Around the dial

On Wednesday, you saw my contribution to the Aaron Spellingverse Blogathon hosted by Gill at Realweegiemidget; well, now that it's all done, head over there to see all of the entries, including those by blogs I'd ordinarily be mentioning here, such as The Last Drive In. By the end, you'll know more about Aaron Spelling than you ever thought possible!

Last week I mentioned the death of Peter Marshall, and that we'd likely be reading about him in this space this week. As promised, Terence has a look at the great man's career at A Shroud of Thoughts. Continue reading, and you'll also read his fine appreciation of the late Phil Donahue, who died earlier this week.

This week, Jack's Hitchcock Project at bare-bones e-zine shines the spotlight on one Evan Hunter, who under that name wrote Blackboard Jungle, while under the pen name Ed McBain he wrote the long series of 87th Precinct novels, several of which are on my bookshelf. Here, we're concerned with his only Hitchcock contribution, "Appointment at Eleven," a terrific adaptation of Robert Turner's short story.

At Cult TV Blog, John has spent the past few weeks reviewing the dystopian series The Guardians, and this week he comes to the conclusing episode, after which he offers some of his own conclusions as to the provocative series. Thanks to you, John, I've had to add this series to the lengthy list of programs I have to watch if I live long enough.

Guess what came from Amazon last week? The complete series of F Troop! We'd always enjoyed this series when it was originally on, but I'd be lying if I didn't give some of the credit for my renewed interest to Hal at The Horn Section and his F Troop Fridays. This week, he returns with a look at "Reunion for O'Rourke," celebrating the Sergeant's 25th anniversary in the service.

At Comfort TV, David muses on what he calls his "least favorite sitcom plot," as seen in the Doris Day Show episode "The Matchmakers," and how an annoying cliche can nonetheless teach a valuable life lesson for those open to it. I probably ought to take a page or two from these episodes myself.

Next to the annual Christmas catalogs from Sears and Penneys, one of the most exciting days of the year, for me at least, was when the TV Guide Fall Preview issue came out. Somewhat to my surprise, they still publish one, although I've not paid any attention to broadcast television for years. At Television Obscurities, reliable Robert reminds us that it's out there, if you can find it.

I'm not sure that a week goes by when I don't see character actor Jay Novello appearing in one classic TV episode or another; sometimes I might see him twice in one night. Travalanche looks back at Novello's long career, and even if you don't recognize the name, he'll tell you what to watch so you can recognize the face. TV  

Burke's Law: the detective show that became Aaron Spelling's first TV hit

Aaron Spelling and Gene Barry: the duo reponsible for the success of Burke's Law
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The following is part of the Aaron (Spellingverse) Blogathon, sponsored by Realweegiemidget Reviews. Be sure to check here for more great entries in the series, running August 19-21.

I've written about Burke's Law before—you can catch up here if you're not familiar with it—but until Gill invited me to participate in this year's Aaron Spelling Blogathon, I'd never really thought about the program in conjunction with him.

The TL;DR is that Burke's Law, which debuted on ABC in the fall of 1963, stars Gene Barry as Amos Burke, a suave, urbane millionaire crimefighter who lives in a mansion, rides in a chauffer-driven Rolls, and always seems to have a beautiful woman resting her hands on his tuxedo-clad arm. Unlike those other wealthy crimefighters, though—Bruce Wayne or Tony Stark or Lord Peter Wimsey, for example—Burke does this for a living, as captain of the Homicide Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. Aided by his able assistants, Detective Sergeant Les Hart (Regis Toomey) and Detective Tim Tilson (Gary Conway), and with the lovely Sergeant Gloria Ames (Eileen O'Neill) always ready to provide a helping hand back in the office, Burke deals with a slew of eccentric suspects each week, sorting through leads and red herrings until he runs across that one clue that tips him off to the killer's identity.

With his inherited wealth (which has increased through his own shrewd investments), he obviously doesn't need to risk his life each week tracking down murderers, so why is he a cop? A witness asks that very question in the first episode of Burke's Law, to which a detective counters, "Why are you a construction worker?" "It's what I do best," the witness replies, and the detective says, "That's why he's a cop."  

All well and good, you may be thinking, but where does Aaron Spelling enter the picture? This isn't a Gene Barry Blogathon, after all. 

You've got a point there.

