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  

Ratings to die for

"Being happy with what you've got is the one sin that is never forgiven."

That line appears on page 5 of William L. DeAndrea's Killed in the Ratings, a murder mystery set in the world of television, and I'll have more on the profound nature of that line at the end of this review. The book came to me as a gift from our loyal reader Mike Doran, who thought I would appreciate it and looked forward to what I'd have to say about it. Well, Mike, this one's for you.

Killed in the Ratings By William L. DeAndrea HBJ; 243 pages $7.99 in Kindle; available at used booksellers

The headquarters of a national television network would seem an obvious setting for murder, given that it rivals Washington, D.C. in terms of infighting, backstabbing, ambition, dishonesty, and greed, all the while producing a product that too often insults, corrupts, and dehumanizes the hearts and minds of its viewers. And while none of the murders in Killed in the Ratings actually takes place inside network HQ itself—in other words, no dead body slumped over a control panel with a knife sticking out of his back—they're all most assuredly connected with the industry.

Our narrator and protagonist is one Matt Cobb, troubleshooter extraordinare in the network's Department of Special Projects. Cobb is what we'd call in politics a fixer, following the network's stars and cleaning up after them before they can bring the network into disrepute. As he says, "We do everything that's too touchy for Public Relations, and too messy for the legal department." 

As the story begins, Cobb is the recipient of a phone call from someone who refuses to give his name, but suggests he has information that could be extremely damaging to the network: the accident that put  network president Walter Schick in the hospital in what could be a permanent coma might not have been an accident, after all. Naturally, with a bombshell like that floating around, Cobb has no choice but to meet this mysterious source and find out just what he knows. Naturally, when he gets to the hotel room where they've agreed to meet, Cobb finds the man dead. Naturally, he then gets knocked out by someone who was hiding behind the door when he came in. 

And naturally, he becomes the prime suspect in the eyes of the police—especially Detective Second Grade Horace Rivetz, one of those cops who makes up his mind after about five minutes of investigation and shows little inclination to go out of his way looking for any evidence that might upset his pat theory. Cobb, being a reasonably reliable narrator (he's refreshingly upfront when it comes to his occasional lack of judgment), leaves us with little doubt of his innocence. So, like many an innocent man who finds himself in the middle of a murder investigation, he realizes he can only clear his name by finding the real murderer. (I consider myself fortunate that in my 61 years, I've never been in such a situation myself. I must be the only one.) At the same time, Cobb has to keep an eye on the scandal involving Schick, one that could conceivably bring down the network, as well as the possibility that the beloved ratings system, at the heart of commercial television, might be rigged. It's obviously all connected—but how?

Fortunately for an innocent man trying to exonerate himself, Cobb has no lack of suspects to choose from, including:

• Monica Tibaldi, television star, Cobb's former inamorata, and—unluckily for Cobb—the ex-wife of the dead man. She wants to get back together, but is it just a ruse to trap Cobb?
• Cynthia Schick, not-quite-widow of Walter Schick, and daughter of the network chairman. She and her husband quarreled before the accident—was she looking to finish the job?
• Roxanne Schick, daughter of Cynthia and Walter. Years ago she was one of Cobb's projects, strung out on drugs. He saved her life; are her intentions romantic or devious?
• Thomas Falzet, Walter Schick's rival for power at the network, passed over for president in favor of Schick. Could this have been his revenge?
• Herschel Goldfarb, who utilized his talent for accounting to buy up bad debt from the city's gamblers, and may have had murder—and a bad credit risk—on his mind 

As you may be able to tell, Killed in the Ratings isn't exactly hard-boiled detective fiction. It is, however, an enjoyable story that delivers a twist or two about the business and builds up to a conclusion that is both satisfying and unexpectedly moving. Cobb is an engaging protagonist (this represents the first of eight Matt Cobb mysteries written by DeAndrea), and his frequent asides show a shrewd (and cynical) knowledge of the network television industry. (At first, I found his narrative style distracting, even annoying, but he's the kind of guy that grows on you, and his insider insight into the business of television is shrewd and on the point; not surprising, considering his background in the industry.)

And now for that line that led off this review. It's a penetrating comment, not only on life in general, but the television industry in particular. In a 1966 issue of TV Guide, Gore Vidal wrote that what television could use is "a sense that getting people to buy things they do not need is morally indefensible." DeAndrea's quote is in reference to the inadvisability of turning down a promotion (your career's "death sentence"), but it could apply to the very nature of commercial television. After all, the entire system of American television (and radio before that) was built on the idea of selling commercial time to sponsors, who would in turn sell their products to viewers and listeners. And isn't mass consumption a form of ambition, of keeping up with those rich and famous people we see on television every night? 

It's a vicious circle, even more vicious than the murders that Matt Cobb encounters in Killed in the Ratings. Those people only lose their lives; the rest of us risk losing our souls. TV  

The "It's About TV" Interview: William Bartlett, author of NBC and 30 Rock: A View from Inside

This latest edition of the "It's About TV" Interview is one that I think you'll really enjoy, as we dip into the history of one of America's greatest television networks and look at a wonderful coffee table book. 

