This week in TV Guide: March 19, 1960

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, may I have the envelope please?

Favorite Series of One Hour or Longer: Perry Mason

Favorite Half-Hour Series: Father Knows Best

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

Most Popular Male Personality: Raymond Burr (Perry Mason)

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

Best News or Information Program: The Huntley-Brinkley Report

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

TV

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Around the dial

Wally Cox once described himself as "a harmless preoccupied guy in a constant state of reduced effect," but at Comfort TV, David remembers him as one of the memorable figures of classic TV, and with a resume that includes Mr. Peepers, Underdog, and The Hollywood Squares, who can disagree? Read on for more. 

At bare-bones e-zine, Jack's Hitchcock Project comes to Casey Robinson's fourth-season episode "The Waxwork," a dark and mysterious ghost story starring Barry Nelson, Everett Sloane, and Shai K. Ophir, and a reminder that you shouldn't have yourself locked in a museum after hours. 

And speaking of Hitch, Martin Grams reminds us of "the best Hitchcock book you will ever read," François Truffaut's Hitchcock, in which the two directors sit down and spend 50 hours talking about Hitchcock's career. You can't be a film buff if you don't have this on your shelf.

Gill remians on the TV beat at RealWeegieMidget, and this week she looks at the work of some of this year's dearly departed: Shelley Duvall, Shannen Doherty, and Dabney Coleman, in three very different roles spanning two series and a telemovie. We can always be grateful for the work they left behind.

For a change of pace, John dips into the world of TV documentaries at Cult TV Blog, and this week's offering is the three-part BBC series Disciples, looking at the cult (no pun intended) the Synagogue Church of All Nations and its founder, TB Joshua. It's a sad reminder of how desperate people can get to find a reason for being in their lives.

A couple of quizzes for your entertainment and edification: Rick and the "We Name the Cast, You Name the Movie" game at Classic Film & TV Cafe, and the Metzingers' "Impossibly Difficult Name that Movie Game" at Silver Scenes. Let's see just how bmuch of an expert you are.

At Classic Film and TV Corner, Maddy looks back at the dual careers of Ida Lupino, who starred as one of the great actresses in front of the camera, and as the only female film director in America behind it. A remarkable woman, in so many ways.

Cult TV Lounge reenters the world of Perry Mason this week, with a look at a variety of episodes from the show's second season, one in which the series really starts to hit its stride. More mystery than courtroom drama, but loads of fun any way you look at it.

At A Shroud of Throughts, Terence remembers the life and career of writer/producer George Schenck, who wrote for shows including The Wild Wild West, Bonanza, and Fantasy Island, created Crazy Like a Fox and Bring 'Em Back Alive, and served as an executive producer on NCIS.

We'll close out with Michael and Roger at The View from the Junkyard, debating the Twilight Zone fifth-season episode "Black Leather Jackets." Their views differ, but that should just encourage you to check it out and make up your own mind. TV  

This week in TV Guide: July 24, 1965

It's one thing to know you're old, to be aware of the chronological truth. I freely admit it in my own case; longtime readers know I make no bones about it. It's another thing, though, to be reminded, by your own actions, that you're old. Take this week's issue of TV Guide. I've had this issue for at least three years, given that I purchased it back when I lived in Minnesota. I recognize its cover, I've read its articles, I'm familiar with its programs. It's highlighted on the very complicated spreadsheet that I use to track the issues I own. All this would suggest to me that I wrote it up at some time in the past 

And yet, I don't see it anywhere on the blog. I don't remember having made any pithy comment about it. I've searched the blog using various terms from articles I would have written, had I written them. In other words, I've owned this issue for at least three years, and whenever July would roll around, I skipped over it because I thought I'd already done it. I feel as if Perry Mason is convicting me with his stare. 

At this point, if I were really losing it, I'd probably figure I was done and end things right here. (Either that, or I'd run for office.) But, perhaps fortunately for you, I've retained enough of my wits to forge ahead, and there's no better place to begin than with the aforementioned Raymond Burr, about to embark on what will be the ninth and final season of Perry Mason. He speaks candidly about it with Dwight Whitney, admitting that he didn't expect to still be doing the series. "I wanted to do a show called The Power," he explains. "In it I played the governor of a state, and it had some of the same things going for it that Perry did. It was the best damn thing I ever read, the best new show presentation anybody in this business had ever seen." So what happened? Well, "the heads of CBS decided that with another year of Perry in the offing they didn't want to convert [to another series] at that point. I went along. I'm a paid actor. Once having signed a contract, I had a certain obligation. Last year I still felt it. So we made an eighth season of Perry Mason." And in the meantime another political drama, Slattery's People (starring Richard Crenna) came along. And there went The Power. As a consolation, however, Burr is paid "what may be the highest straight salary ever offered any TV actor."

Not that he didn't have concerns about Perry Mason, particularly the just-completed eighth season. "This year was a bad year," he tells Whitney. "Sometimes the plots got so involved even I couldn't understand them. But next year can be a great one." (Spoiler: it isn't.) That isn't the only reason he came back, though; "My actors were hurting," he says. "I couldn't let go. I was concerned." He had suddenly become, Whitney says, "God's gift to intransigent actors, tender to men's troubles, father of the world." 

Thanks to Mason, Burr has been one busy man: making regular trips abroad to entertain the troops (four to Vietnam alone), speaking to various bar associations (58 since the show started), and serving on the boards of various foundations and organizations. Next year, he says, he'll be visiting a dozen countries around the world, making speeches to universities. "I speak for world peace through law," he says. "I'm a kind of one-man lobby for the legal profession. I believe that the world will either destroy itself or learn how to settle things by law. So it becomes the world's most important profession." He's grateful for the non-monetary things the show has given him; "It's not very often that a person is given the opportunity to use his personal image to do so much good in the world. That's tough to give up regardless."

