Around the dial

Before we get to the heart of things, an addendum to Wednesday's book reviews. In addition to posting them here, I've also shared them on Amazon, and I can't stress enough how important an Amazon review is for authors. Reviews affect the algorithms that determine which books shoppers see (the more, the better), they give a sense of legitimacy to a book, and positive reviews may encourage other readers to try these books out. Now, obviously, I'm not encouraging you to lie and leave a good review for a bad book, but speaking as someone with a book coming out next month, I urge you to take a couple of minutes and leave a review of it at Amazon or wherever you happen to have purchased it. Even negative reviews, written constructively, can be helpful to us, and of course, positive reviews can make all the difference. So please, when you've finished that book, let everyone know what you think of it. This concludes today's public service announcement.

Speaking of book reviews, Martin Grams has a quartet of them himself, with books on Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C., movie star Deanna Durbin, Peter Marshall's memories of Hollywood Squares (a terrific book; I can vouch for it personally), and Peter Mark Richman's bio. Check them out.

At bare-bones e-zine, Jack's Hitchcock Project continues with "The Pearl Necklace," a sixth season teleplay by Peggy and Lou Shaw that tells a nasty tale of greed and deception; the luminous Hazel Court, the smarmy Jack Cassidy, and the manipulative Ernest Truax star.

When last we visited Cult TV Blog, John was taking us through a pair of episodes from the British series P.R.O.B.E, neither of which was the first episode. We get that this week, in "The Zero Imperative," with Whovians Sylvester McCoy, Peter Davison, Colin Baker, Jon Pertwee, Caroline John and Louise Jameson. And Linda Lusardi. Yes!

The always-valuable Broadcast Archives gives us a look at what prime time television was like in the late 1940s. Some of the footage in this video is not just rare, but drenched in the history of television, perhaps the only look we'll ever have at some of the shows from this era.

At The View from the Junkyard, Roger takes us on an A-Team revenge trip in the first season finale, "A Nice Place to Visit," a darker and more serious episode than usual. Will the Team be able to even the score with the small-town rednecks who killed their old war buddy? What do you think?

Kenneth Washington, the last surviving regular on Hogan's Heroes (he played Baker in the show's final season) died this week, age 87. He never got the credit he deserved for the impossible task of replacing Ivan Dixon in the cast; Pop Culture has the story.

At Classic Film and TV Corner, Maddie reviews five significant movies from one of my favorite eras in movie history, the British New Wave, popularly known as "kitchen sink drama." I have to be in a certain mood to watch them, but when I am, there's nothing better out there. TV  

Four for reading

We're talking books this week, and for a change it's not my book we're talking about. Rather, I've got a pile "to be reviewed" books that have piled up while I've been typing away, and now, with the release of Darkness in Primetime less than a month away, it's time to catch up on a few of these.

First up is my friend Dan Budnick's wonderful new Doctor Who book, When I Say Read, Read: One Fella's Journey Through Doctor Who. This two-volume set (volume one covers what we might call "classic" Who, while volume two picks up the show after the revival) covers the entire run of the show, up to and including the episodes that aired earlier this year, so when I say nothing is missing in them, I mean it.

When I Say Read, Read: One Fella's Journey Through Doctor Who (Volumes 1 and 2)

by Daniel R. Budnick

Throckmorton Press

2025

One of the many features of these books that makes them stand out from other "episode guides" is that Dan's analysis is not limited to a three-or-four paragraph description of the whole story; instead, he literally takes things episode by episode, and if you're at all familiar with the way classic Who was structured, you'll know that each story generally consisted of somewhere between four and six episodes (with some of them lasting even longer than that). This means that instead of, say, three-quarters of a page per story, you're getting a writeup that runs four pages or more, and includes not just a description of the episode, but also the original date of broadcast, writing credits, and the cliffhanger ending. He's going to tell you what the story is, not just what it's about, and an ideal way to read is after you've viewed the episode, rather than before. In other words, it augments your viewing pleasure.

As I mentioned, there's a temptation to refer to these kinds of books as "episode guides," but in this case, this would be a disservice. What Dan's really done here is to compose a mini-essay on each episode, containing his personal opinions, observations, and asides to the reader. You'll get factoids that you might not have been aware of; you'll also find yourself looking at some episodes in a different light.

Through it all, Dan's longtime love of the series emerges. He doesn't whitewash things; if something is worth picking on, he'll pick on it—but affectionately. Nowadays, it's become so fashionable for books about television shows to fall into one of two categories: either a fawning, sycophantic tomb that reads more like a press release than anything else; or else a cynical reiterpretation of a well-loved show that aims to upend everything anyone had ever thought of it, withe the ultimate message that you were a fool to ever enjoy this series in the first place. Thankfully, this book is neither: it's for fans, by a fan, who wants to share his enjoyment with everyone else. If some history books come across as lectures, this one is more like sitting around in the living room with a good friend and yakking about what you've just seen. Believe me, those are the best kinds of conversations to have, and When I Say Read, Read, is the best kind of book to give it to you.

Full disclosure: Dan and I share the same publisher, Throckmorton Press. I can assure you that I have, in no way, been compensated or influenced by that.

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Next up are a pair of reissues that showed up as a pleasant surprise in the mail from Cutting Edge, and each takes us behind the scenes to see how the television industry actually operates. I doubt that many people are naive enough to think that the business is all sweetness and light, but Daniel Paisner and Vance Muse bring home the drama behind the scenes, in stories that are, arguably, more entertaining than the programs themselves.

Show: The Making and Unmaking of a Network Television Pilot

by Daniel Paisner (with an introduction by Phoef Sutton) 

Cutting Edge

2023

We'll begin with Paisner's Show: The Making and Unmaking of a Network Television Pilot. The pilot in question was called Word of Mouth, and if it doesn't ring any bells, that's because it never even made it to air, let alone series status. That it didn't is a story of industry politics, commercial constraints, timing, and above all, luck. 

