This week in TV Guide: March 7, 1970

If you're a regular reader (and, as I always say, if you aren't, why not?), you know how much and how often I rag on the Hallmark Channel, and whatever remnant there is of the Hallmark Hall of Fame, once one of the most prestigious programs on television. I've done it so often that it ceased to become a challenge, and, in fact, got to be something of a bore. I mean, it was so easy. And so I resolved I'd try to avoid it, and thereby make my life just a little bit easier. 

However, as my wife can tell you, I don't always stick to my resolutions, and so it is that we take a look at this week's Hall of Fame presentation of "Neither Are We Enemies" (Friday, 8:30 p.m. ET, NBC), this year's Easter episode. The story takes place during the Roman occupation of Judea, and stars Van Heflin as Joseph of Arimathea, the man whom the Bible tells us helped take Jesus down from the Cross after the Crucifixion and lay Him in the tomb. Kristoffer Tabori co-stars as Joseph's son Jonathan, who hears Christ's words not as those of love and peace, but as a call to revolution. Also featured in the cast are J.D. Cannon as Pilate, Ed Begley as Annas, Kate Reid as Deborah, and Leonard Frey as Judas. 

There are many facets to this story, which scriptwriter Henry Denker wrote "to interpret the events surrounding the Crucifixion with a parallel to the conflicts of our time." And it's easy to see, even in this brief description: the clash of generations, the conflict between war and peace, the military occupation of one nation by another, and so on. It points out the timelessness of Denker's story—indeed, of the entire Bible—in that the parallels that existed in 1970 are just as present today, and likely will be in another fifty years, if we last that long. 

I have no idea if "Neither Are We Enemies" is any good or not; you can't really find out much about it online. For what it's worth, Jack Gould, the TV critic of The New York Times, called it "something out of the ordinary"; while Heflin "was unsteady at the beginning, perhaps because of the initial unevenness of the script," he was effective in portraying the anguish he felt over his estrangment from his son. Gould also singled out the performance of Tabori as "exceptionally good," while Begley was "persuasive as usual." The hope offered by the play lay in the idea that "when the family breaks up there is the consolation that a respect for different outlooks could remove the element of enmity." It's also worth noting that the cast includes three Oscar nominees: Begley, Heflin, and Frey, and that Begley and Heflin both won Oscars.

Having established the bona fides of the play itself, we'll now turn to the sorry state of entertainment at Hallmark, for there are many people, I am sure, who have never, in their lifetimes, seen even five minutes of programming from that network that begins to compare to the impact of this type of story. In a time when the nation is bitterly divided, with family members pitted against each other over matters both substantial and trivial and almost always connected in some way to politics, it would be nice to think that Hallmark might consider offering something relevant like this, rather than the umteenth rendtition of some soapy, soggy, sentimental drivel about reconcilation, finding the right partner, or discovering the perfect Christmas in a quaint small village square. Yes, reconciliation is important, but as this drama suggests, it is also messy, difficult, and painful, and it involves sacrifices on the part of all concerned. That's not all, of course; the story also deals with religion in a way that is totally foreign to today's modern productions, and as for the star quality of the cast, well, perhaps the less said, the better.

I'm no longer worried that I sound like an old man shouting at the clouds when I get off on rants like this; I'm old enough that I simply don't care anymore. What I do care about, however, is the quality of programming on television, another subject of many a piece here. Quality is not, in fact, that hard to achieve if one really wants to achieve it. Hallmark sent the message, many years ago, that it was something they no longer cared about, so we shouldn't be surprised any time we run across an example of what the Hallmark Hall of Fame used to be like, back in the day. The company's motto, "When You Care Enough to Send the Very Best," applied to television as well as greeting cards back then. Of course, if you even send cards these days, you know that much of Hallmark's output hovers somewhere between the crude and boorish on one hand and the saccharine and dewy-eyed on the other; there's a reason for the existence of terms like "sentimental fool." 

It's likely that Hallmark wouldn't be up to the task anyway; doubtless they'd fill the story with romance and woke politics, and water it down. But if they didn't: think of what could come from this simple message that families didn't have to be divided, that friendships didn't have to be torn asunder, over something like politics. That's not to discount the importance of some of these issues, but what ever happened to that innate human dignity to which Jack Gould mentioned, the idea that "respect for different outlooks could remove the element of enmity.

Yes, we shouldn't be disappointed by this fall from grace anymore. One could say that we don't have the right to be disappointed by it. But we do have the right to be offended by it. More than a right; an obligation.

l  l  l

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

This week Cleveland Amory checks in on one of television's rare genres, the half-hour variety show. It's one hosted by a comedian who was once quite well-known in pop culture, but has now joined the ranks of those one-hit wonders remembered only by those of a certain age or disposition. In case you haven't figured it out yet (to be honest, I'm not sure how you could have), we're about to look at Pat Paulsen's Half a Comedy Hour.

Pat Paulsen came to prominence as one of the regulars on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, where he launched a deadpan, and often very funny, campaign for president. And herein lies the problem, for there are comedians, such as Tim Conway, who were often the life of the party, provided that someone else was hosting it. Try as he might, though, he could never carry a show on his own. Pat Paulsen is one of those comedians. "Put him in Medical Center or The Bold Ones and you've got a large riot. Even put him in another comedy show and he's so individual he'll still give you at least a small riot. But give him his own whole show and you've got a problem." It's that there needs to be contrast, something (or someone) for him to play off of, and as the host of the show, that element is missing. 

As Amory puts it in one of his classically painful puns, Paulsen's comedy persona is one of Caspar Milquetoast. "Make him Mr. Milquehost and he'll still be funny. But one thing is certain—you're going to have to milque harder." Things started off well, with an extremely funny bit, filmed on location, that involved Paulsen's car breaking down in the middle of winter outside former Vice President Hubert Humphrey's home in Waverly, Minnesota. Humphrey, playing himself, still remembered some of the jokes Paulsen had made at his expense during the 1968 campaign, and adroitly avoided inviting Paulsen out of the knee-deep snow to phone for help. It's difficult to explain in a limited space, but it was very funny, and showcased both Paulsen's dry humor and Humphrey's graceful self-deprecation. There was another good sketch involving Paulsen demonstrating how to make a 25-inch color TV "using only materials at hand." However, the effect was undermined by a pair of lame bits, one including guest star Debbie Reynolds. The trend continues through subsequent shows: strong absurdities followed by weak sketches. The best consistent feature of each episode is the close, and these are "so funny that we guarantee, even if you don't like the rest of the show, Mr. Paulsen will leave you laughing." At thirteen episodes, the problem was that they didn't leave viewers wanting more.

l  l  l

ABC has announced its new fall schedule, and, as is typical for the perennial last-place network, it features what Richard K. Doan, in The Doan Report, calls a "massive shake-up," with nine shows biting the dust, including the aforementioned Pat Paulsen show, It Takes a Thief, The Flying Nun, Here Come the Brides, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, variety shows hosted by the Lennon Sisters and Englebert Humperdinck, and the network's Monday night movie. And that leads to the centerpiece of the new schedule, Monday night pro football. (Although, at this point, nobody could possibly imagine how successful this would become.) Other than that, however, the new shows will leave something to be desired. The Odd Couple, starring Jack Klugman and Tony Randall, will be an unqualified success, unlike The Young Lawyers, The Immortal, The Young Rebels, the Burt Reynolds vehicle Dan August, The Silent Force, Matt Lincoln, and the Danny Thomas comeback Make Room for Granddaddy. 