I've written about Raymond Burr many times in the past; he's appeared on the cover of TV Guide many times in the past. His secret life with its created backstory is always intriguing, but his public life as a mensch has always been impressive, and genuine. As he and Whitney part, the weary Burr—he leaves on another trip to Vietnam early the next morning—says that he does what he has to do. "What is right for me. What I have done may not have brought absolute happiness. But for me it has brought some measure of satisfaction. IF that makes me a fool, my friend, then that is what I am."

Rather than ending on that somewhat somber note, I prefer to think that I've saved the best for last. It comes from a paragraph earlier in the article, after Burr tells Whitney he wants Perry Mason to go out with a great year. "I could visualize Burr waiting for that 'great year' to go out on until Perry Mason was defending cases from a wheel chair." It sounds like a great role for Robert Ironside, doesn't it?

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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..

Sullivan: Ed welcomes Maurice Chevalier, the San Francisco Ballet, comic Soupy Sales, singer Felicia Sanders, rock ‘n’ rollers Gerry and the Pacemakers, middleweight boxing champion José Torres, comedian London Lee, Stephenson’s Dogs, and Jorgen and Conny, a perch act.

Palace: Host Tony Martin and his wife, actress-dancer Cyd Charisse, introduce comedian Jack E, Leonard; veteran song-and-dance man Ted Lewis; Johnny Puleo and his Harmonica Gang; a vocal-instrumental trio composed of Dean Martin Jr., Desi Arnaz IV and Billy Hinsche; ventriloquist Fred Roby; and the Half Brothers, jugglers.

There's no question that Cyd Charisse is always worth watching, whether she's with Fred Astaire or not. Now, having said that, I'm forced to add that Gerry and the Pacemakers have the edge over Deano, Desi, and Billy, and while Ted Lewis certainly had a legendary career, I have to give the nod to Maurice Chevalier. Meanwhile, there's no comparison for the San Francisco Ballet. Based on all this, I give the win to Sullivan by a José Torres knockout

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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. 

It seems as if it was only two or three weeks ago that we were last talking about Jimmy Dean, and here he is again, this time as the subject of Cleveland Amory's review. We learned back then that the network suits were doing their very best to make Jimmy into something he wasn't, something that Cleve rightly judged to be "unwise," because the truth is that "if there’s one thing certain in this changing world, it is that you can’t make Jimmy Dean into anything but Jimmy Dean."

Is that a backhanded compliment? Maybe; it depends on what you think of Dean's style, his schtick, his brand of contemporary country music. But as Amory points out, credit where credit is due: "taken for what he is, and what the show is, Jimmy is good." Take, for instance, his interaction with his Muppet sidekick Rowlf, manned by the team of Jim Henson and Frank Oz, and voiced by Henson. Their bits, such as a recent one which involved a trained flea, "may not sound funny, but with Rowlf and Jimmy looking at an imaginary trained flea, it was a funny scene." Considering that many of their interactions are ad-libbed, it speaks to Dean's quickness with the comeback lines. His interactions with his guests are equally believable; whether it's Rex Allen, Molly Bee, Jack Jones, Eddy Arnold, or Roy Clark, he's fulsome with his praise, and deservedly so. "For country singing or folk singing—and even for city folks who like the country—this show has many virtues."

In fact, if the show has any flaws at all, it's from the constant plugs for his guests' latest albums. It's one thing, says Amory, for it to happen on a talk show, but on a variety show where the guests get paid— well, "Ah want you to know, Jimmy, whan you air a-doin' thet, we dang near burn up." But if that's the biggest complaint that Cleveland Amory has to offer about your show, you're doing all right, son.

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Raymond Burr isn't the only star getting the in-depth profile treatment this week, as Arnold Hano takes a look at the up-and-down life of Jackie Coogan, currently undergoing a career renaissance as Uncle Fester on ABC's The Addams Family. 

Once upon a time, Jackie Coogan was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood. At the age of six, he appeared as The Kid in the Charlie Chaplin film of the same name. As a ten-year-old, he met the Pope, received an ovation from the delegates at the League of Nations, received the highest honor from the Greek government, and was mobbed by a crowd of 50,000 in Paris. He made $4 million in the movies, and another $4 million in outside earnings. And when he reached the age of 23, he found out that his mother and stepfather had squandered it all. He filed suit against them but was told he had no claim. He joined such distinguished company as Lou Gehrig in having a dubious namesake, in this case the Jackie Coogan Act, which required at least half of a child actor's earnings to be kept in a trust for him until he came of age. He married and divorced Betty Grable; "My success did not match hers," he comments. Two more marriages and divorces would follow, before the fourth one took.

He joined the Army (long before Pearl Harbor) and piloted a glider in Europe during World War II. "Nothing you've ever done before in life really counts," his commanding officer told the pilots the night before their mission. "Tonight you'll find out if you have a soul." Returning from the war, he discovered the acting roles were nowhere to be found. He took odd bits in nightclubs, parodying The Kid on his knees. 

The role that changed his life, he says, came on October 4, 1956. It was "Forbidden Area," the premiere episode of CBS's Playhouse 90, a tense Cold War drama written by Rod Serling, directed by John Frankenheimer, and starring Charlton Heston and Vincent Price. There was one comic role in the play, that of the Cook. Coogan was cast in the part, won critical acclaim, and was nominated for an Emmy. The offers came rolling in after that.

He was asked to audition for The Addams Family; ABC's Harve Bennett took one look at him in Fester's black robes and said, "He's perfect!" He enjoys his work on the show, but can't help looking at the child actors playing the two Addams children, Lisa Loring and Ken Weatherwax. "Kids can't get proper experience today," he says. "No vaudeville." He works on his autobiography (a book that seems not to have been published), and tells Hano, "I've never enjoyed life more than today." After The Addams Family ends, he continues to do guest appearances on television until his death in 1984. Maybe Hollywood can still produce happy endings, after all.

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Not much on the menu this week other than reruns, but in these pre-DVR days, there are certainly some of them you'll want to catch if you missed them the first time. 

