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Where Are They Now?

2011-08-13T23:25:00.000-07:00

Let's face it: show business is a tough racket. There's a lot of highs and lows underneath all the bright lights and glittery junk, and it's the kind of business in which one literally is here today and gone tomorrow, but for any number of reasons. Typically, getting older can be a sure-fire career killer, especially if the commodity in question happens to be a child star. For every Jodie Foster there is usually a Dana Plato. Truth be told, child performers historically tend to have it tougher than most everybody else. On the other hand, all is not doom-and-gloom in the world of the pancake make-up. Some lucky ones have been known to survive the slings and arrows of testy critics and a perpetually fickle public, and go on to achieve even greater heights of stardom. Or others manage to hang around the periphery of the industry, happy they are still well enough connected to continue drawing a generous paycheck doing whatever work they can find. Unfortunately, some vanish into obscurity, either intentionally or not, never to be seen or heard from again. It's a mixed bag in today's column, in which we take a fleeting glance at some of the stars of yesteryear, all of whom you will probably recognize from their respective gigs in years past. Some good news to report for the most part, some not so good.

Tina Yothers
If you recognize that name, then you probably remember her from her stint as Michael J Fox's wisecracking little sister on the erstwhile NBC hit sitcom Family Ties; my main recollection of that show is her character making those well-timed wisecracks. She came from a show-biz family; her dad Robert was a TV producer, and she has three brothers, Jeffrey, Randy and Corey, all of whom cut their teeth as child actors in television commercials. Young Tina started appearing in TV spots at the tender age of three. She transitioned from there to roles in TV movies, leading to the gig for which she is best remembered, Jennifer Keaton on the aforementioned comedy series. That show ran from 1982 to 1989. Since its cancellation, Tina has kept a relatively low profile. She sports a sort of Goth look today, having since clipped those flowing blonde locks that endeared her to TV viewers by the millions and dyed her hair black. Her acting roles since the eighties have been few and far between. In the 90s she formed a rock band with brother Cory called Jaded, which released one CD. From 2004 thru 2007, she kept busy with theater work after a nine year absence from acting. She has also made a couple of celebrity reality TV appearances. As of this writing, it appears for all intents and purposes that Tina Yothers has retired from performing; her current role is that of full-time wife, mother and homemaker.

Jeff Conaway
This one is kinda tragic. Conaway started out young, working as a child model before transitioning to work as a child actor. He appeared in TV commercials on the side while studying at NYU. He made his film debut in 1971 in a film called Jennifer on my Mind. Shortly thereafter, he landed his breakout role in the original Broadway production of Grease, ultimately playing the lead for some two and a half years. Conaway would also appear in the Hollywood adaptation of the musical, but with pal John Travolta playing the lead this time. He kept busy with a variety of television work in the 1970s, which eventually led to the role for which he is probably best remembered, the "beefcake" character on the classic sitcom Taxi in 1978. (I know, it didn't seem like that long to me, either). After his first year on the series, the substance abuse problems that would plague Conaway for the rest of his life began to surface. He did manage to survive three seasons on Taxi before he was fired. Luckily, he was still a bankable enough performer to land plenty of work on other series throughout the 80s and 90s, including a five year stint on the popular syndicated sci-fi series Babylon 5. As the new millennium unfolded, however, years of drug and alcohol abuse would finally take their toll on the actor; fans were shocked to witness a clearly debilitated Conaway on the Celebrity Rehab with Dr Drew reality series. Conaway died of pneumonia on May 27, 2011, at the age of sixty.

Kim Fields
Kim broke into the business as a child actress during the 1970s, appearing in the short-lived Demond Wilson vehicle Baby, I'm Back as the daughter, and on Good Times as the Janet Jackson's character's friend. The role for which Kim is best-remembered came about when the decision was made to spin-off the smash hit sitcom Diff'rent Strokes starring the housekeeper character played by Charlotte Rae. That show, about a fictitious boarding school for (mostly well-off) girls in upstate New York, was called The Facts of Life. As "Tootie", Kim was the designated scene-stealer on "Facts" for the duration of its nine-year run. Happily, her life and career avoided the kinds of pitfalls suffered by her young contemporaries on the "Facts" parent series. She scored a second hit sitcom (not an easy task) with Living Single from 1993 to 1998, co-starring Queen Latifah and Kim Coles. Here's a bit of trivia: Kim's mom Chip (you may remember her from her turn on the old "Spider-Man" TV series from the 70s starring Nicholas Hammond) played her TV mom on both "Facts" and "Single". I'm thinking that may be the only time that has ever happened in the history of the medium. Although Kim has not exactly retired from acting (you may still catch her in the occasional guest-starring TV role), nowadays she is mostly doing a lot of directing work. In 2007, Kim married and gave birth to her first child.

Joe Piscopo
Much to his eternal chagrin, Piscopo was generally regarded as second-banana to Eddie Murphy during their run together on Saturday Night Live in the 80s. It's probably not fair to compartmentalize him that way; he was certainly a talented performer in his own right on that show, but it is fair to say that Murphy's breakout transition to superstardom did marginalize Piscopo to some extent. The irony is that both Piscopo and Murphy got their break on SNL as members of the infamous "new" cast on Saturday Night 80, NBC's futile attempt (the first of many over the years) to perpetuate the popular sketch comedy series in the wake of the "Not Ready for Prime Time" period coming to a close at the start of the decade. As fate would have it, they were the only two cast members who managed to avoid the axe when the rest of the new cast (including Charles Rocket and Gilbert Gottfried) were sent packing mid-season. Piscopo scored on SNL with a host of funny and durable characters: who could forget his takes on Frank Sinatra, Tom Snyder, or for that matter, as himself delivering his obnoxiously loud sports commentaries on the fake news segments? Since leaving SNL in 1984, Piscopo has kept rather busy making numerous appearances in film, television and theater, in addition to voice-over work. His trademark "I'm from Jersey" character on SNL may have been Piscopo poking fun at his own hometown; he really is from Jersey, and that is where he currently still resides. At this time, Piscopo has made no apparent plans to run for public office.

Shooting Star

2011-08-12T18:13:00.000-07:00

The coveted position of lead singer in a rock band is perhaps the most difficult to fill, and once you've found the right guy (or gal), is damned tricky to replace in the untimely event something should happen to them. Who can imagine such classic luminaries as The Rolling Stones without the likes of the ever-flamboyant Mick Jagger, or U2 without its charismatic frontman Bono? That's right, nobody. Like classic jazz from a bygone era, there are all sorts of occupational hazards that can befall the successful rock musician. Sometimes, rather tragically, they can be fatal; many a successful rock & roll outfit over the years has suddenly found itself trapped in a terminal state of flux when the face and voice of the band--as significant as the music itself, on some level--is no longer there. Here are but a few examples.

The Doors
One of the biggest and most fondly remembered rock acts of the 1960s, this group might be the poster child for what happens when your frontman without warning hops that night train to the big adios. In their heyday, The Doors could go toe-to-toe with just about any of their peers on the rock music scene. They made the rounds of many of the biggest and most prestigious venues on the pop/rock circuit, playing to standing room only crowds as a matter of routine. Even the notorious "Miami incident", in which lead singer Jim Morrison allegedly exposed his privates onstage in the middle of a number could only manage to hinder, but not destroy, the band. To be clear, talented music figure that he was, Morrison was still a train wreck. That episode tends to get most of the headlines, but there were any number of similar bizarre incidents of which Morrison was the perpetrator that would land him in even more hot water with the law. On what proved to be his last public performance with the Doors, on December 12, 1970 in New Orleans, Morrison reportedly suffered an apparent breakdown on stage halfway through the set, sitting down and refusing to continue for the remainder of the show. Essentially an accident waiting to happen, Jim Morrison died on July 3, 1971 from either a heart attack or a heroin overdose, no one can say for sure. Surviving band members have made repeated efforts over the years to continue the act in some form or another with new personnel, with mostly mixed results.

Queen
The death of Queen lead singer Freddie Mercury in November 1991 due to complications from AIDS is arguably one of rock's greatest tragedies. The 1970s were the era of the arena rock "supergroup", and Queen was among the vanguard of that species. "Bohemian Rhapsody", "We Are the Champions", and "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" were just some of their chart-topping hits from that period, with commercial success continuing into the 80s with "Another One Bites the Dust". Their LPs did the kind of business that record company executives love to no end, and the band's concerts had become major, major events unto themselves. Queen's historic performance at Live Aid on July 13, 1985, is considered by some to be the band's finest hour; organizer Bob Geldof opined that Queen "stole the show", and it was named the greatest rock performance of all time in a 2005 industry survey. Like a Mick Jagger or a Jim Morrison, Freddie Mercury has proven to be an exceptionally difficult figure to replace. One could argue that in Mercury's absence, the music is still good in its way, I suppose, but that magical, even hypnotic quality that he brought to bear in Queen's live shows is frankly irreplaceable. For a few years, from 2004 to 2009, Queen reunited and toured with ex- Bad Company frontman Paul Rodgers holding down lead vocals. As of this writing, it is anybody's guess whether the surviving band members will attempt to reunite with yet another vocalist.

The Grateful Dead
One could make a perfectly valid argument that this band would have been justified in splitting up following the death of co-founder Ron "Pigpen" McKernan in March 1973. Pigpen was about as close to a bona fide "lead singer" as The Grateful Dead would ever really have, but because so many other band members were capable enough lead vocalists, they were able to continue, more or less, without skipping a beat in spite of his absence. Death was nothing new to the Dead over the years, of course. In addition to McKernan, the act witnessed the loss of two other keyboard players; Keith Godchaux perished in a car accident a year after his departure in 1979, and Brent Mydland suffered a narcotics overdose in July 1990. Circumstances would change in a big way, however, upon the death of lead guitarist Jerry Garcia in August 1995. If anybody had emerged as the face, voice and spirit of this band, it was Garcia, who was also front and center on lead vocals in much of the band's repertoire. In the aftermath of the loss of Garcia, surviving members have continued to perform together in a variety of different combos, even going so far as to form a quasi-Dead band called The Other Ones in 1998, which they subsequently renamed The Dead in 2003. It is unclear what remains in store for this line-up, as Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart are currently involved in other group and solo projects.