Word of Mouth, which started out as E.O.B. (for "Executive Office Building," the building where the speechwriters are housed), then The War Room, before lighting on its final title, had a lot going for it. It was created by Bruce Paltrow, Tom Fontana, and John Tinker, who had just come off of the success that was St. Elsewhere. And, given that most workplace dramas center around office politics in the first place, what could be better than the ultimate political setting of speechwriters working for the president of the United States? It was a concept that promised, in one observer's words, "smart drama." Instead, it left those involved with it experiencing the same kind of "smarts" that one gets from, say, dropping a sledgehammer on a bare foot.

Providing us with his first-hand witness to the events is Paisner, a freelance writer who'd somehow convinced Paltrow, et. al to grant him "unprecedented access" to the process of making a television pilot. And Paltrow gives us the eyewitness view of the entire sordid affair: the painstaking process of script development, the myriad challenges posed in the production stage (just how far apart should those desks in the War Room be placed, anyway?), interference from network suits, and the harsh truth of how few pilots actually make it to the small screen, let alone series status. I often joke about those "failed pilot playhouse" anthologies that used to populate summertime television in the 1960s and 1970s, but in fact it says much for those projects that they even got to that point. Show gives us the whole, unvarnished truth, in glorious, painful, detail. 

Perhaps nothing speaks to the deadly accuracy of Paisner's book more than the reaction of Bruce Paltrow after reading the finished manuscript. "What the hell were we thinking," Paltrow grumbled, "letting you in like this?" When Paisner asked him what he'd gotten wrong, Paltrow ruefully replied, "Nothing. Not a single thing. It's just, you've made us look like complete fucking idiots." 

But that was not Paisner's intent, nor is that the impression the reader gets from Show. (Well, maybe just a little, but you know what I mean.) Remember that the greatest baseball hall of famers still failed seven out of every ten times they came to the plate, and the success ratio has to be at least that severe in the television business. For even the greatest television minds, failure is not only an option, it's a reality. Sometimes it's a line of dialogue, sometimes an episode, sometimes an entire concept. Had Paltrow, Fontana, and Tinker been lesser figures in the industry, they might not even have gotten this far. That they did is, ultimately, a success; after all, if you can't play the game, you'll never even get to bat.

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Vance Muse's Smoldering Lust: The Inside Story of a Doomed Television Series, like Show, telegraphs its ending from its subtitle. It, too, seemed to be a good bet, created by Jay Tarsus, who'd already done The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd, Buffalo Bill, and The Bob Newhart Show/ Unlike Word of Mouth, Smoldering Lust—which wound up being called Black Tie Affair—actually made it to NBC's schedule, premiering on May 29, 1993, and starring Bradley Whitford and Kate Capshaw. Unfortunately, it was all downhill from there: scheduled for thirteen episodes, only five were aired before the axe fell.

Smoldering Lust: The Inside Story of a Doomed Television Series

by Vance Muse (with an afterword by Ken Levine)

Cutting Edge

2024

The show's premise, for those of you who don't remember it (and, judging by its short run, that would be most of you) was a 1940s detective spoof set in San Francisco involving Whitford's character, Dave Brodsky, as a P.I. investigating a philandering tycoon. Now, how a viewer is supposed to glean that premise from the title Black Tie Affair may be one of the first indications that this show was in trouble, but it was far from the only one. Its initial test screening would have made a fine after-dinner show on the last night of the Titanic; the premiere episode was heavily delayed, and its abrupt death—make it compelling, if sometimes painful and occasionally hilarious, reading.

Muse's tone is engaging, clear, and witty. Readers get to meet all the different personalities involved in putting together a television series—what they do, how they interact, how important each of them is to the overall success of a series. And their job isn't an easy one, especially when the life of a series is very much up in the air. Does the writer stick it out with the show, committed to seeing it through to the end? Or, as his agent fervently hopes, does he put himself back out on the market, realizing that if he doesn't look after himself, nobody else will, either?

Once again, the overall impression is one of politics, network interference, enormous egos, and good intentions going awry. You're apt to wonder how anything ever makes it to television, which makes one admire the long-term hits even more, but we ought to save some applause for the ones that fall short as well, for it's a small miracle that they got even that far. Just because said series fails to become an established hit does not mean that these people aren't good at what they do, or that they haven't done it well in this case. Sometimes things just don't work out; what seemed like a good idea in concept may not have worked in delivery, or it may have been the right idea at the wrong time. What undoubtedly was the right idea at the right time, however, was that the stories behind these shows be preserved for the rest of us to read. Sometimes, in television as in real life, failure makes for the most interesting story of all.

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And now for something completely different. If you're like me (and, once again, I hasten to add that I hope you aren't, for your own good), you probably know Edward Everett Horton primarily as the droll narrator of the "Fractured Fairy Tales" that appeared as one of the features on the various Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. You might also remember him as Chief Roaring Chicken on F Troop. You might even have seen him, playing characters of similar temperament, in various musicals and other movies of the 1930s and 1940s, many of them bearing legendary titles such as Top Hat, Here Comes Mr. Jordan, and Arsenic and Old Lace. But when it comes down to brass tacks, how much do any of us know about the man? And how do we know whether or not his story will be interesting?

The Unfractured Fairy Tale Life of Edward Everett Horton

by Lon and Debra Davis 

Bear Manor Media

2025

I can't answer the first question, but as to the second, we have nothing to fear when we're in the hands of veteran authors Lon and Debra Davis, who, in The Unfractured Fairy Tale Life of Edward Everett Horton, bring their amazing knowledge of cinema to this biography. And, typical of the work they've done in the past, you're going to come away not only entertained, but educated, with a mini-history lesson on film that puts Horton's work in context, allowing us to appreciate what a truly talented actor he was. 

Horton's career spanned not only movies, but the stage, radio, and ultimately television, and each step enabled him to be appreciated by a wider, more varied audience. He worked with some of the best, most talented, professionals in the business, actors who thrived under Horton's deft supporting touch. We hear from many of them, thanks to the Davises research, as well as from Horton himself, through various interviews and writings that give his story in his own voice. We also learn more about Horton the man, in personal details that are presented with deftness and subtlety, always enhancing, rather than distracting us, from the story.

