headed for the small screen? Not everyone succeeds, but ask Eve Arden (Our Miss Brooks), Gale Storm (My Little Margie), and Lucy and Desi how well it's worked. Ca-ching!

Speaking of Gale Storm, she started out life in Houston as Josephine Owaisca. Then, in short order, she won a Gateway to Hollywood talent contest, married, got a new name, and launched "a dazzling career" that has brought her to My Little Margie, and stardom. It's not surprising that this self-styled "realist" would be among the stars trading movies for television and security. She's always tried to keep her values in order. "Many people in show business focus their attentions entirely on themselves—how they look, how their clothes are arranged, and so on. I consider that unhealthy because it's too self-centered. The basic happiness for any woman is a happy home life, with the career secondary." With her success in TV have come—once again—movie offers, but for now, it's the demanding television life, a succesful nightclub stint in Vegas, and her husband and four kids. She'll go on to be widowed twice and will fight a successful battle with alcoholism; as she wrote in her autobiography prior to her death in 2009, "Life has been good and I thank God for His many blessings and the happy life He has given to me."

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That's it for this week—and don't forget what TV Guide says:

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Around the dial

Back after a week away from our spin around the dial, so there should be plenty to look at today!

Alex Trebek is a national treasure, according to Clair McNear at The Ringer, and who am I to disagree with that? If you can judge a man by the number of admirers he has, Alex Trebek is quite a man indeed.

"The End of Indian Summer"—ah, the way winter has been going this year, Indian Summer is as much an illusion as anything you're apt to see on Alfred Hitchcock Presents, but in this case it's the latest from Jack's Hitchcock Project at bare-bones e-zine.

Hoopla has nothing to do with March Madness—it's the free streaming service that comes to you courtesy of your neighborhood public library. If you haven't heard of this—and I hadn't—you'll want to check out Rick's piece at Classic Film and TV Café.

At The Horn Section, Hal returns to Love That Bob! with the 1958 episode "Bob Saves Harvey," the follow-up to "Bob Gets Harvey a Raise." Harvey is played by King Donovan, Paul Henning is one of the writers, and Bob himself directs.

Cult TV Blog casts an eye on Jason King, the 1971-72 ITV series starring Peter Wyngarde as the eponymous mystery writer; this week John takes us to "As Easy as ABC," in which the plots of King's novels begin to take place in real life, and you-know-who is the prime suspect.

The de-valuation of television is the latest from David at Comfort TV. TV is far less relevant now that ever; as David points out, "I’m pretty certain that hundreds of television shows have debuted and disappeared over the past 20 years, with the majority of the country unaware of their existence." More proof that we don't speak the same language anymore.

The Last Drive-In takes a good look at Kathryn Leigh Scott and her Dark Shadows legacy, including her book Dark Shadows: Return to Collinwood. And something I didn't know: Kathryn Leigh Scott was born in Robbinsdale, Minnesota, only about 15 minutes from where we live now.

It's the March, 1982 issue of The Twilight Zone Magazine up for review at The Twilight Zone Vortex, and among the goodies in store is Serling's teleplay for "A Passage for Trumpet," a review of Michael Crichton's Congo, and a look at Terry Gilliam's delightful movie Time Bandits.

At Garroway at Large, Jodie shares a story that illustrates why live television was a breed unto itself, and how professionals handle the challenge.

Vanna White graced the cover of TV Guide for March 4, 1989, and 30 years later she's still going strong. It's the latest issue of Television Obscurities's look back at the year in TV Guide; this issue also includes stories on Burt Reynolds and John Lennon, certainly an odd match.

Finally, Television's New Frontier: the 1960s movies to the 1961 season of The Cheyenne Show, which by this time also included Bronco and Sugarfoot, thanks to Clint Walker's earlier walkout. It's the series' fifth and final season; read about the stories and the stars. TV  

Restoring the classics

Perhaps this is just my inner nerd showing, but I find this tremendously interesting and hopefully you will as well. There's a YouTube channel called NBNTelevision which features restored versions of classic live broadcasts originally captured by kinescope.

We all know that kinescopes, which we love because they give us recordings of classic programs that would otherwise be lost, still leave something to be desired when it comes to reproducing the "night of broadcast" look and sound.  The process, which quite literally consists of a movie camera recording the picture right off the tube, turns a live telecast into a film, taking away the immediacy of what it would have felt like when seeing the original broadcast as it happened.