One piece of original programming, however, leads off the week. It's the Miss Universe Beauty Pageant (Saturday, 9:00 p.m., CBS), live from Miami Beach. Jack Linkletter, Art's son, is the emcee, while John Daly and Sally Ann Howes are the commentators for the television audience. Meanwhile, Pat Boone presides over the crowning of the new Miss Universe, who happens to be Thailand's Apasra Hongsakula, the first Southeast Asian to win the crown.

The hour-long version of The Twilight Zone has always been considered something of a hit-or-miss season, as the format didn't really fit the tight stories that had become the hallmark of the show's first three seasons. (One of the few instances where the network executives knew best: Rod Serling had originally conceived TZ as an hour-long program, but was convinced by the suits to change it to 30 minutes. They were right.) Sunday's episode, however, is an exception: "The Incredible World of Horace Ford" (8:00 p.m, CBS), a touching story of a man trying to recapture his lost youth, with Pat Hingle outstanding in the title role. The story, written by Reginald Rose, originally appeared on Studio One ten years previously, with Art Carney; the story's downbeat ending was modified for TZ, and that was fine with Rose—as he pointed out, he'd already had it done his way the first time.

One of the week's most watchable repeats is Monday's The Winging World of Jonathan Winters (8:00 p.m, NBC), first shown in May. Winters is at his best in this "freewheeling" hour, which features Steve Allen, Leo Durocher, Stiller and Meara, and a taped tribute from Jack Paar (who featured Winters on his show many times). Alexander Scourby narrates the hour, produced and directed by Greg Garrison, who will go on to helm The Dean Martin Show.

On Tuesday, George Hamilton hosts Hullabaloo (9:00 p.m., NBC), with his musical guests Brenda Lee, Noel Harrision, Linda Bennett, the Hollies, the Impression, the Womenfolk, the Ronettes, and the Wayne—I mean, Wayne Fontana and the Mind Benders. (Sorry, got carried away there for a moment.) Hamilton, who'd starred in the Hank Williams biopic Your Cheatin Heart the previous year (probably when this episode was first shown), sings the song of the same name with Brenda; Harrison, who'd yet to record the Oscar-winning "The Windmills of Your Mind," sings the ballad "Barbara Allen." Perhaps the show's ratings would have been better had the host been George Harrison. 

You'll recall that last week I highlighted a couple of programs that were representations of a socio-culture that's long-since disappeared, and this week offers something of the same: Key to the City (Wednesday, 8:00 p.m., NBC), a 1950 comedy set at a mayors' convention in San Francisco, starring Loretta Young as "a prim and serious lady mayor" who's mistaken for a night-club dancer; Clark Gable co-stars as the man who makes the initial misidentification; romance follows! Would we see something like that on network TV today? Somehow, I doubt it. (By the way, Raymond Burr appears as the heavy!)

Thursday night is highlighted by one of the best, and best-known, episodes of Kraft Suspense Theatre, "The Jack is High" (9:00 p.m., NBC), a heist caper with a very, very gruesome twist at the end. Edd Byrnes, Henry Jones, William Bramley, and Larry Storch are the gang trying to pull off their getaway hidden inside a gasoline tank truck, while Pat O'Brien plays the dogged detective on their trail. Ralph Senensky directed; you can read his thoughts about it here. (For good measure, you can see the complete episode here.)

We started our look at the week with an original program, and we'll end it the same way, as Sally Ann Howes returns from Miami Beach to participate in a mini-Rat Pack reunion on The Tonight Show. (Friday, 10:30 p.m., NBC) Joey Bishop is the guest host (completing his second week subbing for Johnny!), and in addition to Sally, his guests are Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr. I'd stay up late for that.

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Another Raymond Burr note, of sorts; Ray Collins, who played Lieutenant Arthur Tragg for so many seasons on Perry Mason, died of emphysema on July 11 at age 75. As "For the Record" reports, his career spanned 60 years on stage, in the movies, and on television; "If they've written it," he used to say, "I've played it." He'd been in failing health for some years, with his last appearance on Mason coming on January 16, 1964 (filmed in October of 1963). Raymond Burr, ever the mensch, insisted that Collins be kept in the show's credits until he died, not only to help keep his spirits up (he watched the show every week), but to allow him to continue to receive health coverage from the Screen Actors Guild.

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MST3K alert: Robot Monster (1953) Deadly robots descent upon the earth. Their mission: to destroy civilization with supersonic death rays. George Nader, Claudia Barrett. (Thursday, 10:30 a.m. as part of a double feature, WTCN) This description actually flatters a movie that is widely considered to be one of the worst ever made. The "robots" are dressed in gorilla suits, the premier special effect is a bubble machine, and the best thing about it, by a long shot, is the score, composed by the before-he-was-famous Elmer Bernstein. Fortunately, we have not one, but two episodes of Radar Men from the Moon to soften the blow. TV  

Around the dial

You know how some videos have warnings at the beginning advising viewers that they contain flashing lights or loud noises, or something else that might trigger a seizure or some other reaction? I probably need to have a similar warning letting readers know that "The following article contains political asides that might cause an adverse reaction in readers holding a contrary viewpoint." 

With the exception of my "Descent Into Hell" series, I rarely dip into ideological politics, but as the author, editor, and all-around master of this blog, I reserve the right to express an opinion now and then. I don't do it to antagonize; as a long-time politico, I've always enjoyed discussing politics, especially with those of the opposite persuasion. It's a cliché to say that some of my best friends are on the opposite side politically, but I love a good discussion, and I have great respect for those who feel the same way, no matter which side they support. (Some of them are fellow classic TV bloggers, which just goes to show that love for good television overcomes all.)