Doan adds, however, that there is one positive note, with a series that is being renewed, albeit on another network: Sesame Street, which NET has announced will be back in the fall with a new season of episodes.

l  l  l

Speaking of "Vince Baby" Edwards, as we were a couple of weeks ago when his career seemed to be in a kind of holding pattern, we now get a look at the TV series he did take on, after having turned down more than a few opportunities. As I mentioned above, his new series Matt Lincoln is on the fall schedule, although at this point it's not called Matt Lincoln. It's called Dial Hot Line, and the pilot can be seen on the ABC Sunday Night Movie this week (9:00 p.m.). Edwards stars as David Leopold, a "hip psychiatric social worker" who operates a telephone hot line which troubled young people can use when they need someone to talk to. In her review, Judith Crist sees it as an ideal vehicle for a weekly series: "The entertainment possibilities are limitless—suicide and rape are touched upon this time around—in case you haven't problems of your own." 

Now, you may be asking yourself how Dial Hot Line morphs into Matt Lincoln, presumably including a name change, given that the new series isn't called David Leopold, and therein we find ourselves with a story that's probably as entertaining as anything that appeared on the series. According to the always-reliable Wikipedia, citing the reasonably authoritative Harlan Ellison, the name change came about as a result of jokes around the office regarding the Leopold and Loeb murder case, and worries that viewers might make the same association. (One has to wonder if the script was run by DeForest Research in advance; the company, which was frequently used for name clearance and other research projects, might well have pointed out the potential for mischief.)

Ellison also dryly noted that while Leopold was "described as an example of 'the new breed' of mental health professionals, serving 'the many, rather than the few' and involved in a wide array of volunteer activities," that didn't prevent him from obtaining an income that allowed him to "drive a Mustang, have a Marina apartment and a sailboat." By the time Matt Lincoln made it to the fall schedule, the lead character had morphed from a "psychiatric social worker" to a "community psychiatrist" who maintained a private practice that allowed him to take on volunteer activities, as well as maintain a lifestyle to which he had become accustomed.

In any event, Matt Lincoln, by any other name, was a disappointment, lasting only 16 episodes before being cancelled. Considering that one of the series Edwards had previously passed on had included a two-year guarantee from ABC, one wonders if Edwards might have sought professional help himself afterward. Either that, or perhaps a new agent.

l  l  l

Having led off this issue with a look at one of the most distinguished programs on the air, we now turn to something a little different: Neil Hickey's article on Hee Haw, which some critics called the worst show ever when it premiered, but which now is having the last laugh—a laugh it's sharing with its substantial audience.

When Hee Haw debuted, a little less than a year ago, the more responsible critics (and by that, Hickey means those accepted by the entertainment elite) denounced the show as "a program of such stupefying banality, witlessness, irrelevancy, pointlessness, unregenracy and inepitude." Imagine their dismay when the show "immediately zoomed to the upper reaches of the ratings charts and stayed there all summer." And make no mistake about this, the blowback against the show was a prime example of that elitism in action, the sniffing from snobbish upper-crust Eastern Establishment critics "blaming it all on the Silent Majority and the Middle American, who are fed up with bad news, crime in the streets, protest and student unrest." They're especially irritated, Hickey continues, "because this show came to life over the dead bodies of the Smothers Brothers, who were always making those terrific jokes about racial tensions, the Vietnam War, Congressional ethics, air pollution and the military industrial complex." 

And yet, as Hickey points out, "the program was nothing more, really, than a grab bag of purloined bucolic knee-slappers going back to Aristophanes, melded with bathetic rural ballads of a sort never imagined by Sir Walter Scott nor Robert Burns nor Francis James Child." Plenty of people were happy to see the Smothers Brothers go, replaced by down-home humor that struck a chord with ordinary Americans. "We get a lot of letters saying, 'It's great to see a real American show,' " according to Frank Pepplatt, one of the show's creators (he and his partner, John Aylesworth, are, ironically, a couple of Canadians). "We also get angry mail from old Smothers Brothers fans who say, 'How dare you put on material like that? It has no content, no message.' Well, that's the whole point! It's not supposed to have a message."

Says Grandpa Jones, a legendary country comedian who's now gaining mainstream recognition, "these fellows dared to give us a chance. TV people have always been afraid to put on common country stuff. They always figured it had to be polished and slicked up. It took somebody from Canada to show 'em it could be done." (Perhaps there's something to be learned in that SCTV, one of the greatest bite-the-hand-that-feeds-you series of all time, was also brought to life by Canadians.) Co-host Buck Owens adds that "You don't have to be up on current events, nor have watched the Huntley-Brinkley show that day to enjoy it. Anybody can grasp this material."

A couple of confessions: I rarely watched Hee Haw growing up, either during its network run or on first-run syndication. I'm just not with it on that kind of humor, nor the country music stars (some of the top names in the business, mind you) who frequented the show. It's not my style. Number two, I freely admit to being a TV elitist, in case you hadn't figured that out from my lede screed. Nevertheless, I would be the last person to say that there's no room on television for programs like Hee Haw, programs that appeal to the dreaded flyover country. When CBS ushered in the rural purge, Hee Haw was one of the victims, cancelled in 1971; it then went on to thrive in first-run syndication from 1971 to 1993. And let's not forget that Lawrence Welk, another show that supposedly appealed to the "wrong" audience, was also a hit in syndication, with reruns continuing on PBS to this day. 

The point is that television doesn't have to be a homogeneous blob. Just as I'll frequently rail against the romantic slop of the Hallmarks, the crude boorishness of so much network television, and the leftist bias of the late-night shows, I'd be just as dismayed with a television world that had no room for Hogan's Heroes, Top Gear, Mystery Science Theater 3000, or, yes, Hee Haw. We complain that television has become so niche that there's no place for programming appealing to a broad audience, and for good reason. After all, a television diet of nothing but Shakespeare would get pretty boring after a while. Besides, as Hickey notes in his conclusion, "one is nagged by the suspicion that Shakespeare—that most shameless purveyor of bad gags—would have loved it." I wouldn't doubt it for a moment.

l  l  l

So what, in fact, is on this week? Well, in the days before March Madness became a bloated excuse for everyone in the world to take a chance on their own bracket, the NCAA Basketball Tournament tips off on Saturday afternoon (2:00 p.m., NBC), with the major contenders including St. Bonaventure (led by Bob Lanier), Notre Dame (Austin Carr), Jacksonville (Artis Gilmore), Western Kentucky (Jim McDaniels), and eventual champion UCLA (Sidney Wicks). Attention on the tournament might be eclipsed, however, by the real thing: a total solar eclipse, with all three networks planning live coverage, beginning at 1:00 p.m. (You can see CBS's coverage here, with an excerpt from ABC's coverage here.) If you miss it, though, don't worry; you can see it again, following a similar path, in 2024. Remember that?

Fred Astaire guest-stars on It Takes a Thief (Monday, 7:30 p.m., ABC), in a cleverly-titled episode called "An Evening with Alister Mundy," a play on the series of successful television specials that Astaire did in the 1950s and 1960s. Astaire, you may remember, appeared on It Takes a Thief several times as Robert Wagner's father, a fellow master thief. Tuesday's highlight is the delightful Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree (7:30 p.m., NBC), the whimsical 1965 adaptation of A.A. Milne's stories, narrated by Sebastian Cabot, and with Sterling Holloway unforgettable as the voice of Pooh. And on Thursday, the Young Americans music group host their first network TV special, with special guest stars Lorne Greene, Tiny Tim, and the Committee improv group. 

l  l  l

Finally, the starlet of the week is Karen Wyman, a 17-year-old "slinky adolescent with a lod of schoolbooks in one arm," as Judith Jobin styles her. More than that, she's a singer with a voice that is equal parts "controlled, earthy, hypnotic, and sexy"; one critic calls it "the voice of a woman who's done a lot of living," quite an accomplishment for someone who's not yet out of high school and, she says, "emphatically hasn't done a lot of living." Her voice teacher, Marty Lawrence, says she has "one of the greatest sounds I'd heard in my 21 years of teaching," and sent a demo to Greg Garrison, producer of The Dean Martin Show. Garrison told him, "If she can perform the way she sings, she's on the show." She could, and she was; she appeared on the show a year ago, did a five-song medley with Martin, who kissed her afterward and said, "You are wonderful, and you are beautiful, and you are some kind of singer," and the rest is history.