AC/DC
Okay, folks. We saved the best for last, because in a sense, this is the only one I can think of that really, truly worked. Fans of this group who are old enough to remember the Nixon Administration probably remember that the original lead singer of this hard-driving, pulse-pounding rock band was a fellow by the name of Dave Evans. Unfortunately, the chemistry between Evans and the rest of the band was wanting, so the other members decided to replace him with vocalist Bon Scott in 1974. Scott was an experienced lead singer and proved to be an exceptionally charismatic frontman. Within a few short years, AC/DC would morph into an international sensation on the contemporary rock music scene, but it all very nearly came to a screeching halt following the sudden death of Bon Scott in 1980. To this day, speculation runs rampant as to how Scott actually died and under what circumstances. Officially, the cause of death was ruled "acute alcohol poisoning", but rumors persist that Scott was the victim of a heroin overdose. To make matters worse, the band were in the middle of a recording session for what would become the Back in Black LP. Yet ironically enough, prior to his death, Scott himself had raved about the vocal talents of a singer in another outfit by the name of Brian Johnson. It didn't hurt that Johnson's style and vocal range were similar to that of Scott, and after a brief audition, Johnson was hired. The revamped AC/DC completed the aforementioned record with Johnson on lead vocals, and the band, as luck would have it, not only continued in the wake of Bon Scott's passing, it has since grown to become every bit as much Johnson's band as it was Scott's, if not more so. To date, AC/DC keeps chugging along as one of the absolute biggest rock acts in the world.

And The Beat Goes On

2011-08-11T20:09:00.000-07:00

My first exposure to Sonny and Cher that I can recall is those goofy variety series they hosted back in the 1970s. As a little kid, I didn't really know who the heck they were other than TV stars, which is sort of ironic given that they made a name for themselves--for a little while, anyway--as one of the bigger pop acts of the 1960s when Brill Building inflected pop artistry was the order of the day in the teenybopper arm of the record business. That is, until acid-influenced rock bands started putting out LPs with single tracks that burned entire album sides. (For those of you who may not know what "LP"s and "albums" are, feel free to Google those terms). It's all the more intriguing given that Cher is a huge star today as a solo act (and has been for quite some time, for that matter), and Sonny is largely forgotten save for that segment of the public whose ear remains glued to classic rock channels, where Sonny and Cher's old hits still reign supreme. That Sonny was in reality Svengali to Cher's Trilby is a fact you would never pick up on if all you had to go by was their carefully crafted show-biz persona.

It all started one day in the fall of 1962 when 27 year-old Salvatore Bono met 16 year-old Cherilyn Sarkisian in a little coffee shop in Los Angeles. The two hit it off immediately, and given the subsequent career implications for both parties, the meeting was pretty inauspicious. Sonny at that time was working for Phil Spector (boy, what happened to THAT guy?) and before long, he had Cher under Spector's employ as a backup vocalist on recording sessions. If you listen closely, you can hear Cher (with or without Sonny) in the background of some of Spector's iconic hit singles from this period. Supposedly after watching a performance by Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, Spector thought it would be funny to put Sonny and Cher together as a takeoff on Dylan and Baez. Sonny and Cher would later claim to have been married sometime in '63, with a wedding ceremony taking place in Tijuana in the fall of '64 .

For some reason, it was initially decided to call the act "Caesar and Cleo" with Sonny writing the material, of course. Though they did manage to record a few early singles, that incarnation of the duo more or less went nowhere. By the time they recorded and released "Baby Don't Go" in 1964, they were properly billed as Sonny and Cher. This tune proved to be their first top ten hit, and they were off and running. All of a sudden, Sonny and Cher were everywhere; you could hardly turn on a TV or radio without seeing them or hearing them. They immediately became a huge concert draw all over the world. Their pop explosion was all the more impressive in light of other new acts like The Beatles and The Rolling Stones who were also emerging around this time.

As the sixties unfolded, so did the string of Sonny and Cher hits. "I Got You, Babe", "The Beat Goes On", "Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)", "Little Man"; all were staples of 60s top-40 pop radio. It was certainly a heady time; the couple now looked about as hot as any of the big British invasion bands that were storming the American market, even going toe-to-toe with a veteran heavyweight like Elvis. But as fate would have it, the facade slowly started to crack. Good Times, a film project organized by Sonny in a calculated attempt to turn Sonny and Cher into movie stars, was directed by a then-unknown filmmaker named William Friedkin. This movie was a resounding bomb upon its release in 1967, an eerie precursor to the disaster that was Head, The Monkees' foray into feature films the following year. Unfortunately for the superstar pop couple, the hit singles had pretty much dried up, too, by the end of the decade.

But Sonny was far from finished. Sonny and Cher still had a certain appeal as live performers, so with that in mind, Sonny transplanted the act to the nightclub scene of Las Vegas where the team would gradually reinvent itself. Evolving from swinging sixties pop duo to full-fledged comedy team with the music to some extent relegated to the background, the new incarnation of the act was a little slow to catch on at first. Cher was now the wise-cracking "straight man" in their alternate persona; Sonny, the hapless punching bag as the butt of all the jokes. Funny thing was, behind the scenes it was actually Sonny who was writing a lot of those jokes, not to mention supervising all of the music arrangements as usual. In fact, Sonny was firmly in command of just about every aspect of their lives, which now included infant daughter Chastity, born in 1969.

Eventually, this revamped version of Sonny and Cher would attract the attention of television talent scouts. This led to the first Sonny and Cher TV special in 1971, The Nitty Gritty Hour. The success of that broadcast led to the opportunity to host their own variety series, and thus, The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour was born. The viewing public couldn't seem to get enough of the act now, their early forays into the folk-pop music scene for the most part a distant memory. As major network television stars, Sonny and Cher enjoyed consistently high ratings in addition to favor among critics.They even revived their stagnant recording career, releasing a new record in 1972 featuring two more top ten singles, "All I Ever Need Is You" and "A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done".

Unfortunately, the duo's conspicuous return to the spotlight would come at a price. Their marriage, which according to later accounts by Cher herself was far from ideal to begin with, would ultimately collapse under the strain. After four successful seasons, the "Comedy Hour" was subsequently cancelled following the public and rather bitter divorce of Sonny and Cher. Although the two would reconcile their personal friendship, even going so far as to attempt a TV comeback in prime time a couple of years later, the wild ride that was Sonny and Cher had essentially ground to a halt by the end of the decade. The (new) Sonny and Cher show was cancelled due to low ratings in 1977.

The famous ex-couple hardly remained idle in the years since their split, however. Sonny continued his acting career, in addition to other business interests, and later entered the world of politics. In 1988, he was elected mayor of Palm Springs, California; in 1994, he was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. For her part, Cher has continued her music career as a successful solo act, as well as making the transition to movie stardom in the 1980s. She won the 1987 Academy Award for Best Actress for her performance in Moonstruck. Sonny and Cher would make two on-stage reunions: The Mike Douglas Show in 1979 and Late Night with David Letterman in 1987.

On January 5, 1998, Sonny Bono was killed in a freak skiing accident in Lake Tahoe, Nevada. He was 62.

Ready for Prime Time

2011-08-10T17:06:00.000-07:00

Television as a media outlet has long been a source of controversy, and a thorn in the side of many an enlightened observer for as long as its relatively short existence. In 1961, FCC chairman Newton Minnow famously called it "a vast wasteland". Frank Lloyd Wright quipped it was "chewing gum for the eyes". The slang term "boob tube" was coined in the halcyon days of TV; author John Updike may have coined the term "idiot box" in his seminal work Rabbit, Run in 1960.

True, the medium is flawed and somewhat limited. Yes, there's a lot of junk on the tube, and its inherent corruption at the hands of undue corporate influence makes for pretty stinging satire in Paddy Chayefsky's Network. And who could forget that as of this writing, Jay Leno is the permanent host of The Tonight Show? But criticism aside, TV is always known to have its moments in spite of itself. So with that ringing endorsement, in today's column we will discuss some of our picks for GREATEST TV EPISODES OF ALL TIME. By all means, feel free to amend this list however you like.

The Twilight Zone "The Four of Us Are Dying" (1960)
This would be the first episode of the classic series that made a lasting impression on me. Rod Serling's memorable sci-fi and suspense anthology, often imitated but never duplicated, was still in search of its audience when this installment aired during the show's first season. This story about the duplicitous nature of the human character, and perhaps that of life in general, may have done much to help the new program carve out a niche for itself in its initial phase. This episode features many of the hallmarks that would make The Twilight Zone such a huge cult favorite with the passage of time; the way it seamlessly blends the best elements of classic film noir by way of a breezy, jazzy score by noted film composer Jerry Goldsmith certainly makes it one of the series' easiest chapters to watch. Now, while there are some rather obvious flaws in the logic of the story, about an exceedingly unscrupulous fellow who possesses the ability to re-arrange the contour of his own face to duplicate that of any other face he comes across, literal point A to point B storytelling was never all that huge a concern for The Twilight Zone's creative team, or for that matter, its audience. The episode is all the more memorable in that it showcases early screen appearances of such popular actors as Ross Martin, Beverly Garland, and Don Gordon, all of whom went on to enjoy stalwart careers in film and television.

Alfred Hitchcock Presents "The Man from the South" (1960)
Not only is this metaphor about the evils of gambling one of my personal favorites, it is justifiably one of the most famous episodes of this classic series, if for no other reason than the stunt casting showcase of Steve McQueen versus Peter Lorre. Quentin Tarantino's post-modern spin on this oldie but goodie was pretty much the only highlight of his disastrous collaborative experiment Four Rooms, but interestingly, that is only one of a handful of adaptations of the noted short story by Roald Dahl over the years. As fate would have it, this story was first broadcast two days after the "The Four Of Us Are Dying", appropriate in light of the way these two film noir-oriented, suspense-driven TV series tended to compliment each other. McQueen was a relative unknown at the time, and his work in this show was part of his ongoing effort to build enough of a resume in television to propel him into the major movie superstardom that he would enjoy as the sixties unfolded. Peter Lorre, on the other hand, had essentially realized a major film career in his own right, starring in several fine Hitchcock films from the 1930s and 40s, as well as other noteworthy crime films like The Maltese Falcon. "The Man from the South" resembles something like a changing of the guard as it were, as two of the Silver Screen's most easily recognizable figures pull every scene-stealing trick in the book to try to upstage each other in the short space of a mere twenty-odd minutes' worth of screen time.

Saturday Night Live hosted by Desi Arnaz (1976)
During the inaugural season of that timeworn TV staple known as SNL, Desi Arnaz, the guy who played Ricky Ricardo on I Love Lucy, published his memoirs with the provocative title, A Book. In the ensuing promotional tour, the opportunity arose for Desi to host the brand-new late-night sketch comedy series, and Desi accepted. The subsequent broadcast, while not the most "famous" installment in the program's history, is certainly one of its very best and most entertaining. The program was especially fitting as Desi Arnaz was himself one of the most famous television pioneers who ever lived, and the format of this newfangled show for (mostly) young people harkened back to TV's salad days. In that spirit, the show manages to simultaneously pay tribute to and lampoon Desi, to consistently charming effect. The handful of folks who were tuned in that Saturday night were treated to well-written spoofs of such venerable Desilu fare as The Untouchables (Dan Ayckroyd as Elliot Ness, who else?) and of course the aforementioned classic sitcom, this time featuring Gilda Radner as Lucy. The show wraps with my hands-down pick for that program's most memorable segment in its history: silver-haired Desi Arnaz, evidently tired out from a long night's work, takes center stage with his son Desi Jr, to lead the cast and studio audience in a rousing rendition of Desi's signature tune "Babalu". It ran so long, they had to cut in for commercial as Desi led the entire SNL cast in a spirited conga line around the SNL studio, finally rolling the closing credits over the still-pulsating rhythm. The show should have just ended right there, and spared us the succeeding three decades.