As was the case with Mr. Budnick above, the Davises are personal friends, but I think I can say that this does not color my appraisal of their books. The fact is that, with so many books about media studies out there, it can be difficult to know where to begin. One way in which that is accomplished is to look back at the track record of those authors who've made the rounds before, who've earned their stripes, so to speak, by demonstrating their expertise in their subject matter. I don't know anyone who knows more about early cinematic history than Lon and Debra Davis, and I'm not sure how many historians there are out there who can share their knowledge in as engaging and informative way—not to mention charming—as they do. 

It's unfortunate that it's taken me as long as it has to review these four books, because for those of you who look for reading recommendations, it may have delayed your enjoyment of them. You may not have known that you needed a book on Edward Everett Horton, that you needed to read stories of failed television ventures, that you needed such a detailed review of Doctor Who. You may not have realized that you not only needed them, you'll come away from having read them wondering how you were able to go for so long without knowing about them. But trust me, it's true in every case. TV  

Book Review: Men of Action, by Ed Robertson

When last we saw Ed Robertson, he had just co-authored the mammoth—and definitive—book on The FBI television series, The FBI Dossier. (You can read my review here.) 

Ed is now back with his latest book, and as before, it is one that pushes all the buttons for classic television fans who like some substance along with their nostalgia. Men of Action: Behind-the-Scenes of Four Classic Television Series gives us a look at four series that define what it means to be a "man of action" on television: The Magician, The Untouchables, Harry-O, and Run For Your Life. All four were, to one extent or another, popular in their day—a popularity that wasn't always reflected in the ratings, but gave them a loyal and devoted following that remains to this day. There's no question that each of the four leads personifies the definition of a "man of action," and if such men are less common on television today than they were back then, perhaps this will remind readers of what they're missing. 

Men of Action: Behind-the-Scenes of Four Classic Television Series

by Ed Robertson
Cutting Edge Books, 265 pages, $18.99

My rating: ★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

Robertson's choice of these four series is welcome in that only one of the four, The Untouchables (1959-63), has received any kind of significant treatment over the years. It was the longest-running of the four, and is probably the most familiar to modern-day aficionados: the story of Eliot Ness (Robert Stack) and his team of incorruptable federal agents, fighting organized crime in the Capone era. It was controversial in its day, not only for its copious servings of violence each week (the mob wasn't particularly known for handling things in a sensitive manner), but for its association of Italian-Americans with La Cosa Nostra, which supposedly enraged Frank Sinatra so much that he threatened Executive Producer Desi Arnaz.

Harry O (1973-76, which I wrote about here) is a classic case of a series done wrong by the network; David Janssen, in his most compelling role since The Fugitive, plays a most unlikely man of action—a private detective and former policeman forced to resign from the force after suffering a debilitating bullet wound to the spine. He's world-weary, with a bad back and a grumpy disposition, but while elements of his character are a standard in the P.I. business, Janssen's voiceover narration imparts them with a poetic, almost existential, quality. Over the two years of the series the location would shift from San Diego to Los Angeles, Harry's frenemy on the police department changes from Henry Darrow to Anthony Zerbe, Harry acquires a girlfriend played by Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and the physical action ramps up. Despite the changes, the series remains a singular example of literate detective fiction on TV.

Run For Your Life (1965-68), stars Ben Gazzara as Paul Bryan, an attorney who discovers he has an unspecified, but terminal, illness that leaves him, at most, two years to live. Determined to live life to the fullest—to "squeeze 30 years of living into one year, or two"—he embarks on a series of adventures taking him around the world, plunging him into the lives of those he meets along the way, and involving him in various situations that promise danger and demand action. Run For Your Life is the only one of the four series not to have received a commercial DVD release, althouth it's appeared on various cable channels over the years, and can be found in gray market DVE versions. Although it's fondly remembered by those who saw it initially, it deserves a bigger, and younger, audience; hopefully, Men of Action will help serve that purpose. 

The most interesting selection in Men of Action might be The Magician (1973-74) which gives us another unconventional crimesolver, a professional magician named Tony Blake (Bill Bixby). Blake had, in the past, spent time in a foreign prison on a trumped-up charge, leaving him with an intense sense of justice. Independently wealthy, he uses his skills as a magician to play an active role in helping out those in need, and seeing the gulty punished. As was the case with Harry O, there were cast and format changes, but Bixby's portrayal of Blake is a compelling one, and its release on DVD, as well as its appearance on cable, helps keep its audience 

Robertson's writing is clear and concise, neither skimping nor overwhelming the reader with details. He clearly knows his stuff, and he writes with an obvious fondness for each series that never crosses the line into amateurish fanboy obsequiousness. In addition to giving readers a look at the premise, development, and evolution of each series, he provides complete episode guides, including one-line synopses that tell you what to expect without giving the whole episode away; with its list of guest stars, it should prove especially helpful for those watching each series. 

Best of all, perhaps, is a treasure trove of interviews that Robertson has conducted over the years, with stars and guest stars, writers, directors, and others involved in the production of each series. Fans of these shows will find much to enhance their knowledge, while those just approaching them will find themselves drawn into their compelling stories. It's a fun, easy, entertaining read.

I've said in the past that next to watching classic television, there's nothing better than reading about it. with Men of Action, Ed Robertson has given us another treat for the bookshelf, and—hopefully—for our DVD collections.

By the way, be sure to come back later today for that special Thanksgiving bonus I mentioned on Saturday!  TV  

This week in TV Guide: September 18, 1954

Throughout history, man has strugged with the great intellectual questions of the time: What is the meaning of life? Why are we here, and where are we going? What's for dinner tonight? Among those great questions, I can assure you that "When will Liberace marry?" has not been one of them.

Now, to be fair, the question of Liberace's future matrimonial status is not the focal point of the story (never let it be said that TV Guide couldn't grab you with a cover headline); in fact, the story is really about how a piano player using the name "Buster Keys" and performing in saloons and cafes at the rate of about $30 a week has managed to parlay this into an income nearing $1 million per year and living in a Hollywood mansion. 