William Bartlett has been with NBC since Seinfeld was in originals and the company consisted of NBC and CNBC. Fresh out of grad school with a PhD in English, he was hired in 1995 as the press department’s editor, where he embarked on a futile effort to get publicists to use the Chicago Manual of Style. After a few months though, he had a lucky break when then-CEO Bob Wright’s speechwriter left the company and Bartlett was tapped to replace him. For the next decade (not counting a short stint as Sumner Redstone’s speechwriter), he worked closely with Wright as the company grew into the diversified media giant it is today. Today, he heads up NBCUniversal’s in-house corporate video production team, which produces videos for clients around the company. He still writes or edits the occasional speech. Most significantly for our purposes today, he serves as NBC’s in-house historian, curating exhibits in the employee commissary and the 30 Rock lobby. To share the company’s enormous legacy more widely, he recently wrote a history book, NBC and 30 Rock: A View from Inside.

t  t  t 

 It's About TV: How do you get what sounds like the coolest job in the world? 

William Bartlett: I went to graduate school, thinking I’d be a college English teacher, and I’ve managed to end up with a job that is probably as close as you can get to being in academia while being in the corporate world. For most of my career my focus has been on executive communications: speeches, op-eds, annual report copy, and so on. But when NBC turned 75 in 2001, we partnered with John Wiley & Sons on a coffee-table book. A book packager was hired to create the book, and I was tasked with being the corporate point person in charge of reviewing and approving all the copy and photos. That taught me a lot about the company’s history, and I ended up not just fact-checking and approving the copy but writing portions of the book myself.

Fast-forward to 2011, when we were acquired by Comcast. In the months leading up to the close of the deal, the incoming CEO, Steve Burke, asked me to put together a fact sheet that employees would get on “day one,” which would explain what the new company consisted of. I agreed that employees wouldn’t necessarily know all the new company’s holdings, but it struck me that they really didn’t know the histories of the three remarkable companies that were now joined together: NBC, Universal, and Comcast. So instead of doing what I’d been asked, I wrote a short book on the history of the three businesses, with the glue holding them together being the fact that all three were founded by visionary outsiders: David Sarnoff (NBC), Carl Laemmle (Universal), and Ralph Roberts (Comcast). I showed it to Steve and he (fortunately for me) loved the idea. The rest is history, you could say. I became the go-to guy for info about NBC’s history, and I started getting more and more history-related assignments, from curating art for the hallways, to building a website, to putting together exhibits.

How did the idea for the book come about?

 

I didn’t know it at the time, but the seeds for the book were planted in 2012 with the construction of a new commissary for employees in 30 Rock. When it was finished, it was a beautiful, elegant space looking out over the ice-skating rink. But nothing about it said “NBC.” As an employee, you could have just as well been in a cafeteria at a bank headquarters. Steve Burke asked me to come up with a solution to this problem. I did two things: I selected archival black-and-white photos of NBC stars for the walls, and I commandeered two wooden cabinets intended for waste disposal and turned them into cases to hold historical exhibits.

For the next several years, drawing primarily on NBC archives at the Library of Congress and the Wisconsin Historical Society, I researched and curated four exhibits a year for these two cases, changing them every six months. I explored the history of NBC and World War II, the origins of the Tonight Show, the story of David Sarnoff, Arturo Toscanini and the NBC Symphony, the beginning of sports broadcasting – basically, anything that I thought would be interesting to employees and for which I had assets to work with: photos, documents, and physical artifacts.

After doing a few dozen of these exhibits, it struck me that almost every one of them would lend itself to a spread in a coffee-table book. The research was done. The photos and documents largely sourced. I just needed to write the text and add a few chapters to fill some gaps. I thought this would be a book that anyone who took our famous NBC Studios Tour might want to take home as a keepsake, and that in fact would appeal to anyone who was interested in NBC and the history of broadcasting.

One of the many things I most love about the book, going back to that story about the commissary, is how rich the history of NBC is, and how important it is to keep that institutional history alive for people who work there today, to remind them of how special it is to be able to say "I work for NBC." Have you gotten much feedback from employees, comments along the lines of "I didn't know that!"

Yes I have, and it’s been very gratifying. Right before I went to press, I shared page proofs with the CEO (I figured that would be prudent!). He called me the next day and said he thought it was terrific and wanted to know what I thought about printing enough copies so that every New York-based NBCUniversal employee could get one. He thought that the book would do exactly what you just said: make employees feel that they work for a very special company, one that they can be proud to be part of. I thought that was a great idea but told him the money for the extra copies would have to come out of his budget! So last November, more than 5,000 employees arrived at work to find the book on their desks.

Younger readers might think of "30 Rock" as the name of a television show, but I like to think of "30 Rock" as being to television what Yankee Stadium is to baseball. Tell me a little about how 30 Rock came to such prominence.