Spelling was, in fact, the producer of Burke's Law, and the man who, next to Barry, was probably the most responsible for the show's success. Barry had been looking for a comedy for his next project, he told an interviewer in a 1963 TV Guide profile. "I searched for the twinkle, the lift of an eyebrow [that] could change the tone of a serious sentence," he said. "I read Burke’s Law. I envisioned the twinkle in it." Spelling, in the same interview, describes Barry as a man "at home in [a tuxedo], secure in it." In other words, the perfect actor to play a millionaire police captain.

Burke's Law would be Spelling's first successful television project to that point, the first hit of a career that would span 40 years, and it displays many of the trademarks that would come to define an Aaron Spelling production, starting with the guest cast. One of the challenges inherent in crafting a successful mystery is keeping the audience guessing as to who the killer is. Often, since it's such a juicy part, the role goes to the most prominent guest star in the cast; identify that actor, and you've got your murderer. 

Spelling's answer to this was to populate each episode with as many as six or eight recognizable guest stars, from Hollywood veterans like Broderick Crawford, Mary Astor, and Ida Lupino to up-and-comers like Tina Louise and Barbara Eden, to fish-out-of-water appearances by the likes of Don Rickles, Paul Lynde, and the Smothers Brothers. You couldn't depend on the recognizable name being the guilty party; you recognized them all! (Does that remind anyone of, say, The Love Boat or Fantasy Island?) One reason Spelling was so successful in obtaining name guest stars was that they seldom appeared in more than a scene or two at the most; it was an easy payday for them. The female guest stars could also be counted on to display their most attractive . . .well, assets. As actress Corinne Calvet suggestively intimates to Burke in one episode, "I have life insurance, but I’m not as fully covered as I should be."

Like those shows, Burke's Law was a mix of comedy and drama; although the very premise suggests a show that doesn't take itself too seriously (and shouldn't be taken too seriously by viewers either), the mysteries themselves were generally played in a straightforward way, and, like the crew of the Pacific Princess, Burke and his detectives were always treated with respect, never as joke characters.

Each episode of Burke's Law followed a familiar and dependable formula (another Spelling trademark), beginning with the discovery of the dead body, followed by a call to Burke, invariably interrupting one of his romantic assignations, and leading to the opening credits, in which a breathy female voice coos "It's Burke's Law!" while Amos is driven to the scene of the crime by his loyal chauffer/valet, Henry (Leon Lontoc). During the course of the investigation, Burke, Les, and Tim are confronted with multiple suspects, all of whom display characteristics that fall somewhere between eccentric and sociopathic. Those of us actually trying to solve the crime are pulled in two or three different directions, as first one suspect, then another, comes to the fore. Finally, the lightbulb goes on over Burke's head, as a seemingly insignificant clue leads to the breakthrough that, in turn, leads Amos to the guilty party. With the case wrapped up, Amos is now free to resume his pursuit of yet another delictable beauty.

Obviously, all this suggests Burke's Law isn't going to be one of those dark, heavy dramas so typical of today's police procedurals. And yet there's one episode that stands out, precisely because it goes against the grain of the well-established formula, and it's worth singling it out for a moment.

"Who Killed My Girl?" is the 29th episode of the first season, and from the start it differs in that it is both more serious and more personal than usual. You see, this week's victim, beautiful heiress Diana Mercer (Barbara Michaels) was not only known to Burke—she was "his girl," beautiful, sophisticated, fun, with wealth of her own—the one woman who stood a chance to be "Mrs. Amos Burke" if Amos had been the marrying kind. He isn't, of course; although it's a cliche, he really is married to his job. Any time a female friend even suggests the possibility of marriage, Burke starts looking for the exits. 

But Diana was different; she had a hold on him like no other woman. He finally broke it off, knowing that it wouldn't work out, despite her protestations. That was in the past, but recently she'd reentered his life, asking if they could get together for old times' sake. It's obvious something's bothering her, but she won't tell him what it is. Unable to do anything for her, the evening ends. The next thing we know, there's a phone call. This time it catches Amos, not in the arms of another beautiful woman, but in bed, asleep. And the news from Tim is crushing: Diana is dead.