Wladziu Valention Liberace's rise to fame started at the age of five; his parents had separated while he was still a small tot; his mother, convinced that her son was a child prodigy, worked two jobs in order to keep the family together. Everything he has done since, he says, he does "for Mom." In the summer of 1952, he got a 13-week gig as the summer replacement for Dinah Shore; that, plus a winning smile that has a magical effect on the ladies, took care of the rest. Today his concerts sell out and movie producers talk about putting him on the big screen; one discusses casting him as a boxer who also plays the piano. "Gee," he exclaimed, "I’d love to do something like that."

It hasn't always been easy for him on the way to the top; the poison-pen set in the press portray him as naive, "a perpetually grinning matinee idol, slightly on the pudgy side, who seems for all the world to be an overgrown little boy dependent on his mother," something that bothers him even in the midst of his success. "Why do they say these things about me?" he wonders out loud. "What have I done to them?" 

Many of these same columnists, upon meeting him in person, find him to be "the most cooperative of souls, wholly uncomplicated, not at all temperamental and with a rare sense of humor." An associate says that this is part of his appeal, that his "sincerity and genuine delight with what he is doing is something that comes across on that television screen." He hasn't forgotten those tough times of the past, and still thinks of himself as a simple Polish boy from Milwaukee. He's quietly generous with associates, fans, and those he does business with; when a contractor working on his home came down with polio, he "saw to it that the contractor and his family were taken care of financially." When he sees tourists "gaping" in front of his home, he invites them in and gives them a personal tour. 

But, you ask, what about the question on the cover? When will Liberace marry? It's a question those press sharpshooters have asked out loud, calling him a "Mama's Boy." I think you can read between the lines of comments like these; Liberace never publicly admitted to being a homosexual, and in fact successfully sues the British Daily Mirror for libel in 1959 after they descxribed him as "a deadly, winking, sniggering, snuggling, chromium-plated, scent-impregnated, luminous, quivering, giggling, fruit-flavoured, mincing, ice-covered heap of mother love". The paper denies they meant to imply he was homosexual (talk about suspending disbelief!); the jury sides with Lee and awards him the equivalent today of £500,000. The unidentified reporter in TV Guide judiciously says that he will not marry as long as his mother is alive, and that "all his devotion is reserved for her and his music." (He has, however, twice come close to the altar.) 

I don't know if it's possible to "explain" Liberace; we're looking at him in his days before he became something of a self-parody, wearing flamboyant, Elvis-like costumes and the like. What I do know is that I've read too many accounts about his kindness to friends and strangers for that to have been a complete act, and the Christmas episode of his 1950s show (you can see it here) is both charming and appropriately devout; he was a lifelong Catholic who considered his 1956 meeting with Pope Pius XII one of the highlights of his life. All in all, I rather liked him.

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We don't often look at the world of late-night television in these old TV Guides, and for good reason: there are no late-night talk shows on network television, no late-night network movies; as a matter of fact, there's no network programming at all, once prime time wraps up. So, you might be wondering, what do people watch? 

Milwaukee's WTMJ leads off with a variety of short informational films in the 10:00 p.m. timeslot, followed by local news and weather at 10:15, reruns of various half-hour dramas at 10:30 and 11:00, the late movie at 11:30, a news wrapup at 1:00, and movies at 1:05 (except for Thursday, when we get wrestling!).   

In Chicago, viewers have four stations to choose from: WBBM, the CBS affiliate, presents 15 minutes of news at 10 p.m., followed by a 15-minute musical program, another 15 minutes of news at 10:30 p.m., and a 15-minute interview program hosted by newspaper columnist Irv Kupcinet. At 11:00 on Monday through Thursday, there's a half-hour drama (comprised of reruns of various series from the last couple of seasons), followed by a five-minute news update at 11:30 and late-night movie at 11:35; on Friday, The Howard Miller Show, a local variety program, runs from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m.

WNBQ, the NBC affiliate, leads off with the 10 p.m. weather, followed at 10:10 by a five-minute variety show, 15 minutes of news at 10:15, 15 minutes of sports at 10:30, 15 minutes of music from Herbie Mintz at 10:45, and a variety of shows at 11:00 that take us to sign-off: voice artist Ken Nordine on Monday, Championship Bowling on Tuesday and Friday, and movies on Thursday.

WBKB, ABC's affiliate, does not have a 10 p.m. newscast; instead, we get various half-hour dramas and sitcoms at 10:00 and 10:30 (Monday through Thursday; Jim Moran hosts a local variety program from 10 to 11 on Friday. That's followed by five minutes of news, five minutes of weather, Tom Duggan's talk show at 11:10 (said to be "the first all-talk show to appear on television"), and the midnight movie.

Finally, there's independent WGN in its pre-superstation days; they lead off with a movie at 10 p.m., news and weather at 11:30, and various paid programming at 11:50, probably leading up to midnight.

Little did we know what was in store for television history the following Monday, September 27: the NBC debut of Steve Allen's Tonight. After that, late night television would never be the same.

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The college football season kicks off Saturday with a showdown between two of the nation's top programs, as Oklahoma, ranked number 1 in the preseason polls, travels to Berkeley to take on number 3 California. (3:30 p.m., ABC) Oklahoma is in the midst of their historic 47-game winning streak, which began in October 1953 and runs until November, 1957; needless to say, they come out on top today, 27-13. (By contrast, the 2024 college football season began on August 24.)

If you're looking for the professional version of the game on Sunday, you're not going to find it; the NFL doesn't start for another week. (As a matter of fact, the only pro football this week is north of the border, with NBC's Canadian football game of the week at 12:45 p.m. on Saturday.) Fear not; there's still plenty to choose from, beginning with the debut of Art Linkletter's People Are Funny ► (6:00 p.m., NBC); the radio version first aired in 1942, and the show would run on both TV and radio until 1960. On Toast of the Town (7:00 p.m., CBS), Ed Sullivan salutes the U.S. Navy with performers who are all naval personnel; previous shows had featured the Army and Air Force.