Seinfeld "The Invitations" (1996)
I choose to disregard the train wreck that was the final episode of arguably the greatest sitcom in television history; instead, here is what maybe should have been that program's true finale. It was the final broadcast written by series co-creator and head writer Larry David, and one has the sense that David knew he was at the end of the line when he wrote it. The story rather neatly encapsulates the various tenets of the show, putting on display some of the most wicked modes of black comedy ever witnessed in prime time. David even took the extra step of killing off the Susan character, played by Heidi Swedberg, and that death ends up being the focus of much of the show's most cringe-inducing yet humorous moments. Swedberg has since publicly stated that she got a kick out of having her character croak in such a darkly comic manner, while Jason Alexander (aka George) has claimed that Susan's death is only one of two instances when the show's audience turned on him or his character (the one where George eats the pastry out of the garbage being the other). The notion that George was, whether intentionally or not, responsible for the Susan character's death was a bit much for even this show's loyal following; the possibility, however remote, that George may have even murdered her character bordered on sacrilege. And Jerry, Elaine, Kramer and George behaving as though they didn't really give a damn, some people found especially crass. Yeah, crass but funny.

The Sopranos "Blue Comet" (2007)
Also known as the next-to-last episode of this hugely popular contemporary mafia series, I think writer-producer David Chase probably should have just called it a day right here. Like the Seinfeld "Invitations" episode, this story neatly tied up much of the program's central themes and protagonists in a manner that would have made a fitting end for the long-running crime drama, but...wasn't. All of the intrigues and complex story lines that had unfolded over the duration of The Sopranos' run actually came to a head in this chapter, not the largely superfluous finale of record. Like that final episode, "Comet" has an ending that is rather ambiguous, but the picture of Tony Soprano curled up alone in bed with a shotgun, fearing for his life, would have made the perfect image for the series to fade out with, and also would have still left the door open for the often-discussed but apparently unlikely big-screen adaptation "Sopranos" sequel. In this episode, we see a vulnerability in the Tony Soprano character that was rarely seen for the duration of the series' evolution, juxtaposed with the irony of Peter Bogdanovich driving a stake through Tony's heart by convincing the Lorraine Bracco character to dump Tony as a psychotherapy patient. The way Chase and company weave that narrative seems cruel and heartless, at first. That is, until you consider that mob boss Tony is a hundred times MORE cruel and heartless, even on his best day.

Requiem for a Heavyweight

2011-08-09T21:37:00.000-07:00

There is a fifth dimension...

Rod Serling's career ambition was probably not to make a name for himself in the world of television; he simply wanted to be a writer. His unique worldview, it has been said, was largely shaped as the result of his especially brutal experiences in combat during World War Two. When it was all said and done, Serling was awarded the Purple Heart, the Bronze Star, and the Philippine Liberation Medal for his service to the US Army. Based on remarks he would make to close acquaintances and to interviewers over the years, one could make the argument that Serling likely suffered from PTSD; writing may well have been a form of therapy. Upon the conclusion of his combat service, Serling was beset with physical and psychological maladies that would plague him for the rest of his life--nightmares, flashbacks, a serious knee injury.

The career path Serling would take was shaped by and large during his college years, in which he studied theater, broadcasting and literature. He cut his teeth as a writer doing marginal work in the field of radio. Once he had exhausted the possibilities of that medium, the next logical step was to begin writing for the small screen. Network television was pretty new, still in its infancy, and it was the perfect venue for a man of Serling's creative impulse. As the 1950s unfolded, he would make a steady living selling his early scripts to some of the popular live anthology drama series of the day, including Kraft Television Theater, Appointment with Adventure, and Hallmark Hall of Fame. He received rave reviews for two original teleplays of note, Patterns and Requiem for a Heavyweight.

Irritated by censorship and general interference by network executives and corporate sponsors, Serling hit upon the idea of utilizing specific genre motifs to camouflage the message he wanted to impart. The 50s were nothing if not circumspect; topics concerning racism or other "tricky" political subjects were considered too taboo for TV in those days. However, if you couched those ideas in the hazy metaphor of say, science fiction or mystery and suspense, the suits tended to leave you alone. With that thought in mind, Serling revised an old script from his college days called The Time Element, which he intended to serve as the pilot for a unique weekly anthology series he was pitching to the CBS television network called The Twilight Zone. The network passed on that proposal, but used the script anyway for a new show produced by Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz called The Westinghouse Desilu Playhouse. Public response to The Time Element was such that the network decided to give Serling the go-ahead for his own series after all...

The Twilight Zone premiered on October 2, 1959. It was an instant hit with critics, but was slow to build an audience at first. Over time that would change, as Serling and his two other principal writers, Charles Beaumont and Richard Matheson, found novel ways to stretch the boundaries of network series television. For the most part, Serling's original notion proved to be accurate; the science fiction format enabled the series to avoid controversy and to escape too much network censorship. He could not entirely sidestep network interference, however; Serling always had to fight to maintain creative control over his series.

Rod Serling wrote 92 of the show's 156 episodes. CBS, never really happy with the series' consistently middling ratings (despite strong critical support and a loyal fan base), tried as best they could to meddle with the show. Tampering with the intro segments, expanding the show from a half-hour to an hour for season 4 (then returning it to a half hour for season 5), and actually canceling the series twice. Most folks probably don't remember that one. The third time CBS cancelled The Twilight Zone proved to be the last. Serling decided he had had enough of dealing with network bosses, and besides, he was burned out producing, writing and hosting the show week in and week out. The final telecast of one of the most iconic creations in television history took place on June 19, 1964. Serling parted company with CBS by making the (subsequently) ill-advised decision to sell his 40% share of the series to the network.

If anybody was living proof that fame is a bitch goddess, it was Rod Serling. His aim to become a "serious" writer was curtailed by his becoming an unexpectedly marketable television personality, the result of his weekly onscreen appearances as host and narrator of The Twilight Zone. His original choice to serve as the face and the voice of the show was Orson Welles, but Welles reportedly wanted too much money. Mostly as a cost-cutting measure, Serling as de facto executive producer decided to do the job himself. Ironically, this decision would transform him into a celebrity at least as popular as his beloved TV series, if not more so. Over the years, Serling was a familiar face to TV viewers as a guest on other series, even pulling duty as a commercial pitchman.

His years in the wake of The Twilight Zone's final cancellation were productive if unspectacular. He produced a series called The Loner which was not well-received by critics or audiences, and was axed after one season. He wrote and produced a TV movie called The Doomsday Flight (1966) which sparked considerable controversy when its story (apparently) inspired a string of copycat ransom threats to several major airlines. He co-wrote the screenplay to the film adaptation of The Planet of the Apes (1968). In 1969, Serling hosted a short-lived game show called Liar's Club. When he wasn't preoccupied with his own projects, Serling also kept his schedule full with a number of teaching positions he held throughout the 1960s and 70s.

I suppose in such a context, it was inevitable that Serling would write the pilot for Night Gallery, an anthology series that would once again showcase Serling as onscreen host and principal scriptwriter. The series managed to eke out three seasons' worth of material, mostly on life-support. Serling passed on the opportunity to produce this time around, a decision that would prove costly in the long run in terms of the level of quality Serling wanted that new series to maintain. That pilot episode, a two-hour TV movie broadcast on November 8, 1969, was actually pretty good. It featured three vignettes starring Ossie Davis, Roddy McDowall, Richard Kiley, and Joan Crawford in what proved to be one of her final acting appearances.

Serling would live to regret not having the clout with which to fight the network that producing would have afforded him. On Night Gallery, he was just another hired hand; the network this time around, NBC, didn't have to listen to him, and would typically ignore his suggestions and general attempts at creative input. The meddling Serling dealt with during The Twilight Zone's run was nothing compared to his treatment on this new series, a program that many observers regarded as little more than The Twilight Zone's bastard stepchild. In all fairness, Night Gallery did have its moments, but those moments I think we can all agree were few and far between. Serling still had what it took to write compelling television when the inspiration struck him, but the TV landscape had changed somewhat in the years since the earlier series left the airwaves. The audience had certainly changed, and it can be safely said that the medium had little room for what amounted to a " Twilight Zone" rehash. Serling had all but disowned the series by the time of its its cancellation in 1973.

Serling was a lifelong heavy smoker, and this undoubtedly contributed to serious health problems he would encounter in his final years. After suffering two minor coronary episodes in May of 1975, doctors convinced him to undergo open-heart surgery. On June 28, 1975, he suffered a third heart attack on the operating table, and it proved to be fatal. Rod Serling, as formidable a visionary and creative force that the narrow medium of television has ever seen, was 50.

...beyond that which is known to man.

...And The Envelope, Please!

2011-08-08T19:56:00.000-07:00

Never let it be said that have a nice day! eschews the basic principles of "fairness" and "balance" in media "reporting", nosireebob! Our recent column eviscerating some of the "worst" Oscar winners in history is certainly one of our favorites; however, as turnabout is fair play, here are some of our picks for "best" picture winners at the Academy Awards. Feel free to amend this list with some of your own favorites. And now, in no particular order...

Midnight Cowboy (April 7, 1970)
I will say upfront that at least one other film in 1969 gave this movie a legitimate run for its money, that is Sydney Pollack's They Shoot Horses, Don't They?. Truth be told, "Horses" probably should have won; if I had a vote, I think it edges out "Cowboy" (if only by percentage points). But having said that, I am nonetheless delighted that the John Schlesinger opus took down the little gold statuette. Both films take a rather dim view of the myth of American Exceptionalism by focusing on characters who are in every sense "unexceptional" and elevating them to heroic status. Both movies essentially make the argument that isolation in the extreme from the mainstream of society can kill you, figuratively and literally, but "Cowboy" takes its argument a step further. Homosexuality was most definitely not a topic of discussion in mainstream American anything in those days, but Midnight Cowboy addresses the subject head on, utilizing complex central characters and a likewise narrative structure. The movie may not have delved into the subject quite as deeply as the novel by James Leo Herlihy on which it is based, but the fact that a mainstream Hollywood film would even go there at all in the 1960s is impressive in and of itself. "Cowboy" stands as the only X-rated film to win an Oscar in any category.