The easy way out for an episode like this would be to make Burke the prime suspect. He was, after all, the last person known to have seen her alive, witnesses saw him leaving her place. I call this kind of a plot "false jeopardy," because we know from the outset that Amos isn't the killer; putting him under some kind of suspicion is simply adding an unnecessary complication. And it's to the show's credit (the episode was penned by TV stalwart Tony Barrett) that it doesn't go there. 

It does, however, give us a side of Amos Burke that we haven't seen before. He's haunted by the possibility that he's somehow responsible for Diana's death, flipping through old pictures and buried memories, unable to shake the thought from his mind. If only he'd been able to get her to tell him what was wrong—even worse, if only he'd married her back in the day—then she'd still be alive. 

Out of that grows a determination, almost a personal vendetta, to track down Diana's killer. Tim, Les, and Gloria worry that he's too emotionally wrapped up in the case, too close to it to see what might be important. He refuses all offers of help, though. This is his case, and he's going to see it through to the end. His first surprise comes when he runs across Diana's little black book—he had no idea. And as he goes through the names, he discovers a darker side to her, one that he didn't know existed. Is it possible that he never really knew her at all, or were these secrets somehow a result of their breakup? It isn't until Burke is attacked in his home that he realizes he must be getting close to uncovering the killer. At this point, he finally acknowledges the need for help from his colleagues. 

Befitting an episode that's more serious than usual, Gene Barry demonstrates that there's more to Burke than a tuxedo; he can be tough, even ruthless, when the situation calls for it; the rest of the regular cast displays a similar sensitivity. As usual, there's a boatload of guest stars, including Richard Carlson, Jane Greer, Ruta Lee, Stephen McNally, Gene Raymond, Don Taylor. I'm not going to spoil the ending for you here; if you want to find out how the story ends, you can stream the series at Amazon Prime, or email me, and I'll tell you whodunnit. (That's a cruel thing to do, isn't it?) 

But the point here is that, in some way, the mystery isn't really what this episode is about. As things wrap up, with the killer in custody, Amos is left alone in his home, sitting at his desk, lost once again with his memories, as Henry brings him dinner. But then Les, Tim, and Gloria "just happen" to drop by, each one of them bringing an armload of food, enough for a party. Without forgetting the past completely, Amos realizes that it's time for him to return to the present, and to the friends who care about him. It's a putatively happy ending, but one gets the feeling that there's still a shadow there, one from which Amos Burke will never be entirely clear.

(L-R) Regis Toomey, Gary Conway,
and Gene Barry

Burke's Law ran for two moderately successful seasons, 1963-64 and 1964-65. For the 1965-66 season, ABC, over the vehement objections of Spelling and Barry, announced a change in format. Attempting to capitalize on the spy craze engendered by the James Bond movies and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. television series, the show's title was changed to Amos Burke, Secret Agent. Burke, no longer with the LAPD, was now an operative for an American spy organization, traveling the world to fight nefarious international plots against freedom. (He did get to keep his Rolls, although now he had to drive it himself.) The rest of the cast was jettisoned; the only regular in the new version was Carl Benton Reid as "The Man," Burke's spymaster, in charge of sending him on various assignments. The lightness of the original was toned down somewhat; tellingly, most of Burke's female operatives are killed in this version.

Amos Burke, Secret Agent was not a hit with viewers or critics, and only 17 episodes were aired before the show was cancelled in January, 1966. That wasn't the end of the line for Amos Burke, though, for apparently he grew tired of the secret agent business and returned to the LAPD. At least, that's where we was working when Burke's Law was revived for the 1994-95 season. Spelling Productions was once again driving the series, and Gene Barry was back, dapper as ever, as now-Deputy Chief Amos Burke. His new sidekick was his son Peter, himself a detective with LAPD, played by Peter Barton (during the intervening years Burke had married and was now a widower), and Henry was back behind the wheel of the Rolls (albeit with a different actor). The trademark humor, occasionally verging on camp, had returned, as did the big-name guest star lineup. It was a middling success, running for 24 episodes over two seasons. One of the highlights of the revived series was an appearance by Anne Francis, whose character, private detective Honey West, had first appeared in a 1965 episode of Burke's Law before being spun off into her own series, which ran for one season*. In the Burke revival, her character was called "Honey Best" for copyright reasons, but those in the know knew who she really was.

*Fun fact: Aaron Spelling's original first choice to play Honey West was Honor Blackman, who'd previously starred in The Avengers and the Bond film Goldfinger. Blackman turned Spelling down; I wonder if Honey West would have been more successful with her in the role?