Monday night gives us one of the major dramas of the Golden Age, Reginald Rose's "Twelve Angry Men" on Studio One (9:00 p.m., CBS). Most people are probably more familiar with the 1957 movie version with Henry Fonda, but Rose originally wrote the story for television, later expanding it into a stage play and eventually a theatrical feature (as was common in the heydays of the dramatic anthology). Both versions are terrific, but I have a soft spot for the original, which stars Bob Cummings as the lone holdout trying to convince his fellow jurors of a defendant's innocence. Cummings is very good in the role, hesitant and nervous at first, but increasingly confident and persuasive as he goes on; it provides an interesting contrast with Fonda's regular, virtuous self (you have to wonder if he was acting at all), and it's good enough to win Cummings an Emmy for Best Actor. You can see it for yourself here.

Tuesday sees the season premiere of Milton Berle's Buick-Berle Show (7:00 p.m., NBC), with special guest star Mickey Rooney. Berle is still Mr. Television, but he's not the same Berle he was in the Texaco Star Theater days, presenting a more restrained and polished persona (you can read about that here) that never really caught on with his longtime fans. His ratings take a dramatic hit, dropping from #5 to #11 nationally (his first time being out of the top ten); next season Buick will drop its sponsorship, and by the end of that season the Berle show will be history.  

Things are somewhat up in the air on Wednesday; the feature attraction was to have been world lightweight champion Paddy DeMarco defending his title against Jimmy Carter (9:00 p.m., CBS), but after this issue went to press, the fight was postponed until November. As an alternative, you can catch Elizabeth Montogmery in "The Light is Cold" on Kraft Theatre (8:00 p.m., NBC), and stick with the Peacock Network for a rerun of This Is Your Life at 9:00, with Martha Raye as the honoree. 

Thursday stars off with Groucho Marx and You Bet Your Life (7:00 p.m., NBC), and continues with Four Star Playhouse (7:30 p.m., CBS), starring Dick Powell as a weary police detective who arrives home after a day in which he was forced to shoot a suspect; later in the evening, he discovers someone has stolen his gun. At 8:00 p.m. it's Dragnet (NBC), with Friday discovering that a robbery suspect is an old Army friend. Ford Theater (the show, not the building) returns at 8:30, with Robert Stack starring in "Ever Since the Day," the story of an Army vet who returns from Korea but has difficulty adjusting to civilian life, and at 9:00 it's The Lone Wolf (WGN), a sneaky-good syndicated series that's kind of an American version of The Saint, with Louis Hayward very good as jewel thief-turned-private detective Michael Lanyard. Prime time ends as it began, with a quiz show: Bill Cullen hosting Name That Tune. (9:30 p.m., CBS)

I always enjoy checking in with Edward R. Murrow's Person to Person, which airs Friday at 9:30 p.m. on CBS; it's a useful barometer for telling what celebrities are hot, and what stories are in the headlines. This week, the celebrity guest is actress Eva Marie Saint; later, Murrow visits the Washington, D.C. home of Agriculture Secretary Ezra Taft Benson. One guest you won't see with Ed is the notorious Keefe Brasselle, "popular young star of The Eddie Cantor Story," who hosts a variety special on NBC at 7:30 p.m.

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There's a show called The Telltale Clue that's the subject of this week's review by Dan Jenkins. You might not have heard of it before; it debuted on July 18 and airs the last of its 13 episodes this Thursday. I can't tell whether it was ever intended to serve as anything other than a summer filler, but if it was, judging by Jenkins' review, it failed the test. 

The series stars Anthony Ross as homicide captain Richard Hale, and the gimmick is the use of forensic evidence to solve otherwise perfect crimes. The telltale clue is introduced at some point during the show, "which the viewer is invited to dig out for himself during the commercial before the denouement." Ross plays Hale with an intensity that, Jenkins says, threatens to create "a certain amount of sympathy for the villain," one of the elements I most dislike in modern police procedurals. As Jenkins points out, "Sympathy for the villain, of course, is prohibited by law." His verdict on The Telltale Clue: "uninspired stuff, filling one of those half hours that might be better spent reading a good book." There are a couple of episodes on YouTube; you can check this one out and see what you think.

Jenkins' other review this week is of anothet series with which you may not be familiar, So You Want to Lead a Band?, which premiered in 1950 and ran, mostly during the summer, through 1955, with a revival from September 1958 to June 1959. It's hosted by bandleader Sammy Kaye, and the premise is right there in the title for everyone to see: amateurs from the studio audience are given the chance to conduct Kaye's band; at the end of the show, the audience then votes on the winner. 

Jenkins sees the show, correctly, as an anachronism, "reflecting the taste of another era and lacking the pace and polish of today’s more breathless efforts." Considering that much the same can be said when comparing the shows of the 1950s to today's output, it must really have poked along. Professional singers, such as Betty Clooney (Rosemary's sister) are brought in occasionally to provide a little more entertainment value, but, as Jenkins notes, the show's success over the years proves there must be something to the sight of a layman "waving a baton in front of a band," but whatever it is, "it has entirely escaped this reviewer's notice."

I mention these two shows not so much to get your opinion on them as to demonstrate just how many programs there are out there that have completely escaped our attention. It's reasonable to have heard of "swing and sway" Sammy Kaye; less so to be familiar with So You Want to Lead a Band? And the fact that there are actually surviving episodes of The Telltall Clue, when episodes of other, better-known, series have vanished from existence is, if not impressive, at least unlikely. The history of television is a big topic; we've probably lost much more than we've saved.

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It is reported that the "most widely circulated TV show in the world" is the half-hour drama series This Is the Life, produced by the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, and if you've spent any time with these ancient TV Guide issues, you won't be surprised by the news. I don't think I've ever read through an issue that didn't have This Is the Life playing in at least one market, and frequently more than one. I'll bet you've seen it a time or two yourself.