 

Financed by John D. Rockefeller, Jr., Rockefeller Center was built in the early 1930s as the largest privately-financed construction project in history. As originally conceived, it did not include any broadcast studios. The anchor tenant was intended to be the Metropolitan Opera, which was in dire need of a new theater. The Great Depression scotched those plans, however, and Rockefeller needed a new tenant. Coincidentally, RCA – then a booming technology company – needed more space and agreed to come on board and design studio facilities for its broadcasting subsidiary, NBC. The building’s address was 30 Rockefeller Plaza, but it was commonly known as “Radio City.” When it opened in 1933, it included among its many studios the then-largest broadcast studio in the world, Studio 8H, now famous as the home of Saturday Night Live. Over the years, more quality radio and TV programming has originated from this building than any broadcast facility in the world.

The readership here is obviously one that understands the importance of television’s past, not only in terms of history, but for the sheer enjoyment value. We both know, though, that there are younger people out there who, once they see something in black and white, just shut it down completely. What would you say to them about why they should be interested in this, and what they’re missing?

 

I would encourage any young person who is a fan of late-night comedy such as SNL to check out Sid Caesar and his Show of Shows, and Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, both on NBC. Two very different shows; both enormously influential. I would hope that a young audience could notice the writing of the Caesar show, and Sid’s timing. The man was a genius. And as for Laugh-In, well, Lorne Michaels was one of the writers. There’s a direct connection between that show and Saturday Night Live.

 

What would you consider some of the most significant moments in the network’s history?

 

A rare photo of Texaco Star Theater being shot

Well, given that NBC was the first national broadcaster, dating back to 1926, there are a lot of big moments. Here are a few that come to mind. On Christmas Day of 1937, Arturo Toscanini made his debut as the maestro of the NBC Symphony. Broadcast live from Studio 8H in Rockefeller Center, this was the first of nearly 500 concerts over the next 17 years, which for the first time made classical music accessible to a middle-class audience of millions. This was a seismic shift from its role as a rarified art form enjoyed primarily in concert halls by the well-to-do. A decade later, I would say the launch of two early TV programs, Howdy Doody on December 17, 1947, and Milton Berle’s Texaco Star Theater on June 8, 1948, both had the effect of selling lots of TV sets and paving the way for television to be a truly mass medium. Next, the debut of three programs that are still with us today and have had an enormous impact on our lives for generations now: Today (January 14, 1952), The Tonight Show (September 27, 1954), and Saturday Night Live (October 11, 1975). With the exception of Tonight, which was broadcast from Burbank from 1972 until 2014, all five of these shows have originated from 30 Rock for most of their runs. One final moment I’ll mention was more accurately three days rather than a moment: the work of NBC and the other networks covering the national trauma of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. NBC News broadcast nonstop, commercial-free, for 71 hours. There were moments when 9 out of 10 television sets in the nation were tuned in to network television. This was a tragic time during which television served the nation as a unifying force in a way that was unprecedented and certainly never to be repeated.

Did you run across anything in your research that surprised you, one of those moments when you found yourself thinking, "I had no idea!"

 

Sure, here is my favorite discovery from my research. I tell the short version of this story in the book. Here’s the full story. When I joined the company in 1995, I met a talented on-air promo producer named Skip Stuart. His office was adorned with many odd things, including a small, rather ugly green upright piano. The story he told me about it was that back in the radio days, it belonged to a now-nameless executive and it at one time was adorned with the signatures of celebrities. Then, after a wild party on Skip’s floor in the late seventies or eighties, a cleaning crew was brought in and one of the cleaners scrubbed all the signatures off the piano, after which the piano was put in the freight elevator bank for disposal. Skip, being Skip, salvaged it and put it in his office. When he retired in 2012, I inherited the piano. I knew nothing about it except what Skip had told me, but that was enough for me to want to hang on to it. Then, shortly after that, my department moved floors and I left the piano behind, in a storage closet. I told my contact in the facilities department to let me know if the piano became an issue. Sure enough, I eventually got a call from him, who explained that they really needed the space taken up by the piano and would it be okay if they disposed of it. As much as it pained me, since I didn’t know the full story behind the piano, I couldn’t justify keeping it and gave him the go-ahead to throw it out.

 

A few years after that, I was doing research on Bertha Brainard, NBC’s leading female executive in the early days of the company. I was reading a profile on Bertha in the August 1942 NBC employee newsletter, and I ran across this sentence: “A tiny upright piano in her office is decorated with the signatures of celebrities—all of whom Miss Brainard has met in her program-building and program-selling tasks in the past two decades.”

 

My heart skipped a beat and sunk at the same time. One, it hit me that Skip’s piano was surely Bertha’s piano. Two, I remembered giving the go-ahead for it to be thrown away! I rushed from my office on the 25th floor down to the storage closet on 10. And … yes! The piano was still there! Facilities had failed to follow through, and I couldn’t have been more thankful.