Since then, she's done four shows with Ed Sullivan (you can see one of them here), made a couple of visits to Johnny Carson, and her first album is due out this month. And despite her youthful enthusiasms, she displays "a solid core of drive, ambition and perfectionism (which a few people are calling temperament), and has a clear vision of what she wants; while her voice has been compared to Garland and Streisand, "I want to be unique. I want to be the original Karen Wyman." And she wants to be a star: "A star is...you're the hottest thing in show business. The public is nuts about you. It's not so much the money—it's class, people running to the box office to see you. You know when you're right on top, when you get the largest sum ever to appear somewhere."

That kind of stardom is not in the cards for Karen Wyman; she would later say that "I needed to grow up. I felt that I didn't deserve to be a star." She endured two failed marriages, raised a son and daughter (born sixteen years apart), quit singing altogether, and made a "comeback" in 2014. And to this day, she says that her most memorable moment was meeting Dean Martin; "it was really like a fairy tale."

l  l  l

MST3K alert: Agent for H.A.R.M. (English; 1966) Tale of a creeping blob from outer space that transforms human flesh into fungus. Mark Richman, Wendell Corey, Carl Esmond. (Thursday, 11:25 p.m., WTIC in Hartford) Peter Mark Richman and Wendell Corey: what are you doing here? H.A.R.M. was, apparently, initially supposed to serve as a pilot for a new series, but wound up in theatrical release instead. My favorite review comes from The New York Times, which called it an "anemic James Bond imitation." I don't believe this is currently part of the MST3K episodes that run on TV; all in all, probably a good thing. TV

If you enjoy the content here and want to support my broader creative work, please consider making a donation at my Ko-fi page. Any amount you contribute helps me continue writing, researching, and sharing these articles and projects. Thank you!

This week in TV Guide: February 18, 1967

What better way to start the week than by spending a day with Dean Martin? That's what Leslie Raddatz is here to tell us!

Fortunately for us, the day happens to be a sunny Sunday in Southern California, the one day a week that Deano spends on his television show. (When you're the highest-paid entertainer on television, as Martin is reported to be, you get little perks like working one day a week.) However, don't think that the day begins and ends at the studio. By 11:00 on this Sunday morning, Martin has already been up for more than four hours, had breakfast, and played nine holes of golf at the Bel-Air Country Club.*

*Don't think that Martin is averse to work, though; this year he will do 30 episodes of the show, plus a pair of engagements in Las Vegas, and still find time to shoot four movies.  

He spends the first couple of hours at the studio running through his musical numbers with music director Les Brown and his orchestra, and now he's watching the run-through of the show on his dressing room monitor, with stand-ins substituting for him in the comedy routines he'll be doing with Marty Allen and Steve Rossi, and Eddie Foy Jr.; Martin works best when he's spontaneous, and often he'll rehearse only his own lines, to keep his reactions fresh. After returning to the set to rehearse a song with Leslie Uggams and his weekly schtick sitting on the piano with Ken Lane, he's back in the dressing room, nursing a Scotch. Someone "close to the show" confides to Raddatz that Martin sips pretty steadily throughout the day, but he's never drunk: "How could a drunk get up at 6 o'clock in the morning, play nine holes of golf and then spend the rest of the day working on a show he’s never even seen before, with music cues, tricky arrangements and all the rest of it?"

Next, we see Martin waiting for a doctor to give him a shot; he's still dealing with the aftereffects of a cold and laryngitis, which has forced some of the guests from previous shows to come in today to do "pickups," accounting for the longer day. (While he complains that "I could have been sleeping," a friend says that Dean is generally an "early-to-bed, early-to-rise guy" who's always up by six, and seldom goes to parties.) Once the doctor has done his duty, Martin is joined by three of his children, and they watch a tape of last week's show. He's not one of those who avoid watching themselves, but he also doesn't study his past performances; he watches purely for entertainment. 

The actual taping of the show begins around 8:00 p.m., when he appears on stage to help warm-up the audience. He generally returns to his dressing room when other performers are on, but he's always watching them on the monitor. Other times, while technical adjustments are being made or sets are changing, he's joking with the audience. And now he actually starts to perform; as another friend says, "In the rehearsal, he just reads the jokes—he doesn’t do them." Radditz notes that some of those jokes, "which he read perfectly at rehearsal, he now pretends he can’t make out and squints at the cards. The audience roars."

By 11:00, the show is done, the pickups concluded, and Martin heads for an Italian restaurant with Mort Viner, his agent and old friend. Often, they'll play some pool afterward, on the table in Deano's house, while he winds down. Not tonight, however; it is now after midnight, and as Raddatz says, "it has been a long day." And, in all likelihood when the show is finally aired, a good one.

l  l  l

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

Sullivan: Scheduled guests: Joe E. Lewis; Pearl Bailey; Pat Boone; Met coloratura soprano Gianna D’Angelo; comedian Jackie Mason; the Four Tops; saxophonist Boots Randolph; and the Martys, a teeterboard balancing act. (According to the episode guide, Morey Amsterdam was an additional guest, and Jackie Mason and Gianna D'Angelo did not appear.)

Palace: Host Bing Crosby presents Ella Fitzgerald; Phil Harris and Alice Faye (Mrs. Harris); comedian Dom De Luise; the Nitwits, English music-hall clowns; the acrobatic Medini Brothers; and Hendra and Ullett, an English comedy duo. 

I've always leaned toward Palace when Bing Crosby hosts, and this week is no exception. Besides a Bing and Ella duet, Phil Harris and Alice Faye are always entertaining, and Dom De Luise can be very funny. Over on Sullivan, Morey Amsterdam is a fine substitute for Jackie Mason, and the music lineup is varied enough for everyone. When the shows line up this well, there's no other alternative than to declare the week a Push. 

l  l  l

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

Cleveland Amory invades the world of science fiction this week, with ABC's new series The Invaders, and the question is whether or not we can stand more than one invasion. 

It's difficult to tell whether Amory has a real feel for sci-fi or not; he treats the program as something of a joke, an "Us vs. Them" scenario in which Earth is threatened by aliens who look just like Us, talk just like Us, act just like Us. Only one man stands between Us and Them, and that one man is David Vincent, played by Roy Thinnes, which means we're in a fair amount of trouble. You see, Vincent isn't a scientist or military man or anything like that; he's just an architect, which means he's not necessarily a credible authority when it comes to convincing the authorities that the Earth is under attack. And then there's the fact that so many of those authorities are either in the power of Them, or actually are Them. And just to complicate things, "you can’t tell whether one of Them is one of Them or just in the power of Them unless they get headaches and take pills and things; and, even after you do get it all straight, our guess is you’re not even going to trust the commercials."