This Is the Life is one of a number of similar religious programs—Insight and Crossroads are two others you might be familiar with—that use television to, in the words of the show's creator, pastor Herman Gockel, "reach the non-religious audience, people who wouldn’t tune in if they thought they were going to get nothing but religion." The show is centered around the Fisher family, a typical Lutheran family living in the Midwest, and the everyday problems confronted by them or those passing through their orbit. "We set up a problem, a conflict,” Gockel says, “which can only be resolved by the application of one Christian precept or another." The first ten or fifteen minutes are purely dramatic; once the audience is hooked, it's time for the pitch, usually delivered by the patriarch of the family, Grampa Fisher. Th pitch itself is not specifically Lutheran, but based on Christian precepts.

The series, which began in 1952, is provided free of charge to any station that wants it, and plenty do: it is currently seen by an audience of 20 million on 225 stations in the United States, plus those in Canada and Great Britain. Station managers report that the series generates a "phenomenal" amount of mail, most of it asking for help or advice; every letter is answered by the Missouri Synod. "We do get converts, but we look upon them as a pleasant by-product of the show. A bonus, you might say." An additional bonus: an impressive number of current and future stars who appear on the show.

In 1956, the show's format is changed to eliminate the Fisher family; the show remains set in "Middleburg," and the only regular is Pastor Martin, who ministered to the Fishers when the show began; this format will remain until the show ends production in 1988, dealing with issues that weren't even on the horizon when it began. Of course, you can catch some episodes on YouTube. 

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MST3K alert: The Mad Monster (1942) A mad scientist, ousted from his university, develops a method for transplanting the blood of a wolf into that of a man. Johnny Downs, George Zucco, Anne Neagle, and Glenn Strange. (Thursday, 1:00 p.m., WGN) OK, this is a really bad movie; it makes it to MST3K on merit. We do have the consolation of another episode of Radar Men from the Moon, however. And don't feel too sorry for Glenn Strange as Petro, the monster: he'll go on to play Sam, the bartender of the Long Branch Saloon, in 222 episodes from 1961 to 1973. Now that calls for a drink! TV   

Book review: Stumbling into Film History, by Lon Davis

Last week, I mentioned Ernie Kovac's1961 series Silents Please, and how it paralleled the resurgence in silent movies that was taking place in the late 1950s and early 1960s, thanks in large part to the movies being shown on local television. Silents Please was a labor of love for Kovacs, a true aficionado of early film history, and a good number of viewers were surprised at the absence of oddball humor that they had come to expect from a Kovacs program; for Ernie, it was all about the movies and the people behind them.

Which leads to a question that many people have wondered about, namely: how and why do historians become interested in the topics that they study? For some, it's a reflection of the environment in which they grew up; others discover their interest by accident while researching tangential topics. For me, television history has combined my interest in cultural and social history with an attempt to understand, and in some way relive, those early, pre-comprehending years of my life. In the wrong hands, trying to explain these passions can leave the reader feeling like someone being forced to look at their next-door neighbors' vacation pictures. Fortuantely, that's not always the case, and if you need any proof of that, look no further than film historian Lon Davis and his latest book, Stumbling into Film History. 

Stumbling into Film History

by Lon Davis
BearManor Media, 240 pages, $29.00

My rating: ★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

Davis has authored or co-authored several books on early film history (including Silent Lives and Silent Vignettes) which focused on the personalities and acts that personified those first groundbreaking decades of the industry, from Francis X. Bushman (Ben-Hur) to the Three Stooges and the Keystone Cops. But in Stumbling into Film History, Davis focuses on his own story, in a delightful and affectionate recounting of his journey through the "golden age" of cinema, and the various people he meets along the way.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Why, you wonder, is Hadley reviewing a book about classic film history on a classic television blog? Well, besides the fact that (full disclosure) I know and like the author, the truth is that television has had a lot to do with keeping this history alive. As recently as 1958, the major studios "conspired" to keep any movie made after 1948 from appearing on television, and it wasn't until NBC's Saturday Night at the Movies in 1961 that post-1950 movies became prominent. That, combined with an increasing demand from viewers for more and more movies, meant that early movies, both silent and sound, enjoyed a visibility they wouldn't again have until the heydays of AMC and TCM. For many, it was the repeated showings of these movies that would spur a lifelong interest in the industry, and keep alive the history of their times. Once again, credit television for documenting times that might otherwise be forgotten.

As is so often the case, it was an unlikely combination of circumstances that gave birth to Davis's love of early movies—a display of boxes of 8mm films bearing the images of Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy, and the Universal monsters, that the author ran across while waiting for his father at a camera store; a PBS series on silent movies hosted by Orson Welles that Davis and his father watched weekly; a great-uncle who lived in the Motion Picture Country Home in Los Angeles, home to many of the stars of the early era; and a young teenager's initiative to learn more about the now-forgotten stars that he'd met through these films. The result is a fascinating look at the lives and times of the people who made the movies. But more than that, it's the author's personal journey, a fond recollection of his friendships and interactions with these figures; and just as they shared their stories and perceptions with him, he now shares the same with us.

And while any (good) historian can write a history of early film, only a very few are privileged to have, in a way, become a part of this history; certainly, Lon Davis is one of those who can make that claim, for Stumbling into Film History is his story as well as theirs, offering a personal perspective that comes from firsthand knowledge of the people he writes about. There are, for example, his stories of spending time at the Motion Picture Home with Three Stooges member Larry Fine; again, there are many interviews with various Stooges (I just read one in an old TV Guide), but they won't give you the personal insight that Davis can, including his unfortunate attempt to set up a movie projector in Fine's room which, predictably, included a clash of heads that could have come right out of a Stooge short. While Davis couldn't help but be amused by the irony, Fine wasn't quiet as sanguine; "At least I got paid to make an ass of myself," he said.

Often, the teenage Davis would form connections with these old stars simply by looking up their numbers in the phone book and calling them; many of them were delighted to talk about the past, so pleased that someone as young as Davis would take an interest in their work. In doing so, Davis provides a lesson from which we could all learn: don't be afraid to take a chance; the worst thing that can happen is for someone to say "no." That's a lesson that it took me a long time to learn, and there's something bittersweet for me in reading about how Davis's enthusiasm propelled him to reach out and make these contacts. He well knew that these people wouldn't be with us for long, and that once gone, their stories would die with them. Of course, you can't invest in retrospect; even had I had as much nerve as Davis had at that age, I hadn't yet determined on my future course as a television historian. Still, it's hard not to wonder about how many opportunities were lost, how much insight went missing, how many questions were left unanswered. The truth is that, even though times have forever changed, many of these figures are still more approachable than we might imagine. Again, what's the worst that can happen? You probably have a better chance of success than you do winning that $1.3 billion lottery jackpot. 