The technique used by NBN, called "motion interpolation," is intended to restore the videotape look and sound, allowing us to imagine what it would have been like seeing that live broadcast. It also cleans up and sharpens both the audio and video quality, allowing us to see and hear details that may well have been hidden since the original production. So far, NBN has uploaded four restorations, and while the Studio One broadcasts of "Wuthering Heights" and "Sentence of Death" are very good, you'll get the biggest impact from the other two broadcasts.

The first is Playhouse 90's landmark "Requiem for a Heavyweight," with a brilliant script by Rod Serling and terrific performances from Jack Palance, Keenan Wynn, and his father Ed. Watch this video from the beginning to get an idea of what a difference this restoration makes.


The second is 1957's Cinderella, by Rodgers and Hammerstein, starting the young and luminous Julie Andrews in the title role. The original broadcast of Cinderella was, to that point, the most-watched program in the history of television - over 100 million saw that live telecast.


Watching these programs was a real eye-opener for me - although we're certainly able to ascertain the quality of these broadcasts based on the kinescopes, we're now able to actually replicate the feel of seeing them as they happened - to see them the way they were meant to be seen, to appreciate them the way the original audiences did, to feel the drama of actors performing live for a national television audience. It's a powerful, as well as delightful, way for classic television to come alive - and I dare you to convince yourself as you watch them that they aren't live.

When television was live—and living

CBS CONTROL ROOM, MID '50S

You'll recall that in Saturday's review of TV Guide's top shows of all time, I mentioned in passing the thought that anthology series such as Playhouse 90 should perhaps have had their own category, rather than being lumped in with the rest of TV's dramatic series.

I wrote that primarily because I thought there was a distinct difference between an anthology, in which different actors and actresses tell different stories each week, and a "orthodox" series in which regulars tell a continuing story that may or may not also be serialized. However, there's another reason to think of anthology shows as their own genre, as noted in the book Fifties Television, written by William Boddy—for the most part, at least in the '50s, they were live.

Today, aside from sports and breaking news, there's very little live television, aside from the occasional network musical or other big event. In TV's early days, however, many shows were live—not only the anthologies, but series television as well. I think it was I Love Lucy that finally turned the trend once and for all, but I could be wrong about that.

So why do we think live television is special, worthy of being considered its own genre? Let's start with a definition of live television, one that goes beyond the obvious, that the show is happening as it's broadcast. Just what does that mean, and why is it relevant? Jack Gould, the television critic for The New York Times, wrote in 1956 that

Alone of the mass media, it removes from an audience's consciousness the factors of time and distance. . . . Live television . .  bridges the gap instantly and unites the individual at home with the event afar. The viewer has a change to be in two places at once. Physically, he may be at his own hearthside but intellectually, and above all, emotionally, he is at the cameraman's side.

Gould's point, Boddy continues, is that "both the player in the studios and the audience at home have an intrinsic awareness of being in each other's presence." Who knew interactive television went all the way back to the '50s?

Seriously, though, I think there's a real point to be made here. Boddy goes on to quote Gil Seldes, one of television's early pioneers:

The essence of television techniques is their contribution to the sense of immediacy. . . . The tension that suffuses the atmosphere of a live production is a special thing to which audiences respond; they feel that what they see and hear is happening in the present and therefore more real than anything taken and cut and dried which has the feel of the past.

Here we begin to get to the heart of it. There's a natural tendency to think of live programming not just as quaint, but as necessitated simply because video tape had not yet come into vogue. As we know, one of the main advantages to using tape (or film) is the ability to edit out rough spots, to do repeated takes of a scene until it comes out just right, and to preserve the performance for repeated viewings; therefore, pursuing this line of reasoning, we think of a recorded performance as something desirable, in that it gives us the best possible production. But is this always the case? And is it even desirable to have a presentation that's that spot-on? Seldes, as we have read, thinks not.

Gould, in a 1952* article entitled "A Plea for Live Video," describes the benefits of live programming as opposed to recorded, saying that a live broadcast contains a "sense of depth and trueness" which recorded programs cannot match. Carrying it through to the 1956 piece referenced above, Gould states unequivocally that "In their blind pursuit of artificial perfectionism, the TV film producers compromise the one vital element that endows the home screen with its own intangible excitement: humanness. Their error is to try to tinker with reality, to improve upon it to a point where it is no longer real."

*In 1952, more than 80% of all television shows were broadcast live.

We shouldn't be surprised by Gould's insistence on the humanness of television - after all, we say the same things about movies and music. We compare"human" epics such as Lawrence of Arabia and Ben Hur with SFX-driven spectacles such as Titanic and The Lord of the Rings, and even though we're impressed by the artistry and incredible technology of the latter, we also acknowledge that it just doesn't seem quite "real." We hear people talk about the crackle and imperfection of phonograph records, but at the same time we understand that digital music, despite its superior sound, is "sterile." It's the same thing.