Burke's Law was a delightful show, great fun to watch, with Barry masterful in the role, and the byplay between Burke, Les, and Tim was one of the highlights of the series. The first season of the show was released on DVD way back in 2008, but neither the second and third seasons have seen the light of day, relegated to reruns on MeTV. It's a pity, because it's deprived so many people from discovering the pleasures of Aaron Spelling's first hit. And who knows where this blogosphere would be today if we hadn't had Burke's Law? TV 

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What's on TV? Thursday, August 26, 1965

Thursday's late movie on KOVR, The Last Angry Man, features a brilliant performance by Paul Muni, for which he received his last Academy Award nomination (his first came in 1929 for The Valiant; he won in 1935 for The Story of Louis Pasteur). Muni portrays a doctor working in the slums of New York, the "last angry man" rebelling against the conditions and lifestyles that he sees affecting his patients. He becomes the focus of attention of a television executive (David Wayne), desperate to come through with a successful show, who sees in Muni's doctor an opportunity to create a successful documentary series telling the stories of men trying to make a difference. It gives us a terrific look at the inside world of television, in particular showing us how Muni's home/office is converted into a temporary television studio a la the location shoots on Murrow's Person to Person. (It's always fun watching the movies show us how television works.) For classic TV aficionados like all of us here, it's worth watching for the television angle alone; you'll get a very good movie in the process. This week's edition comes from Northern California.

This week in TV Guide: August 21, 1965

How many times has this happened: you've just finished watching a half-hour comedy that didn't make you laugh once, or you've laughed your way through what was supposed to be a searing drama, and after the credits have rolled and the screen has faded to black, you sit back and think to yourself—or maybe say out loud—"how in the world did that wind up on TV?" Admit it; it's probably more times than you'd like to admit. 

This week, Neil Hickey and Joseph FInnigan begin a look at "The Selling Season," that period running from January through April when producers pitch networks, and networks pitch sponsors, on potential series for the new season. It's a process that, they explain, is "sometimes grim, often screamingly funny," For an example of the latter, look no further than ABC's attempts to sell a potential sponsor on the World War II drama 12 O'clock High. The network was showing the pilot to executives from the Doyle, Dane, Bernbach advertising agency, and their very important client, Volkswagen. (I'll give you a minute to think about that and see if you can figure out what's coming.)

In an exciting scene about halfway through, Robert Lansing led his bomber group in a raid on a German city, which went up in a barage of flames and smoke. "A heavily accented German voice in the screening room was heard to say: 'There goes our factory.'" Volkswagen did not buy Twelve O'clock High.

Another example: in the early 1950s, an agency vice president sat stonily through a sitcom pilot. As the closing credits rolled, the ad exec fumed. "Well, it’s terrible! I’ve never seen anything so ludicrous. No advertiser in his right mind is going to spend a cent on a clunker like that. Do you think a family in Dubuque is going to watch the misadventures of a washed-up exmodel and her illiterate Mexican husband?" Aside from the fact that Desi Arnaz was Cuban and not Mexican, the executive totally misjudged how the public would react to I Love Lucy. If there's any justice in the world, he would have lost his job over that.  

And then there was the time John Mitchell of Screen Gems labored hard to sell ABC president liver Treyz on a sitcom called Our Man Higgins. Despite Treyz's repeated assertions that he wasn't interested, Mitchell continued to press the show on him. Finally, Treyz told him that he didn't have time to talk about it any further, that he was in a hurry to catch a train for Washington, and hung up. (Trains being a form of transportation that people used to use to get from one point to another.) Undaunted, Mitchell had his secretary check the time for the next train from New York to Washington, bought a ticket and managed to get on board, and walked from car to car, looking for Treyz. To his delight, he found not only Treyz, but ABC boss Leonard Goldenson and VP Tom Moore. Creeping up behind them, he snapped to attention, clicked his heels, saluted, and said, "Higgings reporting, sir!" Laughing, the trio invited Mitchell to give them his pitch, and closed the deal then and there. Of course, Higgins only lasted one season, but that's almost beside the point.