The French Connection (April 10, 1972)
One of my all-time favorite Oscar winners, and one of my all-time favorite movies, this William Friedkin epic made a boatload of greenbacks upon its release in 1971. Critical and commercial success usually don't hurt a Best Picture candidate's chances at the Oscars but this film lived up to the hype. (Pauline Kael didn't like it, but she didn't like Bonnie and Clyde either, so go figure). Yeah, at least two other movies that year were in the same ballpark in terms of quality, Monte Hellman's Two-Lane Blacktop and Alan Pakula's Klute, but "Connection" gave new meaning to the term "riveting". Gene Hackman delivered a star-making, Oscar winning performance as "Popeye" Doyle, a vice cop obsessed nearly to the point of madness in his pursuit of a slimy drug kingpin. And of course, there is that damn car chase. CGI technology did not exist in any shape or form in 1970 when this film was shot in the bitter cold streets of New York City. Those were real cars driven by real people crashing into all that stuff, and very nearly running over other real people in the streets. As legend has it, director Friedkin went "renegade" and, ignoring all the rules of filmmaking protocol and common sense, simply went out into the streets and ordered stunt driver Bill Hickman to show him some "hairy" driving. Hickman responded in no uncertain terms, and cinematic history was made in spades.

The Godfather, Part Two (April 8, 1975)
The first installment of Francis Ford Coppola's epic mafia franchise is undoubtedly the most beloved of the series (hey, anything starring Marlon Brando can't be all bad), but I must admit that the more overtly complicated sequel to that film is my personal favorite. Al Pacino actually builds on the performance in the original film that made him a movie star, and shows us Michael Corleone's slow but sure descent from humanity into something akin to Night of the Living Dead. However, it may be Robert DeNiro filling in for Marlon Brando who leaves the strongest impression in this film. Remember, this is pre-Taxi Driver; DeNiro was far from a household name yet, and Coppola was taking nearly as big a chance on him in this movie as he was taking with casting Brando in the original film explicitly against the wishes of the suits at Paramount Pictures. DeNiro is then handed the nearly impossible task of crafting an original interpretation of the Godfather character that simultaneously evokes Brando AND makes the audience forget about Brando. That's a pretty tall order, folks; I imagine they'd have to cast Daniel Day-Lewis if this film were being made today. Reportedly, Paramount head Robert Evans had been such a pain in the ass on that first film that Coppola demanded Evans be barred from the set for its sequel. And he was.

American Beauty (March 26, 2000)
I was pretty blown away by this film at the time of its initial release. Kevin Spacey, riding the wave of well-received turns in films such as LA Confidential and The Usual Suspects, among others, earned a well-deserved Oscar for his performance as a burned out company hack suffering from mid-life crisis. Critical and commercial response to American Beauty was pretty strong when it first made the rounds of the multiplexes at home and abroad, but inexplicably, the movie has since found itself the victim of a certain backlash at the hands of a few mainstream critics. In 2005, some rag that nobody took seriously called Premiere named "Beauty" as one of the "20 most overrated movies of all time". Well, la-de-freakin'-da. Now I will allow that this film does bear some resemblance to a couple of older pictures, Save The Tiger and Ordinary People. Jack Lemmon won an Oscar playing a burned-out businessman in "Tiger" not that different from the character Spacey plays in "Beauty", and "People" concerns a troubled family on the brink of collapse. That would be a valid criticism, but only the most superficial viewing of American Beauty would lead one to conclude that the film is itself superficial. This movie does NOT celebrate the best humanity has to offer, it instead amplifies the WORST aspects of the human character. The rosy veneer the picture was adorned with was intended to make the content a little more palatable. Half-assed movie "critics" who subsequently claimed this film had all the depth of a Hallmark greeting card missed the point entirely.

The Departed (February 25, 2007)
Finally, the one that made it! I will never forget the day after that year's awards had been passed out, I came across an item in the entertainment section of one of the Chicago dailies, in which the writer (somebody you've never heard of) had the gall to opine, "THE DEPARTED? The guy who made Taxi Driver and Raging Bull won for THE DEPARTED? Really?". Well, uh...YEAH, dipshit. And he deserved it, too. Now we have previously discussed the fact that Raging Bull's Oscar "loss" should be considered one of the all-time greatest Academy Awards miscarriages of justice. Taxi Driver had no chance to win as it was one of three movies that were too busy getting ripped off by Rocky the year of their release. In fact, Scorsese could well have won for several other films over the course of his illustrious career. Goodfellas, Casino, The Aviator--all worthy of a Best Picture award. The Gangs of New York certainly had a shot, but it did not win and I'm glad it didn't. "Gangs" was an extremely flawed movie, and it would have been more of an embarrassment for Scorsese to have won for that one. The Last Waltz was easily deserving of an award for Best Documentary, but it didn't even get nominated, I don't think. At any rate, Martin Scorsese is one of the few directors still working in Hollywood today who can take what should have been a routine programmer action/cop flick, and elevate the thing to Oscar-worthy proportions. The Departed isn't really the standard shoot-'em-up it's disguised to look like; it's more a movie about duplicity. We could also get into metaphors about "redemption" and "sins of the father" and all that sort of thing, but that would be a bit much, even for this column.

The Dennis Hopper Experience

2011-08-07T19:17:00.000-07:00

In 1968, Dennis Hopper, almost by accident, landed the opportunity to direct his first feature film when a buddy of his, actor Peter Fonda, decided it would be a groovy idea to make a Western. Not just any Western, mind you; this would be something of a post-modern, revisionist take on the genre, juxtaposing guys on horses with guys on motorcycles. It was a simple enough premise made all the more attractive by Fonda's star-making turns in a couple of contemporary Roger Corman films of note, The Wild Angels and The Trip. Fonda was a "hot" property now, sort of like the counterculture's answer to Gary Cooper; this new film would unfold along a similar vein. He told the idea to Hopper, and it was decided the two of them would make this movie with Fonda producing and Hopper directing.

The movie in question, of course, was Easy Rider. It cost relatively little to make, and upon its eventual release in 1969, made the kind of money that studio big shots tend to notice. This is important in that the runaway success of this film would enable Hopper to direct the movie he had actually wanted to make in the first place, an idea he had developed years earlier with the screenwriter responsible for Rebel Without A Cause. Universal studios, hoping for something along the lines of Easy Rider 2, gave Hopper carte blanche to make whatever he felt like; thus, a sketchy idea that studio after studio had turned down en masse for nearly a decade would finally see the light of day. The working title of this movie was Chinchero.

Released at long last in the fall of 1971, The Last Movie was, to put it bluntly, an unmitigated disaster for Dennis Hopper. For starters, the debacle effectively ended Hopper's career ambition to make his own films; in certain respects, it wasn't that different from what had happened to Orson Welles a few decades earlier. That this movie never had a chance to succeed is plain to see by the savage degree to which critics attacked it, and by the fact that the studio essentially refused to promote it. They had already sunk somewhere in the neighborhood of a million dollars (serious cash in those days) into the picture, and what they saw on the screen was to them largely incomprehensible, even by "art house" standards. The bottom line for a Hopper or a Welles is that auteurs are only permitted to write their own ticket in this town provided that their work yields a profit. Think Martin Scorsese, or perhaps Quentin Tarantino.

I, for one, think that The Last Movie got a bad rap. Rightly or wrongly, American directors are prone to take some brickbats when they try to make a movie like this. Arthur Penn with Mickey One (1965), Sam Peckinpaw with Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974), Robert Altman with Brewster McCloud (1970), practically anything by John Cassavetes. Mainstream critics tend to prefer their Hollywood types to toe the line accordingly; what some critics will overpraise at the hands of the French New Wave or the old German Expressionists, for example, seems "pretentious" or "indulgent" coming from American counterparts.

This is not to say that Hopper's "masterpiece" is not without its problems. The film does suffer from a somewhat disjointed narrative, and it gives new meaning to the term "surreal". Don't laugh when I say this, but The Last Movie is really just a good ol' Twilight Zone episode, only expanded to just over ninety minutes and enhanced with something on the order of a CAULDRON of LSD, or maybe Angel Dust. Imagine the Mardi Gras scene at the end of Easy Rider when everybody dropped all that acid and then freaked out for ten minutes. Picture that for nearly two hours, and you have The Last Movie. Now, much of this stems from the way the movie was edited. The greatest irony between this tarnished movie and its more beloved predecessor is that on Easy Rider, Hopper was involved with other people whose judgement he had to respect (or at least live with, since they had the right to recut that film, which they ultimately did). On The Last Movie, he had an absolute free hand (including final cut), and for better or worse, it shows. Reportedly, Hopper's original cut of the film was more straightforward and in accordance with the dictates of conventional storytelling. That cut fell out of favor with the director, so he destroyed it and put together the cut of the film that is seen today.

Even though I have a more favorable opinion overall, some of the charges leveled at this movie are not without some merit. Inept and pretentious, just plain pitiful, gaseous and overblown mess, an extravagant mess, an embarrassment, endless, chaotic, suffocating, acid-soaked. I actually concur with some of that sentiment to a degree: Hopper was experiencing some serious life issues during this period, including marital discord and rampant drug abuse. He was mostly out of control south of the border while filming this movie, and this time he did not have the stabilizing influence of a Peter Fonda or a Bert Schneider as producers. Pondered in that light, The Last Movie may give new meaning to the term "artistic excess".

Nonetheless, this movie has something to say, and here is my best guess as to what that message is. The Last Movie is a metaphor for the perverse affect that the "conventional" Hollywood film has on our collective psyche. It screws up the way we see ourselves by telling us the way we're supposed to see ourselves; which, of course, is crazy, since nothing shown on the screen is "real", anyway. It's merely an idealized, heavily sanitized impression of who we are and of reality. More specifically, it panders to the way we would prefer to see ourselves. But the truth is, we are not Steve McQueen or Rita Hayworth. The Beautiful People don't suffer the same indignities on celluloid that we do in life, and in the effort to convince us otherwise, the movies LIE. At its worst, Hollywood not only sells us this false self-image, but does so with undue value placed on the material and the commercial. That's a pretty heady idea coming from a guy who was most likely stoned out of his mind at the time, even by his own admission. I would also add, maybe that's what the industry truly resented about this picture: not the quality of the production or lack thereof, but its audacious assertion that Hollywood is simply a bunch of bullshit.