Davis saves the best chapter for last, as he writes of how a mutual love of old movies led to what would become a lifelong friendship with a fellow college student, and how that friendship would eventually result in marriage. Not only is it charming (and surely any scriptwriter from the Golden Age would be pleased to pen such a happy ending), it shows how important a shared interest is in forming the bonds that lead to a successful relationship. (And you thought messages like that only came from MST3K shorts!)

Of course, that's the message that runs through the various essays that make up Stumbling into Film History. It's that personal perspective that lifts this book above the typical film book; reading it, I was reminded of a similar feeling I got from Andrew Lee Fielding's The Lucky Strike Papers, which I reviewed several years ago. Part memoir, part history lesson, books like this share one important quality: a passion for the subject that becomes contagious, that urges the reader forward into a world that they may not have previously been interested in; or, if they had, it turns that interest into something more, something that can enrich your life. (Note: there's no guarantee that you'll meet your future spouse, but it's almost a certainty that you'll make lifelong friends while you're at it.)

(By the way, some of you might notice that this is the third consecutive book review in which I've given a five-star review. That doesn't mean I'm free with my stars; it does mean that I've been fortunate to have encountered some excellent books recently. And at my age, when it comes to books on TV and movies, it becomes harder and harder to spend my reading time otherwise.)

Lon Davis has been called a "Champion of the Silent Cinema," but more than that, he also tells quite a story, one you'll want to read—whether you realize it now or not. TV  

The history of game shows in one easy lesson

X couple of weeks ago, I appeared on Dan Schneider's American TV history series to discuss the history of game shows. It was a lot of fun, and I hope you'll check it out here. 

My primary reference source for the show was the book Game Shows FAQ: All That's Left to Know About the Pioneers, the Scandals, the Hosts and the Jackpots, by Adam Nedeff. It's a book I've had for a few years, and while I did mention it at the end of the program, I realize I've been remiss in not writing about it sooner, because it's an indispensable resource as well as one of the best television history books of recent years.

Game Shows FAQ: All That's Left to Know About the Pioneers, the Scandals, the Hosts and the Jackpots

by Adam Nedeff

Applause, 388 pages, $19.99

My rating: ★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

As you might gather from the title, this is no dry recitation of the history of television game shows. Neither, however, is it a series of headlines that read like internet clickbait. As the Amazon description reads (and why bother trying to reinvent something that says exactly what needs to be said?), "this book examines the most relevant game shows of every decade, exploring how the genre changed and the reasons behind its evolution." And it does so in a totally readable way.

Did you know, for example, that the first recorded game quiz on radio was in 1923, on radio station WNYC in New York, that it was called "Brooklyn Eagle Quiz on Current Events," and that the host the host was H.V. Kaltenborn, who would go on to become a respected newscaster and commentator? Or that "Uncle Jim’s Question Bee" was the first quiz show on television in 1941, when it appeared on WNBT in  New York in a special made for the first day of official broadcasting? You would if you read Game Show FAQ. You'd also know how and why old game shows become new game shows, how Merv Griffin and Chuck Barris each brought their own unique (and very different!) way of thinking to the genre, why many doubted the choice of Alex Trebek as the host of the revived Jeopardy!, how ABC ruined its biggest cash cow, and more.  

Game shows have changed dramatically from those days of the "Brooklyn Eagle Quiz on Current Events," when high school students stood on stage and competed until only one contestant remained. Daytime shows depended on knowledge of practical facts, such as how much household items might cost (The Price is Right), facts that might appeal to a predominantly female audience. Evening shows, seeking to make a bigger splash (and higher ratings) became big-money super-shows (Twenty-One, The $64,000 Question) based on high-level knowledge of specialized subjects ranging from mathematics to movies and boxing. Those shows produced their own superstars—and their own problems, as Nedeff details in his chapter on the Quiz Show Scandal. 

Following the scandal, a new generation of game show came to the front: panel shows driven by celebrities (What's My Line?, I've Got a Secret, To Tell the Truth), tests of a contestant's wits (Jeopardy!, Password, Concentration), and shows where the competition sometimes seemed to take a backseat to comedy (The Hollywood Squares, Match Game, Let's Make a Deal). The stakes were demonstrably lower, and eventually the genre began to die off, only to make a resurgence with a new generation of shows, from Family Feud to Wheel of Fortune, culminating in the prime-time sensations Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and The Weakest Link. What about shows like American Idol and Survivor? Nedeff covers them as well. 

Sometimes books on television history can seem, well, more fan-based than historical; other times, the prose is so dry and scholarly that the shows described barely resemble the ones we remember having watched. Fortunately, this doesn't describe Game Show FAQ; Through nearly 400 pages, Nedeff goes through the history of game shows—from those unknown programs of early radio days to the shows that we all remember from those days when we were sick and couldn't go to school—in a style that's both breezy and informative, and exceptionally well-written. The man knows his topic (he's written other books on game shows), and more important he knows how to write about it: not only the historical facts, but the backstage information as well: feuds, misplaced jokes, network interference, hosts that didn't pan out, you name it. 

If you have a fondness for game shows—either those from childhood or today's shows populating the many game show-specific subchannels and streamers—you're going to find it in this book. Even if you're not a game show fanatic but enjoy the history of television, you'll learn about the role these shows have had and continue to have in the medium. For that, we have Adam Nedeff to thank, and Game Show FAQ deserves its place in the television library for that alone. That it's a great read just adds to the enjoyment. TV  

Book Review: The FBI Dossier, by Bill Sullivan with Ed Robertson

I've told this story before, but it bears repeating: when I was growing up, the opening to The FBI was one of the most thrilling things I'd ever seen. This was before the real-life Federal Bureau of Investigation had become as controversial as it is today; back then, it was one of the most respected law enforcement agencies in the world, headed by J. Edgar Hoover, who'd attained legendary status from his wars against organized crime and communism. There were a lot of things we didn't know back then, perhaps things we didn't want to know, but that wouldn't have meant anything to a kid back then.