 

Although I had no doubt that this was indeed Bertha’s piano, I felt solid proof would be good. A check of NBC’s photo archive database revealed the existence of a folder labeled “Bertha’s Piano.” I had that folder retrieved from storage and the contents scanned and sent to me. A perfect match! Even better, on the photo, you could make out the many of the signatures on the piano! Fred Allen, Jack Benny, Jerome Kern, Mary Pickford, Babe Ruth, Ed Sullivan, and on and on.

 

I had a piece of NBC history, and now I knew the story behind it. I had the piano moved to my office, cleaned it off, and contacted a Saturday Night Live producer who I knew to be a history buff. My pitch: Put the piano at the entrance of Studio 8H and invite every guest host and musical guest to sign it, thus reviving the tradition Bertha began in the first years of NBC. Lorne Michaels gave his blessing to my scheme, and for the last two seasons the piano has been slowly filling up with signatures of the celebrities of our age.

Were there other stories or figures that you weren't able to get to in this printing that you're considering adding if there's a second printing?

 

Oh, for sure. Remember that the conceit of the book is to deal only with NBC’s activities within 30 Rock. Obviously, there are many stories to tell about NBC’s time producing shows from the studios in Burbank. But as far as activities in 30 Rock go, ◄ Tom Snyder and his late-night show Tomorrow, which debuted in 1973, certainly deserves a spot in the second edition. (The show flip-flopped between Burbank and New York but aired from 30 Rock for four or five years.) Radio program Monitor, which was yet another one of Pat Weaver’s programming innovations, deserves space as well. It launched in 1955 and at the beginning aired for 40 hours every weekend. I would also like to say more about how innovative the NBC Studios and the building that housed them were. There had never been anything like it. When the NBC tours began, the first stop was the air-conditioning unit on the tenth floor, where the guests would marvel at the 54 dials on the giant control panel as the page informed them that the “mammoth plant circulates 23,000,000 cubic feet of air every hour completely changing the air once every eight minutes” (I’m quoting the 1933 NBC Tour script).

 

Television has obviously changed a great deal through the decades, from rabbit ears to cable and satellite and now streaming, but it still is, after all, television. What are some of the constants that you see running through NBC’s history from then to now?

 

One obvious constant is advertising. NBC is still a broadcaster, even if relatively few people receive the broadcast signal through the air, the old-fashioned way. And that means it’s an ad-supported medium, even if we are now offering a ton of content through Peacock (our new streaming service) with an ad-free option. And, even if an enormous amount of viewing is time-shifted, we still do offer a schedule, whereby you know that if you tune in at 8 p.m. on Tuesday, you’re going to see the same show that aired at that same time the previous week and the following week. (Well, this isn’t entirely true but it’s more true than not, still!) The other constant is implied in the word “broad-caster.” Just as was the case in the early days of television, NBC wants to attract a broad audience, not just a niche. That’s what cable is for! Again, this is less true now than ten or twenty years ago, but it is still part of our legacy and ingrained in the thinking of our programmers. Come back to me with this question in another ten years, though!

 

If there’s one moment from NBC’s history that you could bring back for present-day viewers, what would it be, and why? 

I think I’d go back to the fall of 1948 when the entire country (or those homes with televisions) was captivated by a madcap comedian named Milton Berle and his show, Texaco Star Theater, broadcast on NBC Tuesday evenings at 8 p.m. There were nights when 95% of the nation’s TV sets were tuned to the man dubbed “Mr. Television.” Today, it is hard for us to imagine the nation’s collective attention being drawn to one TV program. An astonishing thought for us indeed. How fun would it be to recreate that! Apparently, Milton’s popularity was such that he disrupted the nation’s waterworks. In Detroit, officials were mystified by the sudden drop in the city’s reservoir levels just after 9 p.m. on Tuesday nights, until they figured out that the entire city waited until after Texaco Star Theater ended to use the bathroom, and they all flushed at once! I think the closest we’ve been to replicating this situation in recent years would be in the mid-1990s with the popularity of NBC’s “Must-See TV” Thursday night lineup.

NBC’s had a great run of success that’s continued to this very day; are there one or two series from the last few years, or something that’s even on right now, that you think would be at home with the very best that the network’s had to offer?

 

Sure, I think The Office was brilliant and certainly holds up against the best that NBC has ever put on the air. And I know I have mentioned Saturday Night Live. Granted, not every sketch works. But think about this: The show premiered in 1975 and today, 45 years later, it is still relevant, with moments of brilliance. That’s extraordinary.

You’ve got a time machine that can take you back to any program that’s ever aired on NBC. You’re there on the set. You can talk to anyone on the cast, or any member of the crew. Where do you go, what do you do, and why?  

Fred Coe in the control room

Great question. So many possible answers. But I think I’d pick Studio 8G on May 24, 1953. “Marty” is about to air, live, an episode of Goodyear Television Playhouse and perhaps the high-water mark of the (first) Golden Age of television. Rod Steiger and Nancy Marchand are in their dressing rooms. But I’m more interested in talking to the producer Fred Coe, hearing him explain how he figured out how to exploit the possibilities of the TV camera in ways that had never been envisioned. Delbert Mann, the director, is on set as well, reviewing last-minute script changes with Paddy Chayefsky. The atmosphere must have been electric. Here’s a quote from Rod Steiger that I used in my book, in the chapter on the Golden Age: “You had one shot. The pressure was hideous. You had to be a masochist to do it.” I would get such a kick out of being there to see it unfold.