Years later, Hopper was able to mend enough fences in order that he eventually managed to hustle more opportunities to direct. The results were mostly inconsistent; never again would Hopper supervise a more iconic film like an Easy Rider or a more edgy, self-conscious film like The Last Movie. The realities of the business in the eighties and nineties were such that these kinds of films were a lot harder to make than they had been for the Woodstock Generation, and whatever audience they could hope to expect was largely outside the mainstream. But a funny thing happened. As is often the case, the passage of time has a way of casting art, movies especially, in a better and more interesting light than it sometimes enjoys initially, and such was the case with the erstwhile much maligned Dennis Hopper film. Today, the film enjoys something of a cult following; Hopper later re-acquired rights to the film and was planning a DVD release, but his death in 2010 curtailed this effort.

Admittedly, The Last Movie is not an especially easy movie to sit through. It may be guilty of some excesses, but it is well worth watching.

Beat The Devil

2011-08-06T13:36:00.000-07:00

I don't know exactly when there came to be a "stigma" attached to television game show hosts, but one suspects it may well have started with this man, Jack Barasch, better known as Jack Barry. To readers of a certain age, Barry is fondly remembered as the host of a rather popular game show from a bygone era called The Joker's Wild; but to readers of another, older time period, he would be forever remembered as one of the crooked game-show producers behind the 1950s Quiz Show scandal immortalized in the classic Robert Redford film.

The show in question was called Twenty-One, a quiz show that challenged the trivial expertise of its players. In terms of pure difficulty, this thing was like Jeopardy on steroids. It was so daunting, in fact, that the earliest contestants repeatedly flubbed answers to the questions, making for pretty stale television. At least that's what the show's sponsor, Geritol, thought, and so to appease the folks who were picking up the tab for their program, the decision was made by the show's producers to "rig" the telecast in an effort to make the show more compelling. Players were prepped with the show's questions and their correct answers in advance of the broadcast, and they were coached to play up the suspense angle accordingly. The viewers at home and in the studio audience were held captive by the ensuing "drama".

Why would the producers do it? Not because they were "evil" people; they did it on account of money. Game shows in those days were like the 50s answer to reality TV: they cost practically nothing to produce, you didn't need to worry about scripts or difficult actors, and most importantly, they were broadcast in prime-time, which meant they had the potential to be enormously profitable. They were all over the television landscape of the day, and the best of them, like the reality shows we are all familiar with nowadays, typically brought in strong ratings. So the game was juiced for everybody involved: the players, the producers, the networks, and above all, the sponsors. In its heyday, Twenty-One was one of the biggest shows of its kind (imagine what you would get if you crossed American Idol with Trivial Pursuit), but after it was revealed that the whole thing was a complete fraud, the show was quietly pulled by its network, NBC. Its final telecast was October 17, 1958. One could argue that the Twenty-One scandal in its aftermath actually changed the face of television, in that it pretty much killed the prime-time game show phenomenon. However, big-time TV networks are nothing if not resourceful, and the game-show format would find new life in the milieu of daytime television.

For his part, Barry denied that he was involved in the actual "fixing" of Twenty-One, that that was largely the work of Barry's business partner, fellow producer Dan Enright and Enright's assistant. Honestly though, what I know about TV production makes that story sound a little weak. It was Jack Barry's show, produced under the aegis of Barry's own production company, Barry-Enright productions. As one of the producers, Barry would have been among the first to know that a major sponsor wanted changes made to a program in danger of tanking, which Twenty-One was initially. If the decision was made to "juice" the show, Barry as co-producer would have to give the idea at least tacit approval. And as a practical matter, being the show's host, Barry would need to be in on the scam so that he could convincingly play along with the contestants. These guys weren't getting paid to produce integrity, they were getting paid to produce entertainment.

Barry's denial of greater culpability falls flat for still another reason. Twenty-One was only one of several successful game shows brought to you by Barry-Enright productions that were allegedly rigged as well. A couple of them you may have heard of: the original Tic-Tac-Dough and Concentration, both also hosted by Barry. These programs all ran concurrently with Twenty-One, but after the scandal broke, one by one they were all subsequently cancelled, which effectively ended Barry's career as a popular game show host.

But Jack Barry was pretty resourceful in his own right, so he wasted little time in reinventing himself, establishing a new career, and mending his tarnished reputation. Leaving the mean streets of New York behind, Barry relocated to sunny southern California. He purchased a Los Angeles radio station and an early cable TV prototype, based in Redondo Beach. He slowly but surely re-established himself as a bankable figure in local programming produced in Los Angeles, including a gradual return to the game show format. This ultimately made it possible for Barry to re-emerge on the national TV stage, eventually becoming a host again for an ABC show called The Generation Gap in 1969. Around that time, Jack Barry hit upon the idea that would not only return him to the national spotlight as host of a major game show, but would also make him fabulously wealthy in the process.

After several abortive attempts to launch the program he called The Joker's Wild, which included two failed pilot episodes and a couple of major format changes, the version that we remember with Barry as host made its debut in 1972, the same day as the re-incarnation of an old show called The Price Is Right, now hosted by Bob Barker. Shortly thereafter, Barry brought his old partner Dan Enright back into the fold as executive producer. The ratings for this early version of "Joker" were serviceable, but it was when Barry and Enright sold reruns of the show into syndication that it really took off, such that they opted to produce new episodes for first run syndication in 1977. That's the version I distinctly recall watching as a kid, and I loved it. I don't know, there was just something fascinating about watching people spin a giant slot machine on television. The funny thing is, in the wake of The Joker's Wild's runaway success, Barry and Enright went on to produce a virtual blizzard of new programming, including a successful revival of one of their original, "tarnished" shows from the 1950s, Tic-Tac-Dough, now hosted by Wink Martindale. The case could be made that the two TV veterans were now bigger than they ever had been in the scandal-plagued 50s.

The only thing Americans love better than a good rags-to-riches story is a good comeback; Barry had come full circle. On May 2, 1984, after completing the seventh syndicated season of "Joker", he suffered a massive heart attack while jogging through Central Park, in New York City. He died later that day. Jack Barry was 66.

The Real Thing

2011-08-05T19:56:00.000-07:00

I'd like to teach the world to sing...

Allow me to make this perfectly clear before we even get started. Coca-Cola is the BEST soft drink that there is, bar none. I'm not even all that crazy about soda pop, truth be told, but this one is different. It dances across the taste buds with an intensity equal to that of a good strong beer, but without the alcohol content, of course. Yeah, I know all about Pepsi. Joan Crawford used to have something to do with that, I think (put that coat hanger DOWN, lady!), but on it's best day Pepsi poses no challenge whatsoever to its number one competitor. In fact, there's probably scores of other name-brand pop products we could run through, and not one of them can compare to the delight of an ice-cold bubbly glass of COKE.

The confection millions of people the world over recognize today as Coca-Cola was invented by a struggling pharmacist named John Pemberton at a drugstore in Atlanta, Georgia in 1886. Incredulously, the mixture was initially conceived not as the tasty thirst-quencher we know and love today, but as a sort of "cure-all" elixir, of the type that consumers in those days would have been well-acquainted with. The marketplace of the day was flooded with these bogus concoctions targeted towards a largely gullible public, and Pemberton wanted a piece of that market. This early Coke prototype promised to cure all kinds of ailments, including morphine addiction (!), dyspepsia, neurasthenia, headache, and impotence. That's right, impotence. Shortly thereafter, by way of a series of underhanded maneuvers too exhausting to go into in great detail here, Pemberton screwed around and had legal ownership of the unique syrup he created wrested from his control by a man named Asa Griggs Candler in 1888. In 1892, Candler founded The Coca-Cola Company, which continues to produce the beverage (or rather, its modern variant) and other assorted spin-offs to the present day.

According to public radio host Ira Glass, the formula for Coke is "one of the most famously guarded trade secrets on the planet", and that is not mere hyperbole. As it turns out, though, a lot of what you hear about the extreme and patently ludicrous lengths the company will supposedly resort to in order to protect the legitimate recipe of the soft drink is mostly hype, exploited to great effect by the company to enhance the product's cachet. This is most likely no different from the way any manufacturer handles its own trade secrets, but it simply adds to the overall mystique of the product, maintaining its grip on the popular imagination. But of course that never stopped a guy from trying. On a recent broadcast of Glass' popular program This American Life, he recited the recipe that a writer named Mark Pendergrast claimed in 1993 to be John Pemberton's genuine formula for production of the base syrup and of the drink itself. Glass and company even went so far as to whip up a batch of something or other, which, alas, was not The Real Thing or anything that resembles it. The issue is moot anyway, as the company doesn't actually produce the original formula anymore for original Coke, modifying either the recipe or the process by which it is made to a considerable extent over the decades.

There is also one KEY reason you or I will never have the wherewithal to accurately duplicate this item. Yep, you guessed it. It's the thing that gives the drink its kooky brand name: the coca leaf. And yes, the stories you have heard are probably true; the original version of Coke the public would have enjoyed back in the 1880s did in fact contain processed cocaine. Quite a healthy dose from what I understand, which may go a long way to explain why the beverage caught on in the manner that it did. But by the 1920s, the company had since replaced actual coca leaves in the formula with a cocaine-free coca leaf extract, still in use today.

Now critics of the brand will argue, among other things, that Coke is mostly a triumph of shrewd and aggressive marketing campaigns over actual taste or aesthetic value, and they might have a point there. Anybody born prior to about 1980 can probably remember when the company tried to radically alter the formula for the popular drink in the mid-80s, and the public simply went apeshit. It was actually a matter of controversy for awhile, so much so that the company had to go so far as to reintroduce the "original" drink (yet another variant, naturally), and remove the "impostor" from the American market. It's also true that the soft drink has a high (I mean, UNGODLY high) content of artificial sweetener. The original formula called for thirty pounds of real sugar; the modern version features a pretty high dosage of high fructose corn syrup and other chemical sweetening agents, so moderation is probably not a bad idea.

Me, I was born prior to 1970, so my fondness for this product may be directly traceable to one of their most memorable television ad campaigns. The "I'd Like To Teach" commercial spot from 1971 left such a positive impression on the public consciousness that the jingle was re-recorded and released as a successful pop record by two different vocal groups in the U.S. and the U.K. The company would revive and recycle this spot any number of times over the years.

Love it or hate it, it is easily the most recognizable brand name in North America, if not the world, and stands alone as perhaps the most formidable symbol of American pop culture. Coke adds life, indeed.

...in perfect harmony.

...And The Winner AIN'T!

2011-08-04T20:35:00.000-07:00

It has been suggested that Hollywood big shot Louis B Mayer created the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in 1927 as a marketing gimmick for the picture racket in general, and maybe for his studio, MGM, in particular. Officially though, he sought to create an organization that would mediate (read: quash) labor disputes and put a shiny veneer on the film industry's image, the underbelly of which guys like Louis B Mayer had to pull a lot of strings behind the scenes to keep off the front pages of the nation's leading newspapers. The seamier side of Tinseltown was bad for business.