Now, for the reason I'm bringing all this up. If you read the comments, you're probably aware that I got one last Friday from someone styling him/herself as "Guardian" challenging me to define "woke," a word I'd used in relation to Doctor Who. It was a provocative question, far more provocative than it would appear, because some time before, Guardian had excoriated me for having opinions that were allegedly "MAGA." I told him (let's assume he's male, to save time) that the ironic thing about this is that I'm not even a supporter of Donald Trump. I'm not a supporter of Joe Biden either; make of that what you will. 

At any rate, this leads me to an article by Pedro Gonzalez at Chronicles on X's new animated sitcom, The New Norm Show, billed as the first anti-woke sitcom, and why anti-woke comedy isn't funny. I link to this not to prove a political point, but to demonstrate why so many of us have such an affinity for vintage television shows: politics, regardless of what side of the aisle it comes from, is rarely a good match with entertainment.

On a more conventional note, Jack's Hitchcock Project at bare•bones e-zine turns to the tenth-season episode "The Trap," the only Hitchcock contribution from Lee Kalcheim. It's an excellent example of how someone can successfully adapt a six-page short story into a one-hour teleplay, and it's worth watching.

At Garroway at Large, Jodie shares her latest addition to her ever-expanding Garroway library: the book Todaymanship, or: The Art of Watching Garroway Between 7 and 9 a.m., a slim volume, complete with illustrations, written to appeal to potential advertisers. It looks like a fun little gem; perhaps when we're done with the garden, I'll have a little disposable income to pick up some goodies like this.

Hal is back with another excursion into Love That Bob! at The Horn Section; this time, it's the 1958 episode "Bob Digs Rock n' Roll," in which Chuck (Dwayne Hickman) finds, to his misfortune, that rock is what makes the girls go wild.

John looks at the first series of the police drama Whitechapel at Cult TV Blog. A drama rather than simply a "procedural," the 2009 series investigates a single crime (a Jack the Ripper copycat) against the background of relationships among the relationships of the investigating officers.

At Comfort TV, David once again reminds us of the importance of viewing classic television programs in their proper context rather than applying today's shifting standards. Case in point: Sally Field's 1960s sitcom Gidget, and the idea that the older men Gidget is often interested in are just "creepy" predators. Speaking as someone who's often worn the badge of "cynic," it's unfortunate how people can apply this cynicism and suspicion to shows that meant to suggest no such thing.

Gill wraps up a delightful two-part interview with Morgan Brittany, who played Katherine Wentworth on Dallas, at Realweegiemidget. It's a fun and insightful look at her memories of working on the famed soap. 

As you know, Perry Mason has always been among my favorites, so I greatly enjoyed Garry Berman's look at the show's "entertaining imperfections." He's right on all counts; sometimes these traits, seen in virtually every episode, can be irritating, but they're almost always entertaining.

Finally, at A Shroud of Thoughts, Terence reports on the decision by Paramount to close the MTV News website and erase more than 30 years worth of material. I've commented on this in the past, and I'll do so again here: does any institution treat its history more carelessly than television? I think I've demonstrated many times the vital role that television plays in understanding and interpreting American history over the past 75 or so years, and yet the industry itself seems not to know, or not to care, about it. To paraphrase someone or another, television is much too important to be left to the people running it. TV  

World without end

By the time you read this, the final episode of one of television's most acclaimed recent series will have aired. Succession, the comedy-drama about one of the most, if not the most, disgusting, reprehensible, repugnant, and despicable families since the Manson clan, came to the conclusion of its four-season run on Sunday night, and it seemed as if, over the last week, you couldn't avoid online speculation about it no matter where you looked. I've never seen an episode of Succession, since we don't subscribe to HBO, but I've read enough about it to know that it's not my kind of television. I had to work for too many people like them while I was working; now that I'm retired, why would I want to spend any more time around them? 

At any rate, this isn't about Succession, although it does provide a nice lead-in to what this is about. In Brian Phillips's Ringer article "In Praise of the TV Shows That Just Won't End," Phillips meditates on the nature of a series finale—why they invariably cause so much anxiety for true fans of the series—and then returns to the idea of shows that "never really end." In this case he's referring to shows that somehow seem to continue in the television universe, whether through spinoff series, reunions, or movies. Take Star Trek, for example; the existence of Star Trek movies has removed the pressure to nail the series finale; "You’re always encouraged to imagine that more will be coming, whether or not it actually arrives. And that little hedge against finality, that slight ducking of last-act obligation, frees you to keep your imagination in the ongoing present where the rest of the show has taken place."

That's pretty good, and it reminded me of a series that had a final epsiode of sorts, even though it didn't really need one: Perry Mason. By happenstance, last week I saw the final episode of the show's nine-seasons run, "The Case of the Final Fade-Out." It's a whimsical episode, set in the world of series television, the story of an egomanical TV star who's murdered while filming a scene of his popular television show. Mason and Paul Drake interview the show's crew to find out what they know; most of the crew members are played by actual members of the Mason crew. The judge is played by Mason creator Erle Stanley Gardner in an unbilled cameo. The killer turns out to be none other than (spoiler alert) eternal teenager Dick Clark! The story itself, as is the case throughout most of Mason's final season, is no great shakes, but it's an appropriate series finale in that it gives everyone a chance to take a final bow, turning the episode into a kind of wrap party.

The point of all this, though, comes in the very last scene. Having won yet another case (and once again humiliating Hamilton Burger in the process), Perry, Paul, and Della discuss an upcoming case. When Paul and Della ask where they should start, Perry replies, "It seems to me that the place to start is at the beginning." Fade out, end of series. 

It's a simple, but stunningly effective ending. It's symbolic in that it sends a message that the work of the lawyer in pursuit of justice will never end; in the world of the series, it also suggests that while the series has come to a conclusion, Perry's work (and Paul's and Della's) will keep going on—we just won't see it every week. Their universe will continue to exist, so if you ever thought to yourself that Perry Mason is the man who you'd go to if you found yourself in trouble, you won't have to worry about convincing him to come out of retirement or anything like that—they'll still be there. In that sense, it is a series that, in Phillips's words, never really ends; it can continue for as long as you want it to. (Gardner himself wrote six more Mason mysteries after the show left the air.)