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Wasn't that fun? I'd like to thank William for his time, and especially his most gracious patience in putting up with an interviewer who was shoehorning him in-between starting a new job and moving to a new home. Many programming directors would have put me on hiatus long ago. I'd also like to thank our mutual friend, the mighty Jodie Peeler, for helping to arrange this interview; you're undefeated once again! Since we completed our interview, William has told me that his last day at NBC will be October 16, ending a 25-year career there. (I can't imagine what it must be like to spend 25 years at one place; I've had trouble lately making it to 25 months.) 

If you want to purchase a copy of NBC and 30 Rock: A View from Inside—and let me say here that I cannot recommend this book strongly enough (full disclosure: I was provided with a copy of the book for my review)—you can purchase it at the NBC Store website. It is one of the rare coffee table books where the text more than lives up to the pictures. Remember, the holidays aren't that far away; a copy of  NBC and 30 Rock coupled with, say, The Electronic Mirror, would be a great gift for that classic TV fan you know, even if it happens to be you.  TV  

The life and death of the greatest radio program

Why, you may ask, am I reviewing a book about classic radio on a blog devoted to classic television? Aside from the obvious connection between the two media, it's absolutely necessary for one to understand the role that television played in the creation of Monitor, the NBC radio program that ran for nearly 20 years from 1955 to 1975.

By the mid-50s, it was clear that television had forever changed the way network radio functioned. Most of radio's brightest stars and programs had already transitioned from radio to television (or were in the process of doing so), and the advertising dollars were following. It was pretty clear to most people that if something wasn't done, and soon, network radio could well cease to exist. This is where Pat Weaver comes in, and where Dennis Hart's engrossing story begins.

Monitor: The Inside Story of Network Radio's Greatest Program, by Dennis Hart, iUniverse, Inc., 270 pages, $21.95

Weaver, of course, was the L'enfant terrible of early television; as president of NBC, he'd created everything from the Today and Tonight shows to the concept of the TV special, or "spectacular." His idea to save network radio was equally audacious: a continuous, 40-hour program running from Saturday morning to Sunday midnight, featuring some of the biggest names in entertainment presenting literally everything: news, sports, comedy, live concerts, interviews with celebrities, recorded music, and remote reports from around the world—in other words, a show that would become known for "going places and doing things." Weaver described his baby as a "kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria," but settled on a much simpler name: Monitor.

As Hart points out, this was an incredibly risky move: by putting all its eggs in one basket, large though that basket might be, NBC was literally staking its future on Monitor. If the show failed to attract advertisers and listeners, the network would likely go under. The fact that it didn't, that Monitor became an epic adventure that would run from the last of the big bands through Vietnam and Watergate and acid rock, was a testimony not only to Weaver's vision but to the talents of the producers and directors, writers, technicians, and personalities that helped assemble the mammoth show each week. And it is this story that Hart brings so wonderfully to life.

Dave Garroway, the first "communicator"

The list of people who appeared on Monitor over the years reads like something of a who's who of the entertainment world. The list of hosts alone (or "communicators," as they were initially called) would have been enough: the very first voice of Monitor, Dave Garroway; newsmen such as Frank McGee, David Brinkley and Frank Blair; television personalities from Ed McMahon and Hugh Downs to Gene Rayburn and Art Fleming; DJs such as Big Wilson, Wolfman Jack and Don Imus; and actors whom one wouldn't picture as radio hosts: David Wayne, Barry Nelson, James Daly and Tony Randall, all of whom helped create a conversational intimacy with the listener that made everyone feel as if they were part of an extended family.

There were comedy stars as well: Bob and Ray (who initially were to be on call throughout the weekend, ready to fill in on a moment's notice should a technical glitch prevent a particular report from being broadcast), Nichols and May, Jonathan Winters, Ernie Kovacs and more. Feature presentations and reviews throughout the weekend were provided by names like Arlene Francis, Betty Furness, Gene Shalit and Dr. Joyce Brothers. And no overview of Monitor would be complete without the immortal "Miss Monitor," played by Tedi Thurman, the sexy, alluring voice who read the national weather while romantic music played in the background.

The program itself was a true magazine, covering it all: breaking news, in-progress sports reports, live big band and jazz concerts, interviews with celebrities and newsmakers, features on all aspects of life and the latest in popular culture. It's a rich, colorful history, and Dennis Hart takes full advantage of it. He was fortunate enough to connect with and interview many of Monitor's key people while they were still living, collecting insightful (and often hilarious) stories from those both in front of the mic and behind the control room glass, assembling them in a way that gives the reader a real picture (so to speak) of what made Monitor such a special show. He also does a good job of placing Monitor's role in radio's rich history, particularly the bold advertising timeshares with affiliates that allowed the show to thrive well into the '60s.