Douglas Fairbanks Sr, perhaps the biggest movie star there was at the time, was elected as the first president of the Academy, and shortly thereafter somebody, maybe Fairbanks himself, decided it would be a nifty idea to stage a big, overlong awards gala, not unlike the one we encounter today, for the purpose of handing out "awards of merit for distinctive achievement". Or something. The first Oscar awards ceremony took place on May 16, 1929.

If you haven't guessed already, I don't take the Oscars all that seriously, as they tend to amount to little more than a complete waste of everybody's time. I pretty much quit watching the telecasts years ago, if I ever in fact did watch them anyway. I've never bought into the idea that there really is such a thing as a "best picture" or "best actor", etc., since there typically are any number of deserving candidates for most of the categories voted on every year. But it's the ones where the Academy voters clearly screw up in their decision making that will often stick out like a sore thumb and drive one to distraction, like the Chicago film critic who is NOT Roger Ebert who had the temerity to question Oscar wins for Martin Scorsese and THE DEPARTED back in '07. The following are some of my picks for the most egregious "upsets" in Oscars history, by which I mean GREATEST OSCAR RIP-OFFS EVER.

How Green Was My Valley def. Citizen Kane (February 26, 1942)
Prior to that year's ceremonies, the Oscars more or less came and went without a whole lot of surprises, but I would submit this as the Academy Awards first true ream job, and maybe its most tragic. It's also significant for the impact it had on the career of the director in question, Orson Welles, meaning that this one actually had far-reaching consequences beyond merely cheating one guy out of an award (or two) that he probably deserved. Welles was the director, co-screenwriter, and star of the aforementioned "Kane", a THINLY disguised fictionalization of the life and career of one William Randolph Hearst, a big-time newspaper magnate at a time when being a newspaper magnate actually meant something. W.R. was especially piqued at the reference to his pet name for his mistress' genitalia (a "secret" that EVERYBODY in Hollywood was aware of at the time), which went on to become the most famous one-word line in cinematic history. The Old Man did everything his power and influence could afford him to insure that the Welles opus flopped at the box office in 1941, thereby likely changing the course of filmmaking history. But Welles would ultimately have the last laugh. "Kane" is typically ranked at the top of most film scholars' "best ever" lists, as relevant an achievement today as it was at the time of its initial release. Not that "Valley" is a "bad" movie, per se. Scholars of director John Ford will certainly make their case for it; but is it really "superior" to Citizen Kane? Uh....no. No, it's not.

Rocky def. All The President's Men and Network (March 28, 1977)
Okay, look. Rocky is a perfectly decent enough little picture. I understand that it's an underdog movie about an underdog character, who through sweat and tenacity and hard work beats the odds! What's not to like about that? Well, nothing; just that it's not the "better" of either one of these two movies, that's all. Not to go all conspiracy theory on you, but here is my guess as to what happened with the voting that year. Hollywood for some reason has always enjoyed this reputation as some kind of bastion of "liberalism" (maybe it's from all the partying, I don't know), but the truth is, the guys who get to vote in the Oscars are all industry insiders. And in 1977, that demographic would have been largely populated by middle-aged, (mostly) conservative white guys who likely would have deeply resented a movie about the investigative journalism exploits that ultimately toppled the presidency of Richard Nixon. Heck, Nixon was from California; any number of those guys were probably friends of his. Not only would they have hated this movie's very existence, but handing it the Best Picture statuette would have been very much out of the question. And this would pretty much account for the other Oscar snub victim that awards season, Network. That same brand of insiders more than likely would have frowned upon a mainstream film that satirized with rapier-like precision the evils and excesses of Corporate America using a fictitious television "network" as its metaphor. The late Paddy Chayefsky probably had no idea how prescient this film would look to people nearly forty years later, and this movie hits its mark so unerringly that it's scary.

Ordinary People def. Raging Bull (March 31, 1981)
Let me just say this up front: Raging Bull is one of the very few mainstream Hollywood films I've seen that actually gives Citizen Kane a run for its money, and that's saying something. In fact, Scorsese even utilizes some of Welles' own visual and narrative techniques to tell this story of a boxing champ who through sweat and tenacity and hard work beats the odds and talks the mob into giving him a shot at the big time despite his steadfast refusal to take a dive. Then, having reached the top, there's nowhere to go but down, and down he plummets. Robert DeNiro delivers the performance of his life in this film, for which he won a well-deserved Oscar, but Scorsese got--what's the delicate way to put this?--SCREWED. NO Best Picture, NO Best Director, awards Raging Bull so richly deserved. As for the movie that "won"? Thirty years later, I don't hear anybody talking about how wonderful Ordinary People is; for that matter, I don't hear anybody talking about that movie period. Except for bloggers at a loss as to how anybody could look at these pictures side by side and conclude: Yeah, this tortured, overwrought two-hour soap opera about a suburban American family "coming apart at the seams" beats that boxing movie all to hell! It's all the more ironic in that director Robert Redford, who got the gyp as producer on "President's Men", somehow slips one past the goalie on this film for which he in no way, shape, or form deserved winning.

Forrest Gump def. Pulp Fiction (March 27, 1995)
We saved the best for last. There is no nice way I can put this: Forrest Gump is a stupid movie about stupidity which centers on a mind-numbingly stupid character played by Tom Hanks. Yeah, I had forgotten all about it too, until I sat down to write this piece. Now proponents of the book upon which the film is based, written by Winston Groom, will argue that it's actually a terrific book; you just would never know it by the unsubtle, heavy-handed treatment it suffers at the hands of Robert Zemeckis, the hack director's hack director. Aside from the fact that this movie ripped off Pulp Fiction (and to a lesser extent, The Shawshank Redemption), it stinks all the more in that it also ripped off the guy who wrote the damn novel! The aforementioned Winston Groom was paid peanuts in light of the volume of currency this movie printed upon its release in 1994 (we're talking a disgusting amount of money here, folks), whereas the production's star and director each netted some 40 million bucks for their endeavors. The studio, whose name rhymes with Schmaramount, walked off with all the rest. Not a bad paycheck for a piece of shit, but that's Hollywood accounting for you. As for Pulp Fiction? Either you get that movie or you don't; I once knew a guy who didn't, and as far as I'm concerned that was just his loss. The Tarantino film obviously stands in a class by itself, all the more impressive in light of the litany of futile and genuinely lousy attempts to copy him and his movie over the years. Thumbs down, WAY down, for Forrest Gump!

Venus in Furs

2011-08-03T23:06:00.000-07:00

Silk-screening his little elfin heart out, framing for posterity some classic American cultural icon--Marilyn, Jackie O or Elvis-- in a signature style every bit as distinctive as the figures he was idolizing, stands ANDY WARHOL, the counterculture's answer to Ed Sullivan. Or maybe P.T. Barnum. Like the Beatles, Warhol was a pure product of the 1960s (the dynamic simply would not have evolved in any other context), and inasmuch as the Beatles articulated what the swinging 60s was supposed to sound like, Warhol showed people what that era was supposed to look like.

Before I actually learned anything about the guy, I had always assumed he was from New York, a logical assumption given how closely Warhol was identified with that town, but the truth is he was from Pittsburgh. Not my first guess, either. He was born Andrew Warhola, Jr. on August 6, 1928. For reasons not entirely clear, he would later drop the "a" from his last name. By most accounts, Warhol was raised in a perfectly "normal" working-class household; look for clues to inform the lifestyle he would later adopt as impresario of the avant-garde Factory and you will not find them. He was, however, something of a "sickly" child, spent a lot of time in bed under the care of his mother, and it was during those periods of relative inactivity that Warhol would take an interest in drawing. Hardly some primitive savant, Warhol studied the fine points of graphic design at the Carnegie Institute of Technology in Pittsburgh. In 1949 he moved to New York City, and quickly made a name for himself in the field of commercial art. Though well-paying corporate gigs were a great way to earn a living, they hardly satisfied Warhol's personal ambitions, so as the 1950s wound down, he began the transition to the "serious" world of fine art.

It's fair to say Andy Warhol put his name on the map with his 32 Campbell Soup Cans series. Produced in 1962, the piece simultaneously marked Warhol's debut as a fine artist and the West Coast debut of "pop" art in Los Angeles. Priced at $100 a canvas at the time of their premiere, today the series is valued at many, many millions of dollars, and that's not counting the myriad of variations on the soup can theme Warhol would produce over time.

During this period, the loose aggregation of "artsy" types, speed freaks, drag-queens, socialites, musicians, free-thinkers, hustlers, wannabes and various other assorted groupies and hangers-on that collectively made up The Factory grew out of a lot of partying, hanging out, and experimenting. Warhol took inspiration from this motley crew that tended to overpopulate his studio and occupy much of his free time to crank out a wide range of artworks in assembly line fashion, hence the studio's famous namesake. It was also around this time that Warhol began to cultivate his reputation as both a self-made celebrity and celebrity-pimp, mentoring the small stable of young, attractive, and dynamic personalities whom he dubbed Superstars, many of whom became well-known, marketable public figures in their own right--Nico, Joe Dellesandro, Edie Sedgwick, Viva, Ultra Violet, Holly Woodlawn, Jackie Curtis, Candy Darling.

I'd like to turn the whole world on for just a moment.
Edie Sedgwick

When painting and silkscreen production began to bore him, Warhol turned his attention to independent film production. He didn't bother taking the time to study any of the technical aspects of the medium, and though the films were generally interesting, they were also exceptionally amateurish, but of course that was the whole point. Warhol never fancied himself the 60s reincarnation of Erich von Stroheim. He was just experimenting, and he was blessed with a roving eye for talent and for whatever looked good. As the Factory was a natural meeting place for artists of all stripes, it also attracted its share of musical luminaries, including Lou Reed, Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger. Reed's groundbreaking new band The Velvet Underground was more or less the Factory's house band, so it only made sense that Warhol would produce their debut record, in which Nico was featured prominently as a backup vocalist. Warhol knew as much about the business of music production as he knew about producing films, but what of it? An original Warhol motif adorned the cover of the Underground's first LP, and one could argue that mainstream American punk-rock, for all intents and purposes, was invented with this record.

Naturally, the sense of utopia that the Factory crowd epitomized was inevitably doomed to failure much like that of the decade itself. A delusional, self-styled feminist and would-be playwright named Valerie Solanis walked into the Factory as it existed on June 3, 1968, and critically shot Warhol at point-blank range. His recovery was nothing short of miraculous (close friends would assert he suffered physical ill-effects for the rest of his life), but the event had a profound effect on Warhol's life and his art. In its heyday, The Factory studios essentially enjoyed an open-door policy. Warhol had been surprisingly accessible for a big-name commodity, and it wasn't all that difficult at one time to have an audience with him when he felt like seeing somebody, or simply had nothing better to do at the moment, but that relaxed atmosphere came to an abrupt halt after the Solanis assassination attempt. The freaks and the crazies would have to find some other outlet for their creative energies.