Of course, Raymond Burr and Barbara Hale did return as Perry and Della in a series of movies, although they're pale imitations of the show (and many Mason fans don't consider them to be canonical). But putting that aside, the show's perfect ending left you with an even more perfect message: Perry and the gang aren't going anywhere, so there's really no need to say farewell, when au revoir will do. And isn't that the way it's supposed to be with friends? TV  

Incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial

In their highly entertaining book Harry and Wally's Favorite TV Shows, authors Harry Castleman and Walter J. Podrazik have this to say about Hamilton Burger, the hapless D.A. and nemesis of Perry Mason: "[W]hile Burger may be 'zero for whatever' against Mason, he's probably batting a thousand against the guilty parties that Perry uncovers.'"

Well, duh. Since most of these parties confess their guilt in open court, in front of dozens of witnesses and court officials, it's hard to believe these cases even come to trial. Perhaps Burger accepts a plea of guilty in return for not seeking the death penalty, but it's not likely he even needs to go this far. Again: standing up and shouting "I did it and I'm glad I did it!" is not the best legal strategy if you intend to plead not guilty, unless you're going for an insanity defense.

I once commented on Twitter that Dr. Richard Kimble would never have been convicted had the prosecutor been Hamilton Burger. I suppose we should be grateful that Kimble was tried in Indiana rather than California; otherwise, we would have been deprived of one of television's great dramas. (I'm not sure the good doctor would agree with this, but then, it just goes to show that realtors are right: location does matter.) The fact remains, however, that Hamilton Burger has to have one of the most dismal records of any prosecutor in history. Only twice during the nine-year run of Perry Mason did Burger manage to defeat Perry, and even then the verdicts didn't stand: in one case the defendant turned out to be an imposter, and in the other Perry's able to free his client despite her attempts to protect someone else. Not only that, but there were six occasions during the series, while Raymond Burr was unable to play Mason due to hospitalization, when guest stars were cast in the role of defense attorney.* Despite the fact that none of these substitutes were specialists in trial law (and one was just a professor), every single one of them facing Burger was able to win by exposing the true criminal. So not only can he not beat Mason, we have no evidence that he can win against anyone else, either. Burger probably would have lost even if he'd been in charge of Stalin's show trials.

*Never let it be said that the show was afraid to aim high: the six replacements for Burr were Bette Davis, Michael Rennie, Hugh O'Brian, Walter Pidgeon, Mike Connors, and Barry Sullivan.

And so we come to the central question, the point of all these ruminations: could it be that Hamilton Burger is not just the worst lawyer ever seen on TV, but the most incompetent character, period? To test this hypothesis, I tried to come up with a short list of television characters who were not just dumb boobs, but true, Darwin Awards-level ineptitude, so bad at their jobs that they posed a threat to the very well-being of their profession, if not the community.

Who in the television universe might his competition be? You don't have to look around very far to find some prime contenders: Gilligan, for example. He doesn't seem to be able to do anything right, and yet he's goodhearted at heart. (If that isn't redundant.) If he were in charge of something more important, he might be the winner—or loser, I suppose we'd have to say—but as it is, there's no evidence that he's responsible for the shipwreck in the first place, and in fact he sometimes winds up inadvertently saving the others from greater harm. So Gilligan is out.

Ted Baxter is pretty bad as a newscaster, but unlike Gilligan he's not aware of his own incompetence, and he's such a buffoon you can't really dislike him, either. Frank Burns was labeled a "competent" surgeon, but he also flunked out of medical school twice, and he's unlikable as well, which counts double points against him—or in his favor, if you will. He's usually prevented from killing innocent patients by the other doctors in the unit, though, which means he doesn't do as much damage as he could. Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz are right up there as well; more than one time, Major Hochstetter (no slouch in the incompetence department himself) suggests that every time Klink screws up, he's responsible for taking a hundred years off the thousand-year Reich. We know he can't be that bad, though, or else the Nazis would have been in negative territory by the end of the first season.

The same goes for many of the other characters we might think of: neither Gomer Pyle nor Barney Fife cause the kind of collateral damage that makes them a real contender, and at least in the case of Pyle, one could argue that the real screw-up is the Marine recruiter who thought Pyle would be an addition to the Corps; he probably should have been charged with treason. (You notice Pyle never made it to Vietnam, either.) More recent contenders could include Carrie Mathison of Homeland, who might well be the most inept agent in the history of the CIA (and that's saying something), but she could probably get off on an insanity defense. A compelling case can be made for the double-team effort of Michael Scott and David Brent from, respectively, the American and British versions of The Office, or Conor Roy from Succession, but one could say they're as tragic as they are hopeless, and calling any of their characters the most incompetent ever would just be pouring it on.

But a Perry Mason episode wouldn't be complete without a last-minute surprise, and just when it seems that Hamilton Burger has finally made a case that the jury will buy, Paul Drake comes rushing in and hands a slip of paper to Perry, who opens it up and reveals the name of:

Homer Simpson.

It would be impossible to suggest that anyone is more inept at their job than Homer, and as for causing widespread damage, how does a nuclear core meltdown strike you? Homer also gets bonus points for being a bumbler not only in his job, but at home as well. He's a bad son, father, and husband, and doesn't take such good care of himself. And whereas Burger is sure he's right, right up until the time he's proven wrong, Homer doesn't even have the courage of his faults, His redeeming qualities, and he does have some, merely elevate him from, say, the ninth circle of incompetence to the seventh.

So even when it comes to losing, Burger can't win,* which might well be the ultimate example of his incompetence. Which leads one to wonder when Burger might think to himself, "Maybe it's not you; maybe it's me."  When you consider how the judge almost always rules against his objections, or the number of times he's hoist on his own petard by smugly stipulating to something that Perry later uses to outwit him at a crucial moment in the trial, you begin to wonder how this guy even passed the bar.