In fact, though, some of the most interesting segments of Hart's story come from the anecdotes provided by those who listened to the shows, both adults and those who grew up with Monitor as a regular weekend ritual. Nobody expected to listen to the entire show, and that was the point: it was always there, ready whenever you happened to tune in to it. Monitor took full advantage of growing American mobility to position itself as the listener's friend, whether you were at the beach, driving in the car, working in the garage or basement, or just spending time with friends. There's one scene in particular, in which a listener describes the effect of walking down the street, hearing Monitor coming continuously from every house along the block, that illustrates just how much we've lost in our headlong rush to embrace the world of individuality and fragmented demographics.

Nothing lasts forever, though, and such was the case with Monitor, which eventually fell victim to a number of circumstances, most of all the desire of big-market affiliates to control their own commercial and broadcasting time. When Monitor went off the air, in 1975, there were still over 120 stations, but hardly any were in the major markets. And if there's any criticism of Hart's book, it's in his description of Monitor's downfall; chapter after chapter discusses the program's success in terms of stars, segments, features and the like, so the story of its demise (a gradual reduction in hours from 40 to a mere 12, plus 9 hours of repeats; loss of stations, advertising schemes with affiliates that cannibalized the show's flow and hastened its death) comes as something of a shock, with little foreshadowing provided to give it context. It also serves to somewhat diminish the show's remarkably long run; without the twists, turns and surprises that surrounded the show's existence, one feels less the weight of the show's passing years, and its ability (or inability, as in the case of popular music) to change with the times.

That's a minor quibble, to be sure, in this fascinating book. I have to admit that I have no memories of Monitor myself, although I must have just missed being aware of it, for I still have a great fondness for the all-news format that replaced it (NBC's News and Information Service, whose slogan was, "All News, All Day, Every Day"). Or perhaps Monitor had already disappeared from the airwaves where I lived back then. All the more reason, then, for this book (and the companion website, to which new soundchecks are constantly being added), to introduce those of us without memories to the remarkable show that was Monitor. For those fans of old time radio programs, the claim that Monitor was network radio's "greatest program" might seem a bit spurious, or at least somewhat grandiose.

But a 40-hour program that was born of desperation, a program that helped save an entire network for twenty years, a program that went around the world and broadcast anything and everything that was worth broadcasting, all without losing a sense of fun and wonder: well, that makes it pretty great in my book. TV  

Two by Trotta

Hopefully, most of you remember Liz Trotta, the former correspondent for NBC and CBS from the mid-'60s through the '80s. Throughout her career she’s had to battle on two fronts: as a woman—the first to report from Vietnam for television—and as a conservative. She’s also had a perspective on the world that many of her colleagues lack, one that’s shown in the two engrossing books she’s written about wildly different topics.

Fighting for Air: In the Trenches with Television News, written in 1991, is her memoir on her television days, beginning with her time at NBC. It was there that she found herself, as they say, in “the jungles of Vietnam”, and while that sounds like a trite cliché, it’s difficult to find a better way to describe that claustrophobic war, one in which nature itself seemed to suffocate those who went there. Heart of darkness, indeed—Trotta writes that she’s still haunted by the experience, and it’s easy to see why. On one hand, the country tries to swallow you up, while at the same time you have to worry about someone shooting at you, and all the while questions continue to be asked about the meaning of it all. (Sometimes I think the wonder of Vietnam is that anyone returned without being insane, addicted, depressed, or dead—in fact, Trotta’s six-month assignment comes about after two reporters are wounded and another suffers a breakdown; as she puts it, NBC’s “cannon fodder was getting scarce.”)

Fighting for Air: In the Trenches with Television News (395 pp., available used)

Jude: A Pilgrimage to the Saint of Last Resort
(270 pp., available used)

by Liz Trotta

Trotta’s view of the war is that the only thing wrong is "the U.S. government's half-hearted commitment to it,'' and that pro-war sentiment gets her in trouble with the more liberal members of the network, including soon-to-be evening news anchor John Chancellor, and it’s a foreshadowing of the trouble she’ll have throughout her journalistic career – well, that and her own outspoken nature. (I knew there was a reason I liked her!) Throughout her career, she covers some of the big stories that the job has to offer, from presidential campaigns to civil war in the Philippines, from war between India and Pakistan to the hostage crisis in Iran, from unrest in Northern Ireland to the murder trial of Claus von Bulow.

Trotta suggests her conservative politics, along with that outspokenness (she’s wonderfully candid about many of her colleagues, as well as the issues of the day) is what leads to her “demotion” by NBC (just after winning an Overseas Press Club award) and her sacking at CBS (supposedly for being “too old” at age 41), and the quality of her work certainly lends credence to those who suggest that the media is more interested in their own narrative than in the actual story.