And so, for the most part, would Warhol. He made no secret of the fact that he fed off the creative inspiration of his entourage every bit as much as they fed off the 24-hour party people vibe that was the Factory itself. Warhol cultivated a much more conservative (so to speak), quieter life in the years since the sixties. He continued to produce interesting objets d'art to be sure, but his creative focus was noticeably more business-oriented than it had ever appeared to be in the past; as the seventies gave way to the eighties, Warhol had long since morphed into a big-time entrepreneur. He continued to mentor prolific young talent--Jean-Michel Basquiat, Julian Schnabel, David Salle, to name a few--but something was missing. The Pied Piper quality that Warhol personified in the sixties was no longer in evidence. The whirlwind sense of making stoned merriment while neatly encapsulating what was in the air and quite obvious to everybody that was equally Turned On and Tuned In had pretty much run its course. The problem for Warhol was that for every Candy Darling or Edie Sedgwick, there also had to be a Valerie Solanis. And confronted with such an alternative, Warhol did what anybody else probably would have done: the party, such as it was, was over.

In the various interviews Warhol would submit to over the years, he liked to confound the banality of the interviewers' questions with equally banal and often stupefying responses. His artwork and his whole sense of style in general could have the equal effect on his detractors, of which there were many. Without a doubt, Warhol was a somewhat polarizing figure in the art world; naysayers would argue his technique was fundamentally lacking, and that he clearly valued commercial success at the expense of artistic integrity. Personally, I think the people who badmouthed Warhol's work were just threatened by how accessible it was, like it was too easy. He was certainly nothing if not prolific; in today's parlance, we would probably describe him as a workaholic, but Tom Wolfe neatly articulated the legacy of the man. Prior to the pop artist, and particularly Andy Warhol, the reigning attitude in the world of art was that of the abstract expressionist, and the idea was that America was a benighted, crassly commercialized, rather horrible place and the artist could only turn his back as best he could and avert his eyes from this side of the modern world. Warhol came along as part of a slightly younger generation, and his idea was, "Oh, it's so horrible, I love it!"

Andy Warhol died in his sleep of cardiac arrhythmia at 6:32 AM in New York City on February 22, 1987, following routine gall bladder surgery.

My Ears Are Bleeding

2011-08-02T19:15:00.000-07:00

Friends, the subject of today's sermon is pretty straightforward. I call it WORST POP RECORDS OF ALL TIME. I didn't bother to rank these things because frankly, badness is--well--badness, and I didn't want to attach any further import to them than they are already not entitled to So, let's delve into it, shall we?

Wannabe by The Spice Girls
This irritating little piece of perfiffle was dropped on an unsuspecting American public in January of '97. I hate this record as God is my witness, but that didn't stop the sumbitch from peaking at Number One on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. NUMBER ONE? Really? I know the Spice Girls were "hot" at the time, but goddamn. It's not like they were Kylie Minogue or some fuckin' body. These ladies may have been okay to look at for a minute, but as a friend of mine pointed out to me recently, "Five members, none of whom play musical instruments, and they had backup singers. Brilliant!"

Surfin' Bird (a.k.a. Bird Is The Word) by The Trashmen
I know I said I wouldn't rank these records, but if I had to pick the one track I would NOT want to be stranded on a desert island with, it would be this one. This is without a doubt the SHITTIEST lead vocal on a pop/rock record I have ever heard, and that is saying something. There is a kind of masochistic thing happening when you hear Surfin' Bird, like being tickled against your will, or being forced to watch BabaWawa on THE VIEW every damn day. (Whew! That is harsh). I think that point was not lost on Seth MacFarlane, as he utilized it to hilarious effect on an old episode of FAMILY GUY. It was released in 1963 and reached number 4 on the Billboard Hot 100 for reasons that are not at all clear to me.

Chantilly Lace by The Big Bopper
The Big Bopper's real name was J.P Richardson, and he was a popular disc jockey during the 1950s when rock & roll was in its infancy. Novelty records were a lot more common in those days, which probably accounts for this tune's very existence. As I'm sure you are well aware, Mr. Richardson met a very tragic end in a plane crash that was the subject of one of the BEST pop records ever made from another bygone era, so I cannot emphasize enough that it's not a personal thing with me. I just hate the record. It reached #6 on the pop charts that year, and was (incredulously) the third most played song of 1958.

Walking On Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves
Progressive talk-show pundit and Obama Administration apologist Stephanie Miller is currently using this record as the theme song of her show, and I hate it. The song, that is, not the show. I love Ms. Miller and her show, but I remember when this record was brand new back in 1985 when it peaked at #9 on the US pop chart. I hated every second of the damned thing then, and I still hate this MoFo, and I wish Stephanie would quit playing it as the opening to her broadcast. She used to use an old TWISTED SISTER record as her theme song, and while that record is also a piece of crap, it's not such a piece of crap that it belongs on this list. Jeez. Check out Stephanie's show here: www.stephaniemiller.com

Hal Sparks' Taste In Music
Er, this one isn't a pop record per se, I understand that, but it is sort of relevant. For those of you who may not know, Hal used to appear on a cable show called Queer As Folk, which I have not seen. He was also the guy in the elevator in SPIDER-MAN 2 who asked Spidey if his suit was uncomfortable. He presently has a guest slot on the aforementioned Stephanie Miller radio program every Wednesday. While I generally don't disagree with Hal's political takes, I have one specific problem with him concerning his taste in popular music. You see, Hal is a huge fan of Heavy Metal music, and even plays it himself. Okay, fine. But he has stated publicly that he hates The Beatles. You hate the freaking BEATLES?! Now, arguing the strengths and weaknesses of the various Heavy Metal genres and sub-genres is an undertaking for another day (me personally, I lost interest in the genre right around the time Ozzie Osbourne left the original BLACK SABBATH), but somebody check this guy into a music appreciation course, PLEASE!

M.A.SH. THE MOVIE vs. MAS*H THE TV SERIES

2011-08-01T20:19:00.000-07:00

The pop culture phenomenon that is M*A*S*H was invented in 1968 when an unknown writer named Richard Hornberger, writing under the pseudonym Richard Hooker, saw the publication of his debut novel, MASH: A Novel About Three Army Doctors. The book was an instant smash, thus launching what would prove to be one of the most enduring franchises in the history of show business in America. Unfortunately for the author, when approached to adapt the book into a Hollywood movie, he sold the film rights for a few hundred bucks. I said, for a few. Hundred. Bucks.

Richard Hooker's lack of business acumen, however, was not the concern of a then-obscure television director named Robert Altman. Handed a shot at the big-time, Altman knew exactly what the hell to do with it. Discussing the production of the film in interviews over the years, Altman would claim that the studio responsible for the film, 20th Century Fox, was so preoccupied with the other war picture they were putting out that year, PATTON, that Altman wound up with virtual free reign to put the movie together however he wished. Consequently, MASH , based (pretty) loosely on an adaptation by Ring Lardner Jr set a new standard for satire in American cinema, as "subversive" a work from that period as anything that catchall term could ever apply to. A story about medical personnel posted at a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital during the Korean War, a 1970s audience would have immediately understood the picture as a thinly disguised referendum on the Vietnam War. Arguably the biggest box office hit of 1970, grossing an ungodly amount of money for its time, Altman's career and reputation as one of Hollywood's top filmmaking talents was assured. Several of the film's principal cast became major stars as well, enjoying long, successful careers in film and television.

But the ride was hardly over. Obviously not having made enough money, 20th Century Fox's television division gave the go-ahead to adapt the movie for the small screen. Developed by veteran comedy jokesmith and playwright Larry Gelbart, M*A*S*H debuted on the ABC television network in 1972. It somehow failed to attract an audience (!) initially, and was promptly snapped up by CBS after ABC dropped it. Of course, the rest is history. At its new home, the show quickly established itself as one of the highest rated series on network television, missing the top ten ONCE in ten years. The final episode was the most watched television program in the history of American television, a record which stood for nearly 27 years.

Clearly both the movie and the TV show were of the highest quality, but I must confess that I have always been partial to the Robert Altman film. If CITIZEN KANE had been the hit that MASH was, Orson Welles more than likely would have been the original Robert Altman: nothing spells "clout" in Hollywood like a movie that is given license to print currency. Like Welles' best work, this film bears the unmistakable signature of its director through and through. Muddled dialogue, rapid-fire editing, ludicrous voice overdubs, eccentric to its core, beloved Altman stylistic flourishes. It functions as a war picture, and as a satire of war pictures, all the more ironic in light of the "serious", Oscar-winning PATTON released that same year. The film also holds up exceptionally well to repeated viewing. Most "counterculture" works from the Woodstock generation have a tendency to date pretty badly; MASH, on the other hand, is timeless.

This is not to say that I disliked the TV series. The show was equally brilliant in its own medium (despite that damned laugh track), and could also deliver belly laughs in equal measure. The only problem with the series is that it clearly--I mean, CLEARLY--overstayed its welcome. Timing is everything in comedy, and the cardinal rule might well be to know when to move on to the next bit. Instead, the show suffered a myriad of personnel changes as the years piled up, and with that came a tangible shift in tone. Truth be told, M*A*S*H kinda sucked after they killed off Henry, replaced Trapper with B.J., and replaced Frank with Charles. And then Radar just up and left altogether. And they got all nice to Hot Lips. They were still dedicated alcoholics to the very end, but by then, what was the point? For my money, M*A*S*H was always on its most solid footing when it served as an effective note-for-note rip-off of the Altman film. Good, bad, or indifferent, the gags trumped all else those first two or three seasons. And they were damned funny gags, too, even more outrageous on some level than the movie. But that more than anything reflected the influence of Larry Gelbart, who cut his teeth in the business writing material for Sid Caesar on YOUR SHOW OF SHOWS, one of the most over-the-top zany sketch comedy parodies ever seen on American television. Alan Alda has stated in interviews that he felt the movie displayed a certain callousness towards its characters. Well, so did the WAR, Alan. As Alda assumed greater creative control of the show, that point of view would manifest itself in no uncertain terms.

But be that as it may, the series surpassed the movie in one key respect. It marked the last time that the folly and horror of warfare was dealt with in any meaningful way on prime-time American network television. When the movie premiered, the war in Vietnam was openly covered and broadcast into America's living rooms every night. In a major way, that fact contributed to the country's overwhelming disapproval of that war. When the series debuted, a sitcom about an ugly war was practically an afterthought, so inundated were the viewers to having witnessed the real thing for nearly a decade. By the time the show ended, the Reagan Revolution was in full swing, and with perhaps the notable exception of Oliver Stone, Hollywood was mostly attempting to rewrite the Vietnam experience for the dawn of the teenage multiplex crowd and its short attention span video game mentality. And one need look no further than today's evening news to notice a BIG difference between the way wars are covered today versus forty years ago. When Phil Donahue had the temerity to question the war in Iraq in 2002, his comeback bid was cut short by MSNBC when they abruptly axed his show despite good ratings. The frankness of both the movie and the TV series seem naive by today's standards; no doubt they both would be ordered to "tone it down" by the current crop of studio and network executives.