Cleve's favorite episode so far featured Suzanne Pleshette as a stripper who decides to help Vincent, even though it turns out that she's one of Them too. When Vincent discovers this, he asks, quite sensibly, why he should trust her. "All right,” she says, “I’m an alien. But I am to Them too. Ever since I was little I had this difference. My father had it too." What that difference is, Amory doesn't say, probably so the suspense isn't ruined. The Invaders is a Quinn Martin show, like The Fugitive, which means that Vincent will come under attack each week, will be threatened with capture by the aliens each week, will try (and fail) to convince others of the threat each week, and will escape at the end of the episode to fight another day, or at least another week. See the problem? Amory compares the series, somewhat unflatteringly, to War of the Worlds, and the panic the radio version supposedly started in New Jersey, site of the Martian invasion. What does this have to do with anything? Well, he concludes, The Invaders is "a great show for the kids, but for the rest of you, our advice is to join New Jersey and take to the hills."

l  l  l

Unlike Leslie Raddatz's day in the life story about Dean Martin, Dwight Whitney's look at the post-Ben Casey career of Vince Edwards isn't nearly as flattering, or as satisfying. To begin with, Whitney interjects himself directly into the story, and while this may be a favored style of the day, it's a technique I've never been particularly fond of. I suppose it's unavoidable in this case; Whitney has known, and written about, Edwards for several years, and that gives him an insight into "Vince Baby," as Whitney refers to him, that others might lack. And don't get me started on "Vince Baby" in the first place; it appears in the title of the article ("Vince Baby Plays It Cool"), and it's how Whitney refers to Edwards throughout the article. A little of that goes a very long way. 

Perhaps to compensate for this, Whitney doesn't shy away from Edwards's less attractive qualities. Given what we've read about Edwards in the past, this may have been unavoidable. He's always been portrayed as intense, scowling, difficult to work with. He insists he's changed; "In the early years I was a little hostile, but you grow out of that and realize that everybody’s got a job to do." But it doesn't take long for Whitney to see Vince's "old fierce, scowling self." We learn, for example, that Vince Baby has it set to make it big time in motion pictures. He's signed a "dream" contract with Columbia for two movies, with script and director approval, star billing above the title, snd a minimum budget for each of nearly two million. So far, though, nothing has come of it, and Vince thinks he knows why. "What TV actors have really broken through? Not very many. Know why? It’s pure snobbery. The men who run this town are sitting on a bonanza and they don’t know it! They’re fools. Otherwise they’d be breaking the doors down trying to get TV stars. But, oh, no, they’d rather import something with an accent that covers a multitude of bad acting." 

Whitney acknowledges the difficulties of making the big transition from television to movies, and says"those who did make it—McQueen, Garner, Van Dyke, Marvin—were not exactly Cary Grant. Superstar he would be." In case you're not sure, that would be Oscar nominee Steve McQueen, Oscar nominee James Garner, Oscar winner Lee Marvin, and Dick Van Dyke, who was in the Oscar-winning Mary Poppins. Maybe they're not Cary Grant; nobody else was or is. However, considering that three of these men were considered among the coolest stars ever, and the fourth one of the most beloved, I think Whitney was a little off the mark in this comment. Perhaps he was too focused on his snark to notice. 

But back to Vince Baby. He's done all the right things that a star should do: he's been seen in the right places, with the right people; he's looking at buying a house in the right neighborhood (Bel Air); he gets his hair done with the right stylist (Jay Sebring); and he got a new press agent, a new girlfriend, and a more swinging lifestyle. He turned down plenty of offers for "schlock" movies and television series (including a detective series written by Blake Edwards and produced by Aaron Spelling that came with a two-season guarantee), and made a strong pitch for roles in movies such as King Rat ("it went to George Segal. George Segal!!?), The Chase (Robert Redford got the part), and In Cold Blood and Funny Girl, but missed out both times. 

Still, life is not bad for Vince Baby: he's been accepted by the jet set for doing all those right things, and he remains confident that what he wants will come, if he's patient. "I won't settle for second best," he tells Whitney. "You need a little mozel [luck]. You pray a little. You build excitement with activity.

Night clubs! Records! Publicity! Keep yourself hot. Go. Go. Go. And wait for your best shot..."

l  l  l

We don't have anything from Vince Baby on this week's hits, but that doesn't mean we're without choices. 

You may or may not remember that the success of Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol spawned a spin-off series, The Famous Adventures of Mr. Magoo, which put our near-sighted hero into various roles from classic literature. A number of those episodes were turned into movies, such as Mr. Magoo in the King's Service (Saturday, 9:00 a.m. PT, KCRA), made up of adaptations of The Three Musketeers, Cyrano de Bergerac, and King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. 

Jack Benny and George Burns guest star on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour (Sunday, 9:00 p.m., CBS), and the two oldtimers wonder if they need to create new images for themselves in order to capture the "younger generation." My suspicion is that they're probably still funnier than the Brothers just the way they are. In this week's Doan Report, by the way, Richard K. Doan reports that the latest addition to the CBS lineup is running neck-and-neck with perennial champion Bonanza. For the Tiffany Network, the "all-but-unbelievable" news comes after years of struggling to offer competition for the Cartwrights, with everyone from Judy Garland to Julie Newmar swinging and missing. Might the Smothers Brothers be the ones to finally break NBC's stranglehold on the timeslot? Stay tuned.

Also on Sunday, N.E.T. Opera presents Jack Beeson's 1965 modern opera "Lizzie Borden" (8:00 p.m., NET), a retelling of the legendary (and alleged) axe murderer that focuses on Borden's possible motives. It's a fascinating couple of hours (we've got it on DVD), performed by members of the New York City Center Opera Company, conducted by Anton Coppola, Franis Ford Coppola's uncle. 

If you remember the premise of Run for Your Life, you may also remember that Paul Bryan, the doomed lawyer played by Ben Gazzara, comments that he hasn't had a vacation since law school; thus, with only a couple of years to live, he's decided to cram all the living he can into those years. Sensible, but I've always wondered how it is that he's got so much experience at these various activities if he's never taken any time off. Case in point: this week's episode (Monday, 10:00 p.m., NBC), in which Paul finds himself in Czechoslovakia to compete in an important road race—and, by the way, to help a scientist defect to the West. Amazing how he could find the time to become a competitive auto racer while spending all his time in court, not to mention becoming a spy at the same time. Sounds to me as if he's already crammed a lot of living into his life.

Andy Griffith branches out from Mayberry to try his hand at a variety hour (Tuesday, 8:30 p.m., CBS), with his guests Don Knotts, Tennessee Ernie Ford, the Back Porch Majority folk group, singer Maggie Peterson and the Bruce Davis Quintet. Included during the hour is one of Andy's famous monologues, this one on "a successful small-town boy named William Shakespeare." Also on Tuesday is a rare television appearance by singer Peggy Lee in The Girl from U.N.C.L.E. (7:30 p.m., NBC), in an even-more-absurd-than-usual tale about a three-woman race to gain a mineral that can turn laser light into a death ray. If you're interested in movies, there's the Oscar-winning The War of the Worlds (9:00 p.m., NBC) in its color television premiere, and Patterns (11:00 p.m., KTVU), Rod Serling's adaptation of his own television play that helped launch his illustrious career.

Perry Como celebrates Washington's Birthday with a Kraft Music Hall special (Wednesday, 9:00 p.m., NBC) that features the comedy team of Burns and Schreiber, and singer Frances Langford. I notice that Perry's singing "Lazy River"; I wonder if it's the  thrillerPotomac River, which Washington supposedly threw a coin over (it was actually the Rappahannock), or the Delaware River, which Washington and his troops crossed on Christmas night, 1776? Or am I just reading things into it? That's followed by an intriguing I Spy (10:00 p.m., NBC), featuring Boris Karloff as a scientist whom Kelly and Scott hope to convert to supporting the United States. No word as to whether or not this is the same scientist who defected in Run for Your Life. 

Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic take center stage on Thursday with a Young People's Concert salute to the late American composer Charles Ives. (7:30 p.m., CBS) Appropriately enough, two of the Ives pieces performed tonight are "Lincoln, the Great Commoner" and "Washington's Birthday." Later, on Star Trek (8:30 p.m., NBC), Kirk and Company come up against a planet engaged in computer-controlled warfare with a rival planet; casualties are determined by the computer, with the "victims" ordered to report to human disintegration chambers. If this sounds slightly familiar to you, this is one of the stories I wrote about in Darkness in Primetime. And on ABC Stage 67 (10:00 p.m., ABC), Maurice Chevalier and Diahann Carroll team up for an hour of music from France, Broadway, the movies, and popular music.

Movies score big again on Friday, with Breakfast at Tiffany's (9:00 p.m., CBS), starring Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard, and Oscar-winning music from Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer. That competes against a completely different movie, Roman Polanski's feature film debut, the disturbing 1962 thriller Knife in the Water (9:30 p.m., NET); meanwhile, on N.E.T. Playhouse (9:00 p.m., KQED), singer-actress Lotte Lenya (whom you might remember as one of the heavies in the Bond film From Russia with Love, as well as being in the lyric to Louis Armstrong's rendition of "Mack the Knife") offers a tribute to her late husband, composer Kurt Weill, who wrote "Mack." And speaking of songwriting, ABC's in the game with the music documentary Songmakers (10:00 p.m., ABC), featuring a look at today's biggest stars, including the Mamas and the Papas, Dionne Warwick, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Judy Collins, Burt Bacharach, the Byrds, Henry Mancini and others.

l  l  l

MST3K alert: Gorgo (English; 1961) It might not have been a good idea to bring that live prehistoric monster to London— it has a parent that’s coming after it. Bill Travers, William Sylvester. (Saturday, 1:00 p.m., KTVU in Oakland) Leonard Maltin's memorable cameo as himself, trying to come up with the world's worst movie in order to torture Mike and the Bots, is one of the great bits in the show's history. Asked if this movie was going to "hurt" them, he replies, "Well, that's a matter of opinion, Mike. Now I actually like Gorgo, but when we reviewed it for my number one best-selling Movie and Video Guide, it put two of my assistant editors into intensive care. So who knows?" Need we say more? TV

If you enjoy the content here and want to support my broader creative work, please consider buying me a Diet Coke at my Ko-fi page. Thank you!

This week in TV Guide: January 6, 1962

t's t's once again the start of a new year: 2025 if you're reading this today, 1962 if you were reading it in real time. I like to think of these TV Guide articles as cultural snapshots, giving us a look at what things were like at a given point in time, and if you want to know what was hot at the beginning of 1962, here it is: the Twist. 

The Twist is something of a scandal in the world of dance, as indicated by the headline of this unbylined article, in which Dick Clark and Chubby Checker are referred to as the "culprits" responsible for the Twist's popularity, "and, worse, they seem happy about it all." It was nearly two years ago that the dance, described as a "spine-torturing, dervishlike tribal rite," first began to appear on Clark's American Bandstand, piquing the curiosity of the host. "I'm always watching for new things," Clark explains, "and I asked [the kids] what it was. 'The Twist,' they said. So I looked it up and found Hank Ballard had a record out called 'The Twist.' " Clark decided to import it from Ballard's nightclub act, and recruited a young singer named Chubby Checker to cut a remake of it. It caught on, in Clark's words, "like blue jeans and chino pants," and soon was being danced everywhere from high schools to country clubs, even bar mitzvahs. 

And, with the help of Atlantic Records president Ahmet Ertegun, who introduced a few of his society friends to the dance, it soon spread to the adult set. Next thing anyone knew, there was a "Twist Party" at the posh Manhattan nightspot Four Seasons, and everyone from the Duke and Duchess of Bedford to Elsa Maxwell, Merle Oberon, and Greta Garbo, have been twisting away. "I could pontificate around like the brain boys who've been taking pen in hand over this thing," says Clark, "talk about inhibitions, release of cold-war tensions and all that jazz. But I think it's mostly that adults are beginning to find out how much fun the kids are having." 

Despite its looks, it's actually not a particularly difficult dance to perform, as you can see in the pictures of Chubby (like Fats Domino, "only not so fat") demonstrating the moves, "a twisting of the hips to a rock 'n' roll beat." Notwithstanding that, I'd wind up in traction if I tried to do it, but then sitting at a keyboard doesn't call for much in the way of twisting. As for where it all ends, Clark says that it actually peaked about a year ago, and now is actually staging a revival in the wake of the Bop, the Slop, the Chop, the Mashed Potatoes, and other dances that sound like it came from your local Golden Corral. The always-astute Clark, however, thinks it may have a longer lifespan than usual. "The kids discard such dance fads quickly, but I'm inclined to think the adults won't." 

l  l  l

One of Cleveland Amorys most anticipated columns of the year was the one in which the reader had his say, praising—or, as is more often the case, excoriating—the critic's opinions throughout the past year. Although we don't have Cleve to kick around yet, we do have Gilbert Seldes, and this week he opens up the mailbag to see what you, the viewer, thought of his views. 

Most of the letters he receives begin by asking him to "shut up" and conclude with "We like the show and we don't care what you think!" These, Seldes says, are the letters he most appreciates. One of America's greatest attributes is that it's a free country, "and the editors of TV Guide have made use of their freedom to give me the freedom to say what I think." This, he acknowledges, may have been a mistake, and he's the first to admit that he's commited a mistake or two (or three) himself. But what is beyond any doubt is that he's free to make such mistakes. What is also beyond doubt is that, no matter what he says about whatever program he may be reviewing, he'll get ten letters from people who disagree with him. But when it comes to being a critic, there's one simple fact: "No matter what program you like, there are two or three times as many peole who like something else better." Furthermore, "[t]here are probably 40 million people, not professional critics, who don't particularly like the program you are crazy about." And their letters "give me exactly the same kind of pain I give the readers of this page at times." 

But before we turn this into some kind of Barneyesque "I don't like you, you don't like me" moment, Seldes gets to the point: "one of the most agreeable aspects of our freedom comes in the letters readers write to me, telling me to keep my trap shut." After all, if he's free to tell us what he thinks, it's only fair that we have the same opportunity. One of the problems we face in America these days is that we're really not free to disagree with each other anymore, because our disagreements get so disagreeable. We don't take them as an opportunity to teach each other, or to learn from each other. We view disagreement as chance to prove our superiority versus someone else's inferiority. And let's be honest: where's the fun in that? There isn't any, which is part of what makes modern culture just as disagreeable as our own disagreements. That is what Gilbert Seldes is really writing about here, from a past that was far more open to discussion than ours is. Whereas we are, today, too prone to think that opinions other than ours should be silenced, Seldes thinks just the opposite. To those who say he should keep his "trap shut," his response is a simple one: "I won't." But, he adds, "I'm glad they don't."

l  l  l

And now, here's something I think we can all agree on: that Suzanne Pleshette, according to Troy Donahue, sets "bells ringing." Not only is she a dark-haired beauty of smoldering good looks, she's a very talented actress who throws herself into her work with enthusiasm, and gets nervous when she isn't working. "Luckily I've had only 10 days off since I started four years ago."

She's worked with the likes of old-time stars Victor Jory, Mary Astor, and Mildred Dunnock on anthologies such as Playhouse 90. ("I've never done a TV show I didn't like.") She's worked with Roddy McDowall, Eli Wallach and Tom Poston on Broadway. And she's now making her way into movies, having appeared in The Geisha Boy with Jerry Lewis, and Rome Adventure with Angie Dickinson and the aforementioned Troy Donahue (whom she'll marry and divorce in 1964). As if that weren't enough, she's working on writing a novel; I don't know if it was ever published, although she did write several screenplays under a pseudonym. No wonder she's considered a "non-conformist" and "secret thinker" in Hollywood.