*As Yukon Cornelius might say to Rudolph and Hermey, even on the Island of Misfit Toys, he's a misfit.

Given all this, how does Hamilton Burger keep getting elected District Attorney of Los Angeles County? (It is an elective office, after all, with the elected official serving a four-year term.) He has a large department to oversee; according to their website, "the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office is the largest local prosecutorial office in the United States." He also has a myriad number of deputy district attorneys at his disposal (there are 1,000 today; there must have been several hundred in Burger's time). Yet he insists on trying high-profile cases, and even assuming a few gimmies here and there, his overall record must be miserable. How must Joe Friday feel, knowing that virtually his only chance at putting away the bad guy is to get a confession, because if it goes to trial Burger's sure to screw it up? No, Burger's continuing presence in office can only be regarded as one of those mysteries of life. Either that, or crooked politics. (Jake Gittes, call your office!)

William Talman, the actor who so wonderfully portrayed Burger, was philosophical about losing to Mason week after week. "Burger doesn't lose. How can a district attorney lose when he fails to convict an innocent person? Unlike a fist or gun fight, in court you can have a winner without having a loser." That's a noble sentiment to be sure, but perhaps Burger wouldn't "fail to convict" so often if his department did a more thorough investigation before attempting to indict someone with evidence that doesn't even make it through the pretrial hearing. And then there's Burger always kvetching about Mason and his "courtroom tricks" that threaten to turn everything into a circus. Yes, Perry's methodology can be unorthodox at times, but you'd think that Burger would remember that those tricks usually wind up uncovering the real killer. He might at least be thankful that Mason's making his job easier for him. As Gerry Spence, perhaps America's greatest trial lawyer, once said, "I would rather have a mind opened by wonder than one closed by belief." Burger's problem is that he believes in himself too much, when a wondering mind would be a little more open to Mason's tactics—especially when they're always successful.

Now, I don't suppose I'd be doing you much good here if I didn't point out that television often occupies a world other than the one in which we live, and we ought to be grateful for that. No attorney tries 39 cases a year; and no district attorney personally handles every case that comes his way. And if Perry Mason was the world's greatest defense attorney, surely he'd be flying all over the country like Clinton Judd, taking on some of the nation's most notorious cases; at least that way he'd be beating up on a different D.A. each week. Sure, Perry Mason is formulaic, but so is a vaccine, and nobody ever told Jonas Salk they'd like to see him work for once without the formula, and then we'd find out how great he was. Perhaps we're all just better off if we accept the fact that Burger's true purpose in life is to serve as the Washington Generals of the legal profession.

I suppose we've been beating up a little too much here on poor Ham Burger. And maybe we can't convict him of being television's most incompetent character. But at least we can make the case that as far as district attorneys go, he is in a class of his own. Nobody, but nobody, comes close to his perfect record. And if you don't like it, well, sue me. Just make sure you get a better lawyer. TV  

This week in TV Guide: August 14, 1965

ABC News has a problem: nobody watches its nightly news program. They hope they have the solution: Peter Jennings.

At age 28, the boy wonder is set to take on Walter Cronkite and Huntley and Brinkley as he assumes the reins of ABC's 15-minute evening news program.* Ron Cochran, who anchored ABC's news during the JFK assassination drama, has been shuttled off to radio, and in selecting the young Canadian who still has to remin    d himself that it's "lieutenant" and not "leftenant" and that the Marine band does not play "Anchors Aweigh," ABC has passed over the likes of Howard K. Smith, Edward P. Morgan, and John Scali; all news veterans, all Americans.

*While CBS and NBC expanded their newscasts to 30 minutes in 1963, it wouldn't be until 1967 that ABC would follow suit.

Jennings isn't really comfortable with the role (even less so with his name as part of the program's title (Peter Jennings with the News), and ABC had to accept his demands that he be allowed to travel to cover the news on location as much as possible. Still, just over six months into his term as anchor, it's clear that he'd rather be out in the field all the time; he sees himself not as an anchor, but as a reporter. "I'm a newsman," he tells Neil Hickey, and he's sensitive toward the impression, as someone put it, that he's the network's "glamorcaster." He's sanguine about it, though. "If I blow this show—and that possibility exists equally with the possibility that I'll succeed—I'm still young enough to come back and make another name for myself."

Indeed he is. Despite ABC's confidence in the young man, truth be told, his first stint as anchor is less than a success. He never really does make a dent in the ratings of the Big Two, and after three years he quits the anchor desk to become a foreign correspondent. It's there that Jennings shines, covering various crises in the Middle East, including the Munich Olympic massacre. He returns to the States briefly as anchor for ABC's failed morning program A.M. America, after which he becomes the network's chief foreign correspondent. When ABC introduces World News Tonight, he holds down the foreign desk in London, along with Frank Reynolds in Washington and Max Robinson in Chicago. After Reynolds' death in 1983, he once again assumes the anchor chair, and this time it sticks. He will remain on World News Tonight, leading ABC to first place in the ratings, until his own death in 2005.

I wrote a piece at the other blog a few months before Jennings died; at the time, he was considered part of the Big Three along with Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw. That's all well and good, I wrote then, but to tell the real story of Peter Jennings, one had to consider him "the last reminder of the era of Chet Huntley, David Brinkley, and Walter Cronkite," and added that "That should put things in perspective."

Look at the picture of Jennings above: earnest, somewhat doubtful, painfully young. When ABC hired Jennings back in 1965, he was introduced as the network's answer to Cronkite, Huntley and Brinkley. As unlikely as it may have seemed back then, even to Peter Jennings, that's exactly the way it turned out.

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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.

Sullivan: Ed welcomes comedian Alan King; Metropolitan Opera soprano Birgit Nilsson; comics Marty Allen and Steve Rossi; singer Shari Lewis; the rock 'n' rolling Animals; impressionist George Kirby; South Vietnamese singer Bach Yenh; the Haslevs, trampoline artists; and Ravic and Babs, roller skaters.  Also: Rex Harrison, Audrey Hepburn and Wilfred Hyde White in a clip from the movie version of My Fair Lady.