So in the final analysis, who's to say which version is the more worthwhile? The Larry Gelbart Gene Reynolds Burt Metcalfe Alan Alda confection certainly has its adherents, as well it should. It was a hit for a reason. But I think it would be a lot more fun to tie one on with The Pros From Dover.

Waiting for George

2011-07-31T23:10:00.000-07:00

He was born George Keefer Brewer on January 5, 1914, became George Bessolo when his mother remarried in 1927, became George Reeves in 1939 as a contract player for Warner Bros. Made his feature film debut that same year in GONE WITH THE WIND, became the idol of millions of little kids as the star of THE ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN in the 1950s. And it all came to a tragic end in the wee hours of June 16, 1959.

So what exactly took place in George's house the night he died, anyway? The world may never know, but there are three prevailing theories as to what may have happened. George, under the influence of a copious amount of hard liquor and depressed over his slumping career (he had long ago been typecast as Superman), in a moment of despair and drunken impulse, put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Or, George was the victim of a mob hit ordered by either Hollywood studio bigshot Eddie Mannix or his attractive wife, Toni. Mannix had the juice to do it, too: as a well-connected, executive "fixer" for MGM, he had access to that kind of muscle, and no misgivings about using it. Or, George was shot and killed by his new fiancee Leonore Lemmon, more than likely by accident, in the heat of a drunken argument that spiraled out of control and turned violent.

At first glance, the suicide theory looks persuasive. The only reason George's agent managed to talk him into accepting the Superman role in the first place is that George's acting career had pretty much tanked by 1950, and George needed the money. In fact, George didn't even know who the hell Superman was until his agent explained it to him. The rest was history, of course. The show became an instant hit after it premiered in 1951, and George suddenly became a major television star, a relatively new phenomenon at that time. But the show's success all but sounded the death knell for George's career ambitions. He was hopelessly typecast as Superman, and comic-book adaptations in those days didn't carry the kind of gravitas (or salary) that they do today. For that matter, neither did television work in general. Streaking across TV screens in tights and a cape week in and week out was something a proud man like George would have to live down.

According to Leonore Lemmon, George was under a lot of pressure due to increasing financial problems. Little if any meaningful work outside the Superman milieu ever materialized. George talked about moving into directing feature films and developing and producing other TV series, but those things never came to fruition either. And he was being harassed by his ex girlfriend, Toni Mannix, in the aftermath of their breakup. After a ten-year affair, George dumped Toni to take up with Leonore.

And there are other salient points. George's blood-alcohol count on the night in question was 2.5 times the legal limit. If he was as depressed as some reports indicate, that level of alcohol consumption could be a dangerous combination, especially as George was taking prescription painkillers at the time. Furthermore, reports that George's hands showed no traces of gun powder residue--which would determine whether or not he had discharged a firearm that night-- are false, as the LAPD in those days did not test for powder burns in cases of apparent suicide.

That George was the victim of a contract killing, by one or both Mannixes or others, is ludicrous on its face. Nobody out there would ever mistake me for Mariska Hagitay, but I do know the first rule of mob hits is to eliminate the witnesses. If a bunch of hired wiseguys busted into George's house in order to do him in, nobody else in that house at the time would have been left alive to tell that tale, or any tale, for that matter. Including George's femme fatale fiancee, arguably the key witness in the case.

My main problem with this case is that a significant amount of time had passed from the time George was shot until the police were finally called. What the hell was she doing in that house during that time? Years later, Leonore told an interviewer a completely different story from the one she told the cops that night in '59. I think what she was doing was staging what investigators would assume to be a suicide scene. First, it would be necessary to move George's body from wherever it lay to his bed. Then, firing a shot into the ceiling would leave the impression that George, sitting on the bed with gun in hand, but too inebriated to sit up straight, slumps over to his right, head meeting gun barrel. That would leave at least one bullet hole too many in that room, so to camouflage the fact , Leonore fires an extra shot or two into the floor. She can then tell the police she was "horsing around" with the pistol a few days earlier, which would presumably account for any additional bullet holes that looked suspicious. A spent shell casing is placed underneath George's body to complete the illusion that George shot himself while lying in bed.

Does my theory prove George did not kill himself? No, but it makes about as much sense based on the evidence as any of the other theories. Many of the people who knew and worked with George expressed strong doubts about the notion that George would take his own life. George's broken-hearted mother, Helen Bessolo, dismissed the idea out of hand, even going so far as to launch her own investigation into her son's mysterious death. Results of that investigation proved inconclusive.

And what about George's career and money problems? Yes, it's fair to say he was disappointed about a failed film career. By most accounts, he clearly hated playing Superman, the role that he is most closely identified with. It's also fair to say George liked to drink too much, and could have been a borderline alcoholic. But it's also clear that George was not some naive Hollywood hopeful wannabe. He was an experienced film and television actor who had been around the block a time or two, and understood how the business worked. Maybe Superman was not something he needed to live down so much as to find some other way to profit by it. That might explain why George enthusiastically agreed to return to the series one more season, under the condition that he receive a hefty salary increase and be given greater creative control, which would have included directing many more episodes. Many a B-list film and TV actor has made the transition to success on the opposite side of the camera. Furthermore, at the time of George's death the Superman series had already made it to reruns, which meant George had generous residual payments to look forward to for years to come.

As for Leonore Lemmon? It's fair to say that Ms. Lemmon made for an unreliable witness. She more than likely lied to the LAPD the night George died, and continued to contradict herself over the years whenever questioned about that night. Four other people were present in George's house the morning of June 16, 1959: Leonore, writer Robert Condon, neighbor Carol Van Ronkel, and a casual acquaintance of George's by the name of William Bliss. While the official story given by Leonore to police places her in the living room with the other house guests at the time the fatal shot rang out, Bliss is said to have told his wife a different story afterwards. In that version, Leonore was upstairs, either inside or in close proximity to George's bedroom. While Bliss was having a drink, he and the other guests heard what sounded like a gunshot. Leonore then hurries downstairs and allegedly says, "Tell them I was down here, tell them I was down here!" If Bliss' story is true, then who the hell knows what took place in George's bedroom?

So who you gonna believe? For their part, the other witnesses essentially backed up Leonore's story to detectives, thus confirming her alibi. That would make them accomplices after the fact in a murder case, so why would they jeopardize their own lives to help her? Who knows? Maybe to help keep their friend out of the death house should the cops suspect foul play. Friendship is funny like that. At any rate, if the four of them are downstairs at the time of the shooting, investigators have little choice but to conclude suicide.

Whatever secrets Leonore Lemmon may have kept surrounding the untimely death of TV's Superman, she took them with her to her grave. She died in 1989 at the age of 66.

With Great Power Comes Pointless Sequels

2011-07-30T03:52:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, cats and kiddies, hippies and squares! Welcome to this, the inaugural post of America's premiere pop culture blog (and other assorted odds and ends). Let's get right to it.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news for all you classic comics fans out there, but I've given the matter a great deal of thought, and I've finally come to the inevitable conclusion: the new Spider-man movie, due out next summer, is gonna SUCK!

That's right, you heard right, and you heard it here first, folks. THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN (2012) is gonna suck great big buffalo nuts.

To begin with, a little backstory. We all remember with a certain degree of fondness (some of us less so, perhaps) the Sam Raimi trilogy. It almost seems quaint now, so quickly are Marvel Comics and Columbia Pictures moving to reboot the series already, but that wasn't how the story should have transpired. Raimi was actually on board to direct what would have been SPIDER-MAN 4. Series stars Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst had made it known that they would only re-up if Raimi was attached to direct. So far so good. But Raimi was having trouble putting together a script to his liking, and between that and general creative differences as to what direction the series should go, Raimi ends up leaving the franchise. With his departure, that meant the whole thing would not only need to be recast, but the decision was made to reboot the series entirely.

REBOOT??!! Jesus, SPIDER-MAN 3 is only FOUR YEARS OLD for fuck's sake! Are you kidding me?

Now don't get me wrong; I'm not one of those nostalgia obsessed guys that's stuck in the (recent) past. Sometimes a reboot is a great idea. The 80s/90s version of the BATMAN franchise was mostly in the toilet when along comes Christopher Nolan to transform the corny Caped Crusader into, well, CINEMA. But unfortunately, for every DARK KNIGHT, there has to be a SUPERMAN RETURNS. And that Bryan Singer travesty probably offers more than a few clues as to what will be wrong with the new Spidey.

As a general rule, if they fuck up the suit for a comic book character, that tends to mean they're gonna fuck up the rest of the movie. SUPERMAN RETURNS and DAREDEVIL are the poster children for that theory, as both movies were pretty much disasters and they did things to their characters' costumes that bordered on the obscene. We've all seen the new outfit photos leaked over the net, and the results are, well, not too good.

Now, I'll give 'em credit for employing what appear to be web-shooters. Hey, at least they're trying. But if this is what the new Spidey is supposed to look like, we're in trouble. Even the Nicholas Hammond version from the 70s got the damn suit right!

Then, there's the matter of what appears to be a dramatic shift in tone. I'm aware that there's a contingent out there that found the Raimi films a little too "cartoony". For my taste, Raimi's movies brought Stan Lee's characters to life in live action about as effectively as I've ever seen. Yeah, they completely screwed up the Green Goblin's outfit, and they deleted the bit about the web-shooters altogether, but these were tweaks that I found easy enough to live with since they got so much other stuff right. But this new crew looks like they're doing a complete 180 with regard to the look and feel of these characters.

Think dark. No, REALLY dark. Like SUPERMAN RETURNS dark. Now that's pretty fuckin' dark. Bryan Singer took the Richard Donner movies and extracted every last ounce of warmth and naive wonder that those films had to offer. What we got instead was a sterile, cold, overlong, miscast, self-indulgent mess. All the CGI magic that money could buy could not disguise the fact that that movie essentially had no point of view and nothing to add to the Superman mythology. Judging by the new SPIDER-MAN trailer, we might be in store for the same thing here.

Sheesh. I could be wrong, and folks are more than welcome to disagree with me, but I have the sinking feeling that this film will turn out to be a visually good-looking yet spiritually empty artifice when it hits every single multiplex in America summer 2012. Bring back STAN LEE and STEVE DITKO!