It’s a great read, but her second book proves to be a real change of pace, one that’s not only intriguing but quite affecting. Jude: A Pilgrimage to the Saint of Last Resort, written in 1998, serves partly as a biography of the famous “patron saint of desperate causes,” about whom we actually know very little. His actual name may have been Judas Thaddaeus, and during his lifetime he may have been a victim of mistaken identity from those who confused him with the betrayer of Jesus.* The Latin translation of the Roman Canon contains no mention of Jude; instead, he is referred to as Thaddeaus. Aside from the Epistle of Jude, which the saint may or may not have written, there is but one line in the Bible credited to him: “Lord, why is it that you will reveal yourself to us and not to the world?” (John 14:22).

*Which may help explain how Jude became the patron of lost causes. Since so many wrongly associated him with Judas and for that reason gave him less attention and reverence than the other disciples, "St. Jude is ready and waiting to hear the prayers of those who call upon him."

Trotta shares with us the fantastic story of the Image of Edessa, or Mandylion, a piece of cloth upon which the image of Jesus had been imprinted and which Jude is often portrayed as wearing around his neck. According to tradition, King Abgar of Edessa had written to Jesus, asking him to come and cure him of an illness; Jesus had replied that he would not be able to come, but the king would later be visited by one of his disciples—which turned out to be Jude, bringing the Mandylion as a sign. Abgar was cured of his illness, and the rest, as they say, is history.

While all this is educational, it is the personal testimonials which Trotta relates that makes the greatest impact. In story after story, ordinary people relate how and what circumstances they've turned to Jude. Probably the most famous is that of entertainer Danny Thomas, who prayed to Jude for success in show business and vowed that if his prayer were to be answered, he would build a shrine to the saint in gratitude. This, of course, is how St. Jude Children's Hospital came to be. And indeed there are many stories of people cured of illnesses, freed from unemployment, reunited with lost family members, and so on. Just as impressive, however, are those who come to Jude not in desperation, but for everyday requests—a good day at work, success on a test. To them Jude is not the saint of last resort, but a friend with whom they talk every day. As for her own relationship with Jude, Trotta confides that she has yet to approach him with that desperate petition for help. She doesn't want to take the saint lightly, wasting his time with something inconsequential to her life. When the time is right to go to him, she will know.

There is something about St. Jude, as Trotta notes, that compels people not just to seek him out, but to share him with others. Almost everyone who has been the beneficiary of his intercession has at one time or another "gone public" with their thanks, hoping to serve as an example for others in similar situations. In my own case, I consider my recent success in finally finding a permanent job, after ten months and numerous temporary assignments, to be in due in part to his intervention. It isn't the first time it's happened; our move from Texas back to Minnesota was inexplicable any other way. There was absolutely no reason to think that everything would fall into place the way it did; it's not an exaggeration to say that it happened against all odds. Some might ask for more proof—I rather think that asking for help and receiving it is proof enough. Gratitude does not begin to explain it.

The story of Jude is filled with such examples, and as a result some critics have dismissed Trotta's book as mere hagiography. I'm not sure about that; in the first place, as a journalist she's too good for that. She doesn't attempt to hide her Catholicism, however, nor her belief in the intercessory powers of the saints. If that strikes some as cheerleading, so be it.

With Fighting for Air and Jude, Liz Trotta addresses the two dominant themes of our time, Caesar and Christ, and renders to each their due. We stand to profit from those endeavors. TV  

When opera on TV was about more than just soap

BENJAMIN BRITTEN CONDUCTING HIS MADE-FOR-TV OPERA, OWEN WINGRAVE (BBC)

PART 1 OF 4

One of the great pleasures I find in studying classic television is the era of staged drama—live and taped performances of plays, musicals, and opera. The nature of the television studio and its confined space, as opposed to the large-scale movie stage, requires innovative direction; the ability to create imaginative set design and utilize camera angles and close-ups allows a freedom not found in a theater or opera house. Of all these various forms of television drama, I find television opera to be the most interesting. It's a relatively brief period of time, covering less than two decades, but it illustrates a type of high culture that had once shown great promise, but has long since disappeared from television. 

I'm dedicating this month to a four-part look at the history of television opera: an overview of opera specifically designed for TV; a look at NBC's bold effort to provide opera on a regular basis; the story of the most famous of all TV operas, one that became television's first Christmas tradition; and the state of opera on television today. We'll begin with Jennifer Barnes's definitive study of opera commissioned for television.

Believe it or not, there was a time when it was thought that television could play an important part in the creation of a new and revolutionary art form. It was called the opera.

In 1952, NBC Opera Theatre prepared to present the American premiere of Benjamin Britten’s Billy Budd, which had been written only the year before. Based on the novel by Herman Melville, one of the opera’s most famous scenes contains a twelve-minute aria by John Claggart, the villain of the piece, “in which the Master-at-Arms delineates his hatred of Budd and reveals his determination to destroy him.” For the broadcast, producer Samuel Chotzinoff elected to excise the entire aria—partly because of the need to compress the opera into a 90-minute timeslot, but also because he felt television presented an opportunity to completely change the way operas were written. Through the use of close-ups and shadows cast by lighting, Claggart’s malevolent intentions were expressed—proving, Chotzinoff said, that a broadcast could “[accomplish] in a few seconds what the aria took twelve minutes to tell us.” The implications were obvious, Chotzinoff felt, thinking it “probably that the composers of the future, writing especially for television, will find no necessity for explanatory and illuminating solo arias, once they realize the revealing potentialities of the television camera.”