Not every pitch is this melodramatic. ABC pitched O.K. Crackerby! to Bud Barry of Young & Rubicam advertising, who was watching the pilot with an executive from one of Barry's biggest clients, Bristol-Meyers. After ten minutes, Barry slipped a note to the Bristol-Meyers exec. "Buy it," he said. And that was that. On the other hand, a dog food company once turned down a pilot because of a ferocious watchdog that attacked someone trying to break into a house. He may have been a good watchdog, the dog food man said, but it was "Bad for the product. No good for dog food."

The most important quality, though, is flexibility. Bud Austin of Goodson-Todman remembers trying to sell a new Western to a nameless network, only to be told by an executive that it was "miserable, amateurish, nonsensical, badly produced, foolishly written, inept and inane hogwash." Nonetheless, Austin went on to screen the pilot for an executive at Young & Rubicam, who not only liked it, but sold it to a major client the next day. Austin went back to the network executive, who began to light into the show once again (it was "banal, dimwitted, numb-skulled" this time), when Austin interrupted him to say, "I've found a buyer for it." After a beat, the exec leaned forward, smiled, and said, "Bud, that show is one of the finest, truest, most heart-warming and ennobling Western series I’ve seen in a long... long... time."  

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

Sullivan: Ed's guests are singer Jack Jones; actor Laurence Harvey; comics Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara; dancer Peg Leg Bates; comedian London Lee; the singing Kim Sisters; English comic Charlie Drake; the Rolling Stones, rock ‘n’ roll group; Los Flamencos, dancers; and the Berosinis, foot-balancing act.

Palace: Host Tony Randall does a sketch about an all-night disc jockey, and introduces Allan Sherman, who parodies the hit recording "Downtown"; singers Nelson Eddy and Gale Sherwood; songstress Vikki Carr; the Supremes, vocal trio; Japanese comic Pat Morita; the Marthys, tumbling acrobats; Mendez’ high-wire act; and a wrestling match between the Hangman and Victor the Great—a bear. 

It's never a surprise to see the Supremes in this matchup, but they should be with Ed Sullivan; it almost seems as if they're being disloyal to Ed, even though Palace was never on against him. Anyway, Ed still has favorites Stiller and Meara, the very smooth Jack Jones, and the Stones. By contrast, the Palace has Nelson Eddy and his partner, Gale Sherwood, and while Eddy was a very popular singer and musical theater star, active and successful until his death in 1967, I can't help thinking of him as the star of those 1930s and 1940s movies with Jeanette MacDonald. In that sense, we see the past and the future of music passing like two ships in the night. On that basis, I'm going for Sullivan for the win.

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

Cleveland Amory recalls the words of Jules Power, the executive producer of ABC's chldren's show Discovery: there was to be no "talking down" to its youthful viewers—instead, he aims for "the child's involvement." He aims the show at "children from 5 to 13, parents from 17 to 35 and grandparents of any age who, it is said, 'want to be able to talk to their grandchildren on their level.'" That's quite a range; Cleve notes that it leaves out only children between 0 and 4, those between 14 and 16, and parents over 36 who aren't grandparents. But, more often than not, the show hits its mark.

True, our man has some quibbles; adults will consider some of the scripted dialogue between hosts Frank Buxton and Virgnia Gibson to be hokey, but once one gets beyond this, it's "basically a fine show." He found particularly praiseworthy an episode called "Discovery Goes to the Republican Convention," in which a group of children asked questions of former President Eisenhower; the interaction was both genuine and charming. A show on "The Day Life Begins," with film of rabbits, turtles, and sea horses being born (sea horses are born not from the mother, but from the father—did you know that?); other episodes include "Reaching for the Moon," "Digging Up a Dinosaur," and when "Mommy and Daddy Were Young."

"The World of Mark Twain," however, proved to be problematic—or, at least, "average," with the depiction of Twain's life "talky and dull," and the sole moving picture of Twain was overshadoweed by "uninteresting prose." "Hal Holbrook, as Mark Twain, was clearly needed, as were some quotes from the Master himself." (Doing a program about one of the most quotable men in history should require the use of at least some of his quotes.) But even when Discovery is being average, Cleve says, it's still tops among children's shows, and that's high praise indeed.