The FBI Dossier: A Guide to the Classic TV Series Produced by Quinn Martin and Starring Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. 

by Bill Sullivan with Ed Robertson
Black Pawn Press, 900 pages, $49.99

My rating: ★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

Anyway, the first thing to appear on the screen (after the "In Color" slide) was the FBI's mission: "to protect the innocent and identify the enemies of the United States Government." That opening title scene was perfect, really; perhaps only the start of Perry Mason did a better job of summarizing what the show was all about. After a cold opening that gave us a look at the episode’s criminal, along with the case number and why he or she was wanted by the FBI, the scene dissolved into shots of Washington icons: the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the Supreme Court, ending with a zoom-in on the Justice Department, home of the Bureau. Between that and the majestic theme, written by Bronislaw Kaper, it was enough to make you run right out there and sign up. I’m sure Hoover must have loved it.

After all that, it's pretty obvious that I'd be about as receptive as anyone could possibly be to a book about the show. Enter Bill Sullivan and Ed Robertson, authors of The FBI Dossier: A Guide to the Classic TV Series Produced by Quinn Martin and Starring Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. At nearly 900 pages, this is a big book: but then, this is a big topic. The FBI ran for nine seasons and 241 episodes between 1965 and 1974, with stories based on actual FBI cases. It was the centerpiece of the great Quinn Martin's television empire, and one of the hallmark series of the time; it even helped knock one of television's institutions, The Ed Sullivan Show, off the air. As for its cultural impact, one need go no further than the number of agents through the years who were inspired to join the Bureau because of the series. Including me; who knows but what, had I been older at the time it came on the air, you might be reading the musings of a former FBI agent. 

And yet, it's strangely overlooked today; as the authors point out in the introductory section, even the FBI's Wikipedia pages fails to mention the series in its "Media Portrayal" section. It is, as radio host Tom Gulley says, "the most successful long-running show that no one seems to remember." One wonders how we could be so shortsighted as to forget it? Fortunately, the entire series has been issued on DVD, and it's currently streaming for free on Tubi, making it possible for a new generation to discover and enjoy it. This book should do the same.

As you might gather from the page count, The FBI Dossier is much more than just an episode guide; it begins with a brief history of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, before guiding the reader through the show's origins, from Quinn Martin’s initial reluctance to take on the job (he was, he thought, "too liberal" to tell the "conservative" Bureau's stories), to the close relationship between Zimbalist and FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover (he was invited to sit in the FBI section of mourners at Hoover's funeral). We read about behind-the-scenes activities involving both the series and the network, and we see a lineup of guest stars as good as that of any television series of the time: Richard Anderson, Anne Archer, Ed Asner, Michael Bell, Eric Braeden, Beau Bridges, Henry Darrow, Robert Hooks, Ketty Lester, Donna Mills, Stefanie Powers, Suzanne Pleshette, Peter Mark Richman, Roy Thinnes, Joan Van Ark, Lindsay Wagner, and Dawn Wells, among many others. The writing is knowledgeable, literate, and to the point.

There is an episode guide, of course, with each one getting between two and five pages on average, including credits for the cast and production personnel (many of which include interesting personal details). Additionally, there are recaps of off-season developments, ads for the show, reviews, pictures, and other production notes, plus appendices that provide neat details, such as "Episodes that depict FBI investigations into mob activities," and the transcript of the speech that former FBI director Robert Mueller gave honoring Efrem Zimbalist Jr. in 2009. An extensive bibliography and list of sources follow, for anyone who wants to pursue one or two of the rabbit holes that a book like this will invariably produce. Honestly, I can't think of anything that isn't covered in this book.

The authors, Bill Sullivan and Ed Robertson, are well-equipped to take on a project of this scope; Sullivan, in addition to a collection of 888 TV Guides from 1954 to 1971 (I must meet this man!) previously authored a guide to the Perry Mason series, while Robertson has written books on television classics such as The Fugitive, Maverick, The Rockford Files, and Star Trek, and hosts the syndicated talk show Television Confidential.* The FBI Dossier was seven years in the research and writing, interviewing many people involved in the making of the series, both in front of and behind the cameras, some of whom have passed away since; as I've often mentioned, these people from the era of classic television aren't going to be with us forever, and we owe a debt of gratitude to Sullivan and Robertson for capturing and documenting their stories before it was too late. 

*Full disclosure: In the past, I have appeared as a guest (albeit one of the lesser ones) on Television Confidential. I believe both you and Ed Robertson trust me enough to know that this would not and does not influence my review.

The book is dedicated to one of those actors, William Reynolds, who played Erskine's longest-running partner, Special Agent Tom Colby. Reynolds, who died just over a year ago at age ninety, was an important part of The FBI Dossier, with his insights, memories, and background on the early days of television. Ed Robertson's warm remembrance confirms what I, and anyone watching the show, might have suspected: that William Reynolds, in addition to being a talented actor and integral part of the success of The FBI, was a good guy.

 

Don't let the book's size be daunting; if you’re a fan of The FBI—either from its original run or through the DVDs that Warner issued in the last few years—The FBI Dossier is a must-have. If you’re unfamiliar with the series, or have seen just a few episodes, you’ll find yourself wanting to read, and watch, more. If you're already watching, you'll want to use the book to follow along, episode by episode. If you want to just pick it up at random and read about a few episodes, or the series in general, it's perfect. I’ve seen every episode of The FBI and own the DVDs, I’ve read articles about the series and its stars, and I found myself learning many things that I didn’t know—and things that I didn’t know I wanted to know.  

What more can I say, other than this: The FBI Dossier is a book I would have been proud to have written. I wish I had, except I couldn’t have done nearly as good a job. Bill Sullivan and Ed Robertson have given readers a wonderful book: not just a trip back in time, but a companion on a journey that's bound to continue.  TV