I would have included this brief feature on her regardless, but considering what we previously noted in Gil Seldes' review, I think this quote from a 2006 interview Pleshette gave with the Television Academy is quite prescient: "We're losing manners. We're losing style. We're losing kindness. A lot of it is happening as a result of the television we're doing and the characters we're willing to play that reflect a piece of human nature. But it's done over and over because it gets laughs or because it's dramatically interesting. What's the actor's obligation to make the world a better place?" What, indeed?

l  l  l

The NFL season ended last weekend, with the Green Bay Packers defeating the New York Giants on New Year's Eve, but that doesn't quite mean that we're done with football. On Saturday, we have one of the most pointless, unimportant games ever thought up by the NFL: the Play Off Bowl (1:45 p.m., CBS), pitting the second-place teams from the East and West. Granted, the purpose of the game was to raise money for the players' pension fund, so it served a charitable purpose, but what football player wants to put his health on the line in a game that was originally called the Runner-Up Bowl? At that, the game was played for ten years, from 1961 to 1970, at the Orange Bowl in Miami. Today's contestants are the Philadelphia Eagles and Detroit Lions, with the Lions winning 38-10. They hold the dubious record of having won the first three Play Off Bowls, meaning they were always a bridesmaid, never a bride. On Sunday, the AFL engages in a similarly meaningless game, the inaugural All-Star Game, live from San Diego (3:30 p.m., ABC), with the West All-Stars coming out on top of the East, 47-27.

We've also got a couple of college all-star games on-hand, games that were more important back in the days before specialized scouting and ad nauseam bowl games, because they provided an opportunity for college players to display their talents to viewers and scouts alike. On Saturday, North and South stars face-off in the Senior Bowl from Mobile, Alabama (3:00 p.m., NBC). For the players participating, it's their first "professional" game, as the winners receive $600 each, the losers $500. Of course, that isn't even meal money for these guys today, more credit to them. Sunday sees a game that even I'd never heard of, played (to the best of my knowledge) only once: the U.S. Bowl (2:00 p.m., NBC), with the players drafted by East Division NFL teams playing against those drafted by West Division NFL teams. Yes, back then the draft was held right at the end of the season, rather than being held over until April the way it is today. 

l  l  l

There's a strong whiff of nostalgia in this week's issue, and not just because we're looking back at it from the perspective of 63 years. On Sunday night, the DuPont Show of the Month presents "Hollywood—My Home Town" (10:00 p.m., NBC), a one-hour documentary based on the famous 16mm home movie collection taken by vaudeville comedian Ken Murray, who in 1927 began documenting his Hollywood experiences, and I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that virtually everyone who was anyone showed up in Murray's movies, often in candid moments, including W.C. Fields, Will Rogers, Leslie Howard, Carole Lombard, Jack Lemmon, Douglas Fairbanks Sr., Mary Pickford, Errol Flynn, Gary Cooper, Bing Crosby, Elizabeth Taylor, Bob Hope, Glenn Ford, and others. If Hollywood had a scrapbook, this would be it.

That's followed on Friday by "The Good Years" (8:30 p.m., CBS), a 90-minute Westinghouse Presents variety special based on the very good book by historian Walter Lord, author of the definitive Titanic book A Night to Remember. Covering the years 1900-1914, the show, produced by Leland Hayward and directed by Franklin Schaffner, features Henry Fonda, Lucille Ball, and Mort Sahl using skits, songs, recreations, photograps, and cartoons to review the major events of the day. And there were plenty of significant events over those 14 years, from the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk to Teddy Roosevelt becoming president, with figures such as Einstein, Freud, and Lenin thrown in. (As you can see, one of the events that occurred was the adoption of the income tax, which just proves that the word "Good" can be relative.) As remarkable as these two programs are, what might be even more remarkable is that both of them still exist, and can be viewed at those YouTube links. Interesting that while the shows presented a nostalgic look-back in 1962, they themselves are nostalgia for us today.

l  l  l

Contrasting articles on two of television's stars, Vincent Edwards and Michael Landon. At age 25, Landon, according to our unbylined profile, has what one producer called "the most highly intuitive set of natural acting responses I've seen in a young actor." He's seen laughing and joking on the Bonanza set, seemingly unconcerned about an upcoming, highly-charged death scene, only to transform himself as the camera rolls, becoming so involved in the scene that genuine tears roll down his cheeks, and leaving his co-stars too shaken to speak. After a moment to regain his composure, he's off again, with a reference to the deceased character's love life that was "so irreverent, so hilarious (and so unprintable) that they are still talking about it around Paramount studios."

On the other hand we have Vince Edwards, star of ABC's first-year medical series Ben Casey, described by Bobby Darin as "a combination of Charlton Heston and Burt Lancaster." He's a man who, in Robert de Roos's cover story, is absolutely "dedicated" to his work. "I couldn't have stuck to it for 12 years unless I had the same sort of fanaticism Ben Casey has for medicine." Unlike Landon, who seems to be able to turn it on whenever required, Edwards often mirrors the intense, almost surly demeanor of his character. Says co-star Nick Dennis of the similarities between actor and role, "They're both educated peasants, Casey and Vince Edwards. That's the most dangerous kind."

Away from work, Landon raises tropical fish, loves DIY projects, and adores his family. "Acting?" he says. "Sure. I can still get hold of those emotions when I need 'em. But I also like the financial security. Just say I have the family I always loved and wanted." Edwards is a "nut" about many things, from flying ("I used to fly my own plane" but gave it up because of his responsibilities on the show) to sports, working out, and "any kind of excitement," but rarely has time due to the intense filming schedule of Casey; unlike Landon, who is just one member of an ensemble cast, Edwrds is in every scene, every day. "It's a grind, but I've waited for it and I like it." 

It's so interesting looking at the two men in retrospect. There were other things that Edwards was a "nut" about, including his addiction to gambling, which caused him to gain a reputation as "one of the most difficult stars now working on television." leading co-star Sam Jaffe to leave the series, fed up with Edwards' distractions. He makes another attempt at series television after Casey ends, but Matt Lincoln fails to make it past its first season.

And Landon, the dedicated family man, will divorce his wife Dodie later in 1962, and marries twice more before his death in 1991. He, too, gains a reputation for being strong-willed, both on- and off-set. However, unlike Edwards, Landon's television career seems to go from one hit to another: Bonanza to Little House on the Prairie to Highway to Heaven.

All of this is in the future, however. For now, Vincent Edwards and Michael Landon remain two young stars of tremendous talent, with varying reputations that somewhat belie their real lives. But after all, Hollywood is a place of dreams, where reality often takes a back seat. And as someone once said, if sin showed on a man's face, there would be no mirrors. TV  

This week in TV Guide: April 3, 1965

Let's start this week with Vince Edwards. The star of ABC's medical drama Ben Casey has long had a reputation, and as you know, when we speak of having a "reputation," it's usually a bad one. As Richard Gehman describes him, "Edwards was stubborn and surly, uncooperative, unavailable and—it was our suspicion—uncouth." His brooding, scowling visage on television caused Hollywood types to regard him "with all the joy we would have shown if we had scared out a Gila monster." Now, as you know if you've been reading me for a few years, I'm always a little skeptical of Gehman's pop psychology/snark analysis of celebrities, but in this case his observations aren't without merit; there are many stories of how Sam Jaffe, who played Casey's mentor, Dr. David Zorba, quit before Casey's final season because he'd become fed up with Edwards' unprofessionalism and his addiction to spending time at the racetrack betting on the horses instead of doing his scenes. 