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Gemini V, with astronauts Gordon Cooper and Pete Conrad aboard, was originally scheduled for launch last Thursday, and this week's TV Guide reflects that in its schedule for continuing coverage of the mission. However, a computer problem, plus deteriorating weather, forced postponment of the launch to this Saturday, at 6:00 a.m. PT. We have to assume that launch coverage is similar, with the networks providing continuing coverage of the flight's early orbits, followed by regular updates throughout the mission. ABC and NBC will provide one-minute reports during the day, while CBS will use stremers along the bottom of the screen. When the spacecraft splashes down next Sunday (one day earlier than planned due to Hurricane Betsy), the United States will, for the first time, hold the world record for the longest space flight in duration.

In other Saturday news, we're at that point in the year where various sports begin to overlap. Professional football pre-season games feature in the morning, with an AFL game between the Buffalo Bills and New York Jets from Rutgers Stadium in New Brunswick, New Jersey (11:00 a.m., NBC), while the NFL game, on at the same time, pits the Chicago Bears and Green Bay Packers from Milwaukee (CBS). Follwing that game, CBS continues with third round coverage of the Carling World Open, the world's richest golf tournament (with a $35,000 first prize!), from Sutton, Massachusetts. (2:00 p.m.) The tournament concludes tomorrow, also on CBS, with 1964 British Open champion Tony Lema* defeating Arnold Palmer by two strokes. And don't forget baseball; it is still summer, after all. ABC's game of the week, shown on tape delay due to the time difference, has the Milwaukee Braves taking on the Pirates in Pittsburgh. (2:00 p.m.)

*Fun fact: according to the always-reliable Wikipedia, the young Lema had often struggled in his early years on the tour, due to his "raucous" lifestyle, until he was taken under the wing of television producer Danny Arnold, who helped him with his compsure and confidence. That's the same Danny Arnold who would go on to create Barney Miller. Small world, isn't it?

We get two views of the continuing war in Vietnam this week, first in the CBS News Special "Vietnam: Winning the Peace" (Monday, 10:00 p.m.), the third of four programs reporting on American diplomatic and military initiatives. This week, its a look at the Johnson Administration's attempts to settle the conflict, including offers of economic aid to Southeast Asia. ABC presents a more downbeat assessment on Wednesday, in The Agony of Vietnam (8:30 p.m.), hosted by Edward P. Morgan and Bob Young. Explains producer Stephen Fleischman, "The people of Vietnam are in an agony, and what we're trying to do is a background hour on what this war is all about." Nearly 60 years later, it's a question that we're still trying to answer, often unsuccessfully.

We get a look at a lost art in television today: the locally-produced drama. Two on the Aisle, the long-running theater program on San Francisco's KRON, presents Oscar Wilde's comedy "The Importance of Being Earnest" (Monday, 10:00 p.m.), adapted for television by series host Rachmael ben Avran, who also directed the production, which was taped in the KRON studios. I don't know how long Two on the Aisle would run as a series of occasional specials, but I can find references to it that go back as far as 1955, along with this reference from a 1956 issue of Billboard, in which it is referred to as "the top-rated Sunday afternoon program" in the market, with a 14.5 rating and a 50% share of the audience. (See, people were able to figure out what to watch on Sundays when they weren't being force-fed sports and infomercials all day.) Producing your own series of drama specials is an incredibly ambitious venture for a local station, even back in those days; can you imagine a local station doing anything so ambitious nowadays? Are you kidding? They can barely afford to even do local news anymore.

And Beatlemania is alive and well, with a half-hour Beatles special this week, a syndicated import of a British show called Big Night Out, which was originally broadcast on ITV back on February 29, 1964. In just 30 minutes, the band manages to work in four songs ("All My Loving," "I Want to Be Your Man," "I Want to Hold Your Hand," and "Till There Was You"), plus a skit with the show's hosts. Of course, songs were a lot shorter back then, but it doesn't sound as if there was a lot of wasted time on this show. (Tuesday, 7:30 p.m., KPIX in San Francisco; Thursday, 7:00 p.m., KCRA in Sacramento; Friday, 9:00 p.m., KNTV in San Jose.) 

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It's been said that men don't really want to know what's on TV, they want to know what else is on TV. Speaking in my capacity as a male, as well as the holder of the remote, I can attest to the truth of this statement. Therefore, it shouldn't be a surprise that, even though we're concerned with what's on TV this week, some of the local stations are already looking forward to the new season. 