We already know that television is the most intimate of mediums; as Seldes puts it, "Every television program is in a sense an invasion; you turn on your television set and someone comes into your living room." The magic of live television was that there was that interaction between actor and viewer. For those acting in a live production, there was a constant awareness of the audience "out there," that they were seeing your movements and hearing your words at virtually the same time as you were making them. For the actor, the camera was not the important thing; that performance was being delivered for the viewer, out there in the great darkness beyond the lens. Writer Donald Curtis put it well when he wrote that "There is no place for acting here. He must 'be' what he represents. . . . The television camera goes inside of an actor's mind and soul, and sends the receiving set exactly what it sees there."

"Requiem for a Heavyweight", 1955

For the viewer's part, having invited the actors into the living room, attention must be paid. It is more like going to a Broadway theater and watching a stage play than it is going to a movie theater and watching a movie. They know that what they are seeing is real, genuine, not a product of special effects or clever editing, but the actor's actual performance. Furthermore, they know that millions of others are sharing this experience at the exact time. It becomes fodder around the water cooler the next day, or at the dinner table that night with friends. Gore Vidal, who wrote 70 TV plays in the '50s, said "If you did a good show on 'Philco' [Television Playhouse, one of the prestige dramas], you would walk down the street the next morning and hear people talking about your play."

There's something very ironic about all this, although it isn't apparent right away. But think about it: the crucial elements of live television could be boiled down to three: the actor, performing for the viewer; the director, broadcasting what is taking place in front of him and not from the editing room later on; and the viewer, sharing the experience with cast, crew and other viewers.Today, our technology has managed to eliminate all of this: the actor plays to the camera, as he must, and often finds him or herself performing in front of a green screen, imagining what will be edited in afterward. The director relies on computer programmers as much as, if not more than, live acting; even with an animated feature like Toy Story, the end product, although the result of human work, doesn't feel quite as human as it would have been if it were hand drawn. The viewer can watch all of this whenever and however he or she pleases—on a television, phone or computer screen, as it happens or recorded to watch later, one episode at a time or all at once. It's the very opposite of the experience produced by live television.

Lest you think that we're just talking about the aesthetic component of live television, there were also many who felt the subject matter itself was influenced by the format. The divide between live and prerecorded television came to be seen as the difference between the "New York" and "Hollywood" schools. Live television, with its basis in the Broadway stage, tended to emphasize character development, whereas the Hollywood school, born of the motion picture industry, made plot the key element. Seldes felt that character-driven programming was more appropriate for television, where the "casual environment and attitudes of viewers" detracted from complex plot structures.

Such character dramas were perfect for live television, with its intimate relationship between performer and viewer, and the stripped-down, basic staging required by the small confines of the TV studio. In the meantime, Hollywood was busy producing half-hour action dramas, many of which starred either policemen or cowboys; many critics felt, as did Vance Bourjaily, that "the half-hour show is too brief, and it is interrupted by a commercial too soon after it begins, to be anything but a hook, a gimmick and a resolution." Gould said it "inevitably puts a premium on the contrived plot and on action for its own sake." The hour-long live drama was a writer's medium, and the writers were the stars: Rod Serling, Reginald Rose and Paddy Chayefsky were among the best and the best-known. As long as they continued to work in New York, the Hollywood school was left with weaker scripts; the emphasis on half-hour programs followed.

Times changed, of course, as did finances. Most of the prestigious live dramas were underwritten by sponsor dollars: Philco, Kraft, Hallmark, Westinghouse, and others. As the sponsor's role receded following the quiz show scandals, the networks gained control and based their decisions increasingly on the bottom line. Serling, fed up with interference from both network and sponsor, moved to a genre that required recording, while Chayefsky and others (including Serling) moved increasingly to movies. Talent began to shift from the East Coast to the West, movie studios started to work with television rather than against it, viewer tastes changed. It's hard to see live drama, or live television of any kind, returning to TV unless it's a special event.

However, there's more than enough reason to look at live television as a genre in and of itself. It required different production values, different styles of acting, different types of stories. TV Guide, which played such a role in the advocacy of quality television—including live drama—should have known better than to put Playhouse 90 in the same category as St. Elsewhere. To compare live TV to recorded programs is foolish; they're like apples and oranges. It may be long gone, but the era of live television was a unique and glorious, moment in history, and its memory lingers on long after the tape machines took over the control room. TV