But we're straying from the story, which is colorful enough. A couple of years ago Gehman was writing an article on the show for TV Guide, and Edwards stood him up four times; he finally wrote the story without Edwards. Recently, though, the two of them were seated opposite each other at a birthday party for Walter Winchell (!), and became acquainted enough that Edwards agreed to an interview, at which he opens up on subjects he hasn't previously talked about. He's in psychoanalysis, for example, "because I wasn't utilizing the full capacity of my own ability because of certain guilts and hang-ups." In other words, he ought to stop not liking himself and give himself credit for having succeeded as he has.

He says directing has allowed him to understand the importance of maintaining the show's budget, that "to make money, art sometimes goes out the window." "There's a place to sell filet mignon and a place to sell hot dogs," he says. "Television is hot dogs." He's not bored with Ben Casey, but he is tired; his five-year contract ends next year, and that's when the series will end. He wants to produce and direct more, record more, make some more movies, have a family. He sounds like a man struggling to find his place in his life; "I sit here many a night, thinking, 'Well, where am I going, what am I going to do, and what are they going to write about me when I go?'"

He also says he has no problem being "part of the machinery," because it's his job, and because he wants to work. At the end of the day, "when they finally shut my orbs I can breathe a sigh of relief and pass on without having any guilts, and having enjoyed what Ive earned. That’s all I can say." It seems to be enough for Gehman; "The surly, stubborn, uncooperative, unavailable and uncouth Vince Edwards who started out playing Ben Casey is a good deal different today." Perhaps it was the analysis that did it, but "analysis is only a tool for a man who [already] wants to improve himself." For whatever reason, "Vince Edwards is a changed man. For the better." 

l  l  l

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

Sullivan: Ed’s guests are Vince "Ben Casey" Edwards, comedian Alan King, singer Abbe Lane, comedian George Kirby, English pop singer Cilla Black, French singer Jean Paul Vignon, English music-hall comic Arthur Haynes and Djoliba, an African instrumental and dance ensemble. 

Palace: Host Dale Robertson introduces guitar-strumming George Gobel, who does a comedy monolog; singer-dancer Lisa Kirk; songstress Barbara McNair; comic Tim Conway of McHale’s Navy in an obstetrician sketch; the comedy team of Gaylord and Holiday; the Four Winds of Notre Dame, vocal quartet; the Morways from Prague, teeterboard artists; and the Hanneford Family's comedy animal act. 

The question is: how funny is Tim Conway in a obstetrician sketch? (We already know what he's like in a dentist sketch.) And is he funny enough to elevate this week's Hollywood Palace? We don't know the answer for sure, but my money's on Ed; even though Vince Edwards (whom we'll read more about later) is appearing ascv  a singer, I'm casting my lot with Alan King and company. It's not the greatest lineup we've ever seen, but it's good enough to give Ed the edge.

l  l  l

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

I did not know this, but according to Cleveland Amory, The King Family was ABC's replacement for The Outer Limits. Of course the possibilities are limitless, and so is the King Family: at 36 members (currently), that, says Cleve, amounts to two Kings per square inch on his screen. "It has been said that one can take, in murder mysteries, one murder, two, even three or four murders. But at five one becomes uneasy and at six one draws the line. One now has not just a murder but a massacre." That's not to accuse the King Family of such horrors, but it does seem at times as if even the members of the family have trouble keeping track of their numbers.

Despite all this, there's a lot to like about The King Family. The production is smooth and quick-paced, thanks to producers Nick Vanoff (who also does The Hollywood Palace*) and Saul Ilson (a veteran of The Smothers Brothers and The Danny Kaye Show), and to the children, who are "extraordinary": "They are, among other things, the least pushed-to-perfection stage children we have seen—perhaps because their mothers aren’t “stage” mothers who stay backstage, but mothers on the stage."

*The King Family Show was the result of their successful appearance on The Hollywood Palace, which generated a reported 53,000 letters of approval, back when people wrote letters.

Cleve is mightily impressed with the King women as well, particularly the original King Sisters (Yvonne, Alyce, Luise and Marilyn). Undoubtedly, although he didn't single her out, he's also impresed with Yvonne's daughter, Tina Cole, who would graduate to My Three Sons. He's not, however, that impressed with the males of the family, save Alvino Rey, Luise's husband and conductor of the show's orchestra, "who can play any instrument, even the ones he makes himself," The King Family lasts for two seasons, plus a revival in 1969; they also appeared in syndicated holiday specials for ten years. It's a very pleasant setup for a Christmas special, but as a regular series, The King Family is from another era.

l  l  l

There have been big changes in the broadcasting industry recently, with three of the more prominent figures being given the pink slip. Since TV Guide devotes one entire page of its "As We See It" editorial to the changes, we probably ought to take a look at them, and the lesson to be learned. For each of them, in his own way, was a con man, which isn't necessarily a bad thing; the key to success in this industry is being "a rich blend of businessman, salesman, showman and con man." You either have it or you don't; it's just that sometimes, you have it and then you lose it.

First is James Aubrey, until recently the president of CBS. "His con was playing the ruthless heavy. He alienated some of CBS's top stars by kicking them around. He alienated his executive colleagues by making all decisions himself. He alienated advertisers by telling them what they could buy. He alienated the press by refusing to talk to reporters. He alienated everyone but his buddy Keefe Brasselle, an unsuccessful ham whom Aubrey turned into a production tycoon overnight with three shows —all awful—on the CBS network in prime time." He finally realized that the people you kick on the way up are waiting for you.

Matthew J. Culligan was a success as head of NBC Radio, and used to be head of the Curtis Publishing Company. "His con was action. He was busy, busy, busy. It worked at NBC. It got him his job at Curtis. He couldn't wait for autos—he traveled by helicopter and zipped from redecorating fancy new offices, to explaining to advertisers how he was going to take Curtis out of the red, to reorganizing magazines by placing men in command whose chief aim was to get rid of Culligan." It sounds like a great idea for a TV series, doesn't it?

Finally, and sadly, there's Pat Weaver. "His con was dreaming. As president of NBC he dreamed beautifully, envisioning—and bringing to reality—the Today show and The Tonight Show and the concept of special shows pre-empting regular programming. But Weaver dreamed expensively and he had to take his dreams to an advertising agency. Then the promoters of Subscription TV came along and Weaver was hired to dream of a brave new television world where viewers would pay and pay and pay. The viewers didn’t pay." Or perhaps, as was so often the case, he was just ahead of his time—or ahead of the viewers.

The lesson, and I think this is one we should all take to heart: "Maybe a con isn’t supposed to work forever." 

l  l  l

What do we have to look forward to on the tube? Well, if you're a kid like I was, you'll be excited to see the return of Top Cat (Saturday, 8:00 a.m. PT, NBC). The cartoon originally aired in prime time on ABC during the 1961-62 season, but I think it's best known for its long run on Saturday mornings. I've got the box set, so Saturday morning is whenever I want it to be. It's also the debut of Secret Agent (9:00 p.m., CBS), the Patrick McGoohan-helmed follow-up to Danger Man and the precursor to The Prisoner, which I mentioned last week. And if you can stay up late, you won't want to miss The Seven Samurai (11:15 p.m., KGO), Akira Kurosawa's magnificent samurai movie, which was the inspiration for The Magnificent Seven. 