KXTV, the CBS affiliate in Sacramento, has some changes in store next week. The newcomer to the daily schedule is The Rifleman, and its 168 episodes; the 6:00 p.m. local news will now be seen at 5:30. Meanwhile, The Lloyd Thaxton Show moves up an hour, from 5:30 to 4:30 p.m., and The Mike Douglas Show, cut back from 90 minutes to an hour, will now air at 3:30 p.m., bumping Dobie Gillis. Ah, Dobie, good thing you've got so many loves to fall back on.

Even more than specific shows, though, the big change in the air is COLOR. KPIX, San Francisco's CBS affiliate, cashes in on the spy craze with the kickoff of the new season on September 12, the first season in which a majority of CBS programs—including Andy Griffith, Red Skelton, Petticoat Junction, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Gilligan's Island—are broadcast in color. 

But that's nothing compared to Sacramento's KCRA; as befits an NBC affiliate, the station boasts that it's the total color station this fall, including the local news. (The only black-and-white programs on NBC's primetime lineup are Convoy and the first season of I Dream of Jeanine.) Just as the networks didn't all go to color at the same time, neither did local stations; even as late as 1968, by which time the networks have totally transitioned to colorcasts, you'll find stations that still broadcast their local programming in B&W. 

I know I've mentioned this before, but for many people, there's never been anything other than color television; some very short-sighted saps out there refuse to even watch anything in black-and-white. And yet it was such a big deal when the color revolution came, and color television became such a selling point. Google some pictures of old motels from the 1970s and 1980s, and you'll see them loudly promoting the fact they have color TV, the same way they'd proclaim cable TV in later decades. It seems simple to us today, which just goes to show that sometimes it's the simple things that bring the most pleasure. Are we even capable of finding that kind of pleasure in anything today, or do we just take everything for granted? If that's the case, then without that sense of wonder, we've probably lost even more than we've gained.

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MST3K alert: The Amazing Transparent Man (1959) A crazed master spy hopes to build an army of invisible men. Marguerite Chapman, Douglas Kennedy, James Griffith, Ivan Triesault, Red Morgan. (Saturday, 6:00 p.m., KSBW in Salinas) Do you remember the movie The Men Who Stare at Goats? Came out a few years ago, told the true story of the U.S. military trying to employ psychic powers as a weapon. Given that, I can totally believe that the military would invest in something like this, a plan to create an invisible army. You wonder how many generals and CIA men might have hoped that this was an instruction manual instead of a sci-fi movie? Warning: it doesn't end well. TV  

Around the dial

At Cult TV Blog, John concludes a week's worth of posts on The Guardians with part 9, "I Want You To Understand Me." Isn't that the way we all feel? But if you're ready for political intrigue that has nothing to do with the upcoming election, here it is.

The Twilight Zone Vortex continues its way through the fifth and final season of the series with "Uncle Simon," It's an episode that, truth be told, seems like it would be a better fit for Alfred Hitchcock Presents. That being said, it's still worth watching, as are so many of the Serling-written episodes.

A Shroud of Thoughts and The Last Drive-In both offer tributes to the late Gena Rowlands, who died a couple of days ago at the age of 94. You can read what Terence has to say here, while Monstergirl's is here. And before you ask, I'd suspect we'll have a post or two about the great Peter Marshall, who died August 15, in next week's roundup.

Television's New Frontier: The 1960s looks at the final 13 episodes of Bronco, the Ty Hardin-starred series that served as one segment of the three-part wheel series that included Cheyenne and Sugarfoot. Many of the episodes from this final year deal with the reconstruction of the United States following the Civil War.

At Realweegiemidget, Gill takes us to the delightfully dishy 1980s primetime soap Dynasty, with five reasons she loves Alexis Carrington, played by the vivacious vixen Joan Collins, said reasons focusing on the lady's serial marriage history. If you're going to do a soap, you'd better do it right, and few shows did it better than Dynasty.

I've written many times about private detective shows on TV, a genre that could stand a revival, but in the meantime Martin Grams has a look at a terrific new book featuring, for the first time, the collected Continental Op stories (including two novels) written by Dashiell Hammett. These truly revolutionized detective fiction; why doesn't one of the prestige networks do a series based on them?

We're back to The Avengers at A View from the Junkyard, as Roger and Mike debate the merits of the sixth-season story "Homicide and Old Lace," a kind of throwback to the old Avengers, where the stories were a little more grounded. What's the verdict? Well, you'll just have to check it out. TV