Television Opera: The Fall of Opera Commissioned for Television, by Jennifer Barnes, Boydell Press, 138 pages, $29.95

Samuel Chotzinoff certainly understood the visual power inherent in television, but his confidence that it would change the course of modern opera was more than slightly misplaced. In Television Opera: The Fall of Opera Commissioned for Television, Jennifer Barnes shows how such early promise failed to pay off, leaving TV opera, like live drama, a dinosaur of television’s past.

Barnes focuses her book on three specific case studies, all of them operas commissioned for television: Amahl and the Night Visitors, Gian-Carlo Menotti’s landmark Christmas story that was the first ever written for TV; Britten’s Owen Wingrave, which he wrote for the BBC in 1970 after having seen several of his operas adapted for television; and Gerald Barry’s The Triumph of Beauty and Deceit, a 1994 production that was intended to explicitly take advantage of technology that only TV could provide.

While the three operas share a common birth, they differ in substantial ways. For example, Amahl was broadcast live on Christmas Eve in 1951, with Menotti working almost until the last minute to finish the composition. Owen Wingrave was shot on tape, duplicating the feel of a live broadcast while enabling special effects and editing to ensure the best performance possible. Beauty and Deceit was filmed, giving it the look of a movie, and allowing for a production radically different from one presented on the stage of a theater.

In the wake of the success of Amahl (including a rare front-page review in The New York Times), the future of television opera looked bright indeed. NBC Opera Theatre had been a regular presence on the network since 1949, and would continue presenting a handful of operas each season up through 1964. Menotti’s career flourished, as he won two Pulitzer Prizes and received several additional commissions from NBC. While Britten had not been particularly thrilled with the network’s adaptation of Billy Budd (which was edited so severely that he demanded the broadcast be entitled Scenes from “Billy Budd”), he was happier with BBC adaptations of some of his other works, including Peter Grimes, for which Britten conducted the orchestra. While Billy Budd was taped, rather than live, Britten insisted that the music and singing be performed live, rather than dubbed in after the fact (which would become standard in the future, including in The Triumph of Beauty and Deceit).

While many of these productions won great acclaim, however, ratings were something different. Due to its enduring popularity, Amahl never lacked for sponsorship, but most of the other broadcasts were subsidized by NBC. Gradually the number of productions diminished, as did the commissions, until televised opera of any kind—not just that written for the medium—had all but disappeared. Public broadcasting, thought to be the safeguard of such cultural programming, started out with promise, but as government funding dissipated, it too felt the pull of ratings (and donor dollars) and opted for more “popular” programming.

The arts remained active, if not vital, on British television, and The Triumph of Beauty and Deceit was part of a series of operas commissioned by Britain’s Channel 4—with the requirement that they be written in such a way as to make a live performance all but impossible. In other words, the operas were not only written for television, but were meant to be performed only on television. The fact that Barry’s opera went on to an eventual staged production is almost immaterial; several critics suggested that it was intrinsically unsuitable for live performances.

Barnes’ choice of these three operas for close examination does not neglect the overall genre; indeed, they were chosen specifically to illustrate the arc traveled by opera commissioned for television. And while each one is interesting in and of itself, they take on an added dimension when considered as part of the whole, showing how a form of programming which once held such promise never truly fulfilled its potential.

As one might suspect, this isn’t a book to be read casually (though I must say I enjoyed it immensely), but while an appreciation of opera certainly helps, it isn’t absolutely required. Our cast of characters ranges from merely proficient to fascinating to colorful, and Barnes takes a close look at the inside workings of television, spending ample time on the choice of camera angles, why close-ups are sometimes good and sometimes bad, and how in the early days of TV a director’s job was considerably more difficult that it might seem. In doing so she reprints excerpts from several shooting scripts, showing the various stage directions and framings, and provides a glimpse at the challenges inherent in adapting a work for television—especially when the composer of said work is both alive and opinionated!

It may not be for everyone, but anyone wanting to learn more about a niche of television history that in a handful of decades went from accepted fact to invisible memory will find Television Opera not only the definitive resource, but an engrossing story as well.

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Here's the complete broadcast of 1952's "Scenes from Billy Budd"; the title change was demanded by Britten, who felt that Chotzinoff's various cuts, including the excising of Claggart's aria, had so changed the nature of the production that it was no longer the same opera. The quality of the recording is rough, but considering the historical significance of the broadcast, I think we can handle it.


For reference, here's the Claggart aria that Chotzinoff cut from the production, which has come to be considered one of the most significant in the bass repertoire. The bass in question is the great James Morris in a Met performance from 1997.



NEXT WEEK: A look at NBC Opera Theatre.  TV