Classical music fans will want to tune in for Camera Three (Sunday, 9:00 a.m., CBS), featuring Peter Schickele—who has an entire comic persona as P.D.Q. Bach, "the hitherto unknown son of Bach,"—discussing, appropriately enough, humor and parody in music. Schickele, who spent five decades doing his Bach schtick*, is one of those rare humorists who can, in his own persona, can discuss his topic with intelligene and insight. We had the good fortune to attend one of his P.D.Q. concerts a few years ago; it was a delightful, hilarous evening. Turning to nighttime, ABC presents a David L. Wolper documentary, The General (7:30 p.m.), profiling the late Gen. Douglas MacArthur on the first anniversary of his death. It's sponsored by 3M, as part of their continuing series of specials on important issues of the day.

*One of his favorite bits was a conposition called "Concerto for Piano vs. Orchestra," which, in concert, would often feature a local sports announcer "calling the action" between the pianist and the orchestra.

Monday's highlight is the 37th annual Academy Awards, live from Santa Monica and hosted by Bob Hope (7:00 p.m., ABC). It's another great year for the motion picture industry, with five Oscar-nominated films that everyone is familiar with and many people have seen—in other words, the exact opposite of what the Oscars are like today: Becket, Dr. Strangelove, Mary Poppins, Zorba the Greek, and the big winner of the evening, My Fair Lady. Andy Williams performs one of the year's nominated songs, "Dear Heart," from the movie of the same name; thanks to the miracle of video tape, he also appears on his own show (9:00 p.m., NBC), where his guests are Jonathan Winters and Polly Bergen. And for futurists everywhere, there's the 1939 movie Television Spy (12:50 a.m., KPIX), with William Henry as a young radio engineer trying to solve the problem of sending television signals over long distances. Forget it, kid; it'll never fly.

NBC's Hullabaloo, along with ABC's Shindig, was one of the 1960s variety shows featuring pop music stars (along with the Hullabaloo Dancers). Some of them might seem as if they're more in tune with the 1950s, while other acts are precisely what we think of when we consider the Beatles era. This week (Tuesday, 8:30 p.m.) we've got a mix of both: Paul Anka hosts, and sings "Red Roses for a Blue Lady"), with Chubby Checker, Sylvie Vartan, Joe and Eddie, Del Shannon, the Greenwood County Singers, and David Clayton Thomas and the Shays. During the early episodes of Hullabaloo, Beatles manger Brian Epstein would host a segment from London; this week, he introduces Mariane Faithfull. 

Wednesday features the season's final presentation of the Hallmark Hall of Fame, with Julie Harris starring as Florence Nightingale in "The Holy Terror" (7:30 p.m, NBC) with an outstanding supporting cast that includes Denholm Elliott, Kate Reid, Torin Thatcher, and Brian Bedford. Appropriately enough, Julie Harris is also profiled in this week's issue, with Robert Higgins writing that for all the success she's achieved on Broadway, in Hollywood, and on television, the actress remains a private, enigmatic person off-stage. "I’ve failed so many times as an actress," she tells Higgins. "I’m not an artist by any means. I don’t think I'll ever be one." Even today, considered one of America's finest actresses, she struggles with her own identity; powerfully shaped by an unhappy childhood which she overcame only by burying herself in her roles, she's only now starting to realize that there's more to life than work. And yet: "My family is as important to me as my life, but that doesn’t tell me who I am. Some people never do find themselves. But I, for one, have to go on trying." By the time of her death at age 87 in 2013, she had five Tony Awards, three Emmys, a Grammy, and an Oscar nomination to show for a brilliant career. And I'm not going to make any smart cracks about this being another example of how Hall of Fame used to turn out high-quality drama, although you can see for yourself in this clip.

Perry Como's live Kraft Music Hall tour of America continues on Thursday from the Miami Beach Auditorium (10:00 p.m. tape delay to the West Coast, NBC); Mr. C's guests are Al Hirt, Woody Allen, and Connie Stevens. I think the idea of these live broadcasts from around the country is terrific; there's very little live television being done these days, and the road show concept gives it the feel of a real special; too bad nobody can do this today.

On Friday, Jack Carter wraps up his two-week run as guest host on Nightlife, ABC's alternative to Johnny Carson. (11:15 p.m.) This is during the strange interlude between Les Crane hosting stints; it was The Les Crane Show from August of 1964 to February 1965, at which time Crane was sacked and the show renamed Nightlife. It then continued with guest hosts until late June, when Crane returned as host; he'd stay with the show until the end of original episodes on October 29, 1965. And what did the viewers think of it? Well, our Letters section may give us a clue: Ken Chu, of New York City, writes, "The United States had it first, Russia second, and now ABC has the biggest bomb of all—ABC's Nightlife." Lest we think this is a one-off, Eve Kennedy of Milwaukee asks a simple question: "Where is the life in ABC's Nightlife." After that, I guess we need not ask any further.

l  l  l

A quick note on a controversial topic that could stand a much longer writeup: religion on television, and we're not talking about the televangelist kind. 

Holy Week begins on Sunday, April 11, and so TV Guide takes the opportunity to examine the state of religious programming. "Ecumenism," or religious tolerance (not meant to be a definitive definition, to be sure), is all the rage right now, coming on the heels of the Second Vatican Council, and the most honored of faith-based programs—Directions ’65 on ABC; Lamp unto My Feet and Look Up and Live on CBS; and Frontiers of Faith, The Eternal Light and The Catholic Hour on NBC—are often answering the challenge "by dramatizing through the arts the need for unity in a rapidly fragmenting world." Such programs, Neil Hickey notes, couch their message "in the language of dance, poetry, song and drama, and thus are not overtly 'religious' in a doctrinal sense." 

Not everyone agrees with the worthiness of these programs, though. Fr. Norman J. O'Connor, director of the Catholic Paulist Communications, says "Religious programs on network television are generally punk. That’s spelled p-u-n-k." His complaints are that such arty endeavors "miss their audience entirely," that for people in search of religious programming, "[t]heir interests are not represented. Therefore, they have a severe dissatisfaction with the material." He goes on to point out that those producing such programs have little to no experience in the entertainment business, with the result that "the shows have hardly any entertainment value—no color, feeling, or mood. They look as though they’re cultural, but they’re not, really. A little 'show biz' wouldn’t hurt them." His criticisms are shared by many Protestant observers, who concede that the networks have little interest in this type of programming. "If the networks could dispense with religious shows, and replace them with movies or reruns of situation comedies—the sort of thing that could turn a dollar—they’d do so,” says one Protestant broadcaster."

The reason they don't is because they're obliged to provide affiliates with religious programs so those affiliates can comply with FCC regulations. But, in the wake of the Supreme Court decision banning school prayer, there are now those who claim that the FCC "is in violation of the First Amendment when it employs the power of the Government to force TV stations to promote religion." If the FCC requirement is abolished, would networks still produce such programming? (Hint: no.) It's unfortunate, because regardless of your religion, or lack thereof, these programs are some of "the last expressions of individualistic thinking on television—artistically, culturally, sociologically." They've also been a "training ground" for young actors and writers; some of those young actors who grew up in the "pulpit playhouse" include Steve McQueen, James Dean, Warren Beatty, George Peppard, Suzanne Pleshette, Sal Mineo, and Colleen Dewhurst. They were some of the last forms of dramatic anthology and cultural programming—and for all the religious networks that exist today, the absence of this kind of programming on network television is missed.

l  l  l

MST3K alert: The Brain That Wouldn't Die. (1960) "A scientist tries to bring his girl friend back to life. Jason Evers, Virginia Leith." (Friday, 11:15 p.m., KSBW) That cartoon pretty much sums up this story of a mad doctor (are you surprised it's Jason Evers?) who keeps his fiancée's severed head alive while he tries to find a suitable body to graft the head onto. But then, what would Friday night be without a good mad doctor flick? Notably, this is also the first episode featuring Michael J. Nelson as the replacement for Joel Hodgson. The rest is history. TV