Palace: Folk singer Burl Ives introduces Edgar Bergen, Charlie McCarthy and Edgar's 18-year-old daughter Candy; operatic soprano Anna Moffo; singer-dancer Ann Miller; comic Pat Henry; Rih Aruso, bicycle-balancer; and the Baranton Sisters, jugglers.

This is where we see Ed at his best. I know these shows weren't scheduled against each other when they originally aired, but it's as if Ed's playing "anything you can do, I can do better." Palace has comedian Pat Henry? Ed tops them with Alan King. You want opera? Palace has Anna Moffo; Ed counters with Birgit Nilsson. Academy Award-winner Burl Ives? What about Academy Award-winning film My Fair Lady, with Oscar winner Rex Harrison to boot? Strangely-named foreign acts? How better to beat Rih Aruso then with Bach Yenh? Palace has Ann Miller, Ed counters with The Animals. Palace has a pretty good lineup, but Ed's is better. Sullivan shows 'em who's boss.

And it's bonus week!  Al Hirt, the summer substitute for Jackie Gleason, is back with another original lineup that in a lesser week might have taken top honors. Al's guests on Saturday night (6:30 p.m., CBS) include Liza Minnelli, country singer Johnny Tillotson, Little Richard and the Imperials, and Jackie Vernon. Even here, Palace can't get a break; while they have Burl Ives, Sam the Snowman in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, in a few years Jackie Vernon will be the voice of Frosty the Snowman. It's just one of those weeks.

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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. 

I'm sure if we charged Cleveland Amory with being in full curmudgeon mode this week, our favorite critic would plead guilty, even with Perry Mason defending him. That's the show in the crosshairs, and Cleve acknowledges that "It would be nice to say that, after eight years on the air, the show has held up as well as Mr. Burr has." Alas, however, such is not the case, and Amory admits that "this is far from our favorite weekly hour."

At the outset, I'll stipulate that the Perry Mason of today is not the Perry Mason of the first few years. How could it be? There are only so many ways you can set up a courtroom drama, after all, and everyone involved in the show—the producers, the cast, and the freshness of the character—are that much older. Amory complains that many episodes are crammed not only with plots, but subplots and sub-subplots, and Burr himself had complained about needlessly complicated stories. And, adds Amory, "we've seen several plots here that we are convinced nobody believed—least of all the unfortunate actors who got the parts." Again, Burr himself would admit this is true. Amory doesn't quite accuse the actor of mailing his performances in, but he does suggest that Burr does his best acting in the opening credits. He still likes Barbara Hale and William Hopper, but he wishes Della Street and Paul Drake were in more of each episode.

So maybe Perry Mason isn't as good as it used to be. Maybe the stories are unbelievable, and the acting less than award-winning. But Cleve seems to ignore a central question: is the show still entertaining? There are shows I've given up on with only a season or two to go (Hawaii Five-O), and those I've stayed with to the end, with gritted teeth (77 Sunset Strip). In no instance have I ever been tempted to throw in the towel on Perry Mason, no matter how many times I've watched it. It is still entertaining—still fun, still comfortable, still better that most of the competition. If it's lost a step or two, well, then, so have I. To the accusation that I'm a fan of Perry Mason, I willingly plead guilty. But to the charge that, as Amory says, the show "can win, but lose winning," the verdict is: not guilty.

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On Thursday night, CBS' legal drama The Defenders presents "Eyewitness," in which E.G. Marshall defends "two youths who have openly committed murder—confident that no one would try to stop them." The "no one" includes 27 witnesses, "average citizens who didn't bother to interfere, shout for help or call the police."

The premise of "Eyewitness"—the 27 people who didn't want to get involved—bears obvious similarities to the 1964 murder of Kitty Genovese in which 38 witnesses saw the fatal attack on the 28-year-old barmaid, who was stabbed to death just outside her apartment building in the Kew Gardens neighborhood of Queens. Two weeks after the murder, The New York Times ran a front-page story on how 38 witnesses had seen the attack on Genovese and had ignored her cries for help, watching as the young woman died on the pavement after having been attacked three times by her assailant. The Genovese murder, and the attendant publicity created an international firestorm of publicity, as well as a cottage industry exploring the sociological study of what came to be known as the "Genovese Syndrome"; the case "became a staple of U.S. psychology textbooks for the next four decades." Books and articles were written, studies were conducted, movies were made. As the TV Guide close-up notes, "Incidents of public apathy toward crime in the streets are becoming shockingly frequent." 

Except.

Not long after the initial story, questions began to be raised regarding accuracy of the Times coverage, particularly the claim that "38 witnesses" had seen or heard the attack and failed to do anything about it.* The story had been personally pushed by Times editor Abe Rosenthal, who saw an opportunity for the newspaper to capitalize on its sensational aspects. Indeed, the Times had been the main propellant in making the relatively obscure murder into an international story. However, such was the position and influence of Rosenthal that many journalists kept those questions to themselves. Gabe Pressman, a reporter for WNBC and later a journalism teacher, raised some of the doubts he'd heard, and was berated by Rosenthal.

*There never was any doubt as to the identity of the killer: Winston Moseley, who was convicted of the rape and murder of Genovese and confessed to at least one other murder. His death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment, and he died in 2016 at the age of 81, having served 52 years in prison—the longest of any New York state prisoner then incarcerated.

Over the years, doubts continued to accumulate, as researchers began assembling the pieces of disparate stories told by those who'd lived in the neighborhood, and compared them to the records of the police, the contemporary interviews with eyewitnesses, and the accounts appearing in the Times and other newspapers. Some people with first-hand knowledge of what had happened had never even been interviewed by police, and others said their comments weren't taken seriously. 

Finally, in 2014, Kevin Cook's provocative book Kitty Genovese: The Murder, the Bystanders, the Crime That Changed America exposed the holes in the "official record" and presented a story far closer to what actually happened. There were never 38 witnesses to the crime; the number likely came from a "harried civil servant" who gave a number to the police commissioner who in turn passed it along to Rosenthal, who thought it would make a good story. There was at least one phone call to the police, and perhaps more; the dispatcher never logged the call that is known to have been made. The attack took place near a bar where domestic arguments had been known to spill out into the street; some thought that's what was going on, while others couldn't make it out at all.

Genovese was actually attacked twice, not three times; Moseley fled when a man shouted at him from an open window but returned after Genovese rounded the corner to the rear entrance of her apartment building. That meant that, according to Cook, "most [witnesses] could no longer see her after just a minute or two. When there was nothing left to see, they went to bed and there was then a second attack." True, the one man who did see both attacks failed to call the police; according to Cook, he was a gay man who may have feared police persecution at a time when many organizations, including The New York Times, were inherently suspicious of homosexuals. (Although it wasn't made public until much later, Genovese herself was a lesbian.) In fact, Cook points out, no matter who you were, "It was a time when the police weren't necessarily your friend." And Genovese didn't die alone on the street; a neighbor ran out to comfort her and stayed with her until the ambulance arrived; she died on the way to the hospital.

In 2016, the Times appended an Editor's Note to the online version of its 1964 article, stating that, "Later reporting by The Times and others has called into question significant elements of this account," and printed a series of corrections, ultimately pronouncing the original story "flawed." More than one critic has suggested that the Times coverage would today be considered "fake news."

I wonder how The Defenders would have covered that story?

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Thursday is also the scheduled date for the launch of Gemini V, the third manned Gemini flight. Rookie astronaut Pete Conrad is teamed with Gordon Cooper, a "veteran" who flew the final Mercury flight in 1963; he was also the last American launched on an entirely solo orbital mission. 

We're far from the time when the public will take manned space flight for granted, and the networks are onboard for comprehensive coverage, beginning the night before the flight, when CBS (6:30 p.m. CT), ABC (9:30 p.m.), and NBC (9:45 p.m.) present previews of the flight and the goals of Project Gemini; the flight is scheduled for eight days, twice the length of Gemini IV, and approximating the time for the Apollo spacecraft to make its round-trip journey to the moon and back. Liftoff is to take place at 9:00 a.m. the following morning, with all three networks beginning their coverage at 6:00 a.m., and remaining on the air through the first few hours of the flight. Jules Bergman anchors for ABC, while Walter Cronkite and Mike Wallace do the honors for CBS, and NBC is led by Chet Huntley, David Brinkley, Frank McGee, and Merrill Mueller. 

Just in case, though, the listings include alternate programming in the event the launch is postponed by a day or two, and it's a good thing it does, as the Thursday attempt is scrubbed due to a computer problem (a thunderstorm within a couple of miles of the launch pad might have resulted in a delay anyway). CBS remained on the air until 1:00 p.m., while ABC and NBC continued their coverage until 1:30. Everybody's back on Saturday, though, and the launch goes off without a hitch. Eight days later, the Gemini splashes down successfully, and the U.S. for the first time holds the record for the longest duration space flight.

While it's true that the Gemini V flight was an important step in the journey to the moon, it's still remarkable that the networks are providing so much coverage; Fred Friendly would later complain about what he called "an escalation just like the arms race," and said that with the exception of a manned flight to the moon, CBS would "no longer begin telecasting manned spaceflight coverage 'any earlier than a half-hour before launch.'" For Saturday's rescheduled launch, CBS would begin coverage at 8:30 a.m., 2½ hours later than NBC and 1½ hours after ABC. Setting aside the ridiculous way the all-news networks deal with even the most minor news story, can you imagine many events getting this kind of airtime today?

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Finally, a quick look at "For the Record" and the industry gossip:

First off, Mia Farrow is about to marry Frank Sinatra (go figure on that one), and the question is how the producers of Peyton Place plan to handle her absence while she's off on a cruise with Frank. Their answer: a hit-and-run accident that puts her character, Allison Mackenzie, in a coma. (One of those special four-week comas; ask for it the next time you're in the hospital.) If Farrow comes back from the cruise, as the producers expect, she'll snap out of it. If, on the other hand, she decides she'd rather be Mrs. Frank Sinatra instead, then—well, better off not thinking about it. (Don't worry, though: she pulls through in the end.)

Next, it's praise for Joey Bishop's performance as guest host for Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. The only blemish on the record may have been the show featuring Bishop's fellow Rat-Packers, Sammy Davis, Jr. and the aforementioned Frank Sinatra. Many of the critics thought Joey was fawning excessively (is there any other kind?) over Frank, but according to TV Guide, they missed the tongue that Bishop had firmly placed within cheek. Well, nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the average television critic.

Sadly, a survey of TV Guides of the era will see Vietnam start to play a more and more visible role in programming, as we see with CBS' four-part "Vietnam Examination," airing on consecutive Mondays for the next month. Not to be outdone, ABC is countering later in the month with "The Agony in Vietnam," while NBC's "White Paper" on foreign policy next month will devote substantial time to Vietnam. Before much longer, that's about all they'll be talking about. (In fact, ABC's Sunday afternoon program ABC Scope will eventually be devoted exclusively to the war.)

And last but not least, some surprisingly hawkish comments from Hollywood on the war, which if nothing else shows how early in the conflict we really are. Raymond Burr, who's made more trips to Vietnam than anyone not named Bob Hope, is on an extensive speaking tour where he calls for an escalation against the Viet Cong; not surprising, considering his closeness to the American troops as a result of his visits. And Hope himself is congratulating Secretary of State Dean Rusk for speaking out on nations still doing business with North Vietnam. Says Hope, who's usually apolitical in things like this, "People seem to forget we're at war." They'll be remembering soon enough, Bob—trust me on that. TV