home
***
CD-ROM
|
disk
|
FTP
|
other
***
search
/
TIME: Almanac 1993
/
TIME Almanac 1993.iso
/
time
/
120291
/
12029913.000
< prev
next >
Wrap
Text File
|
1992-08-28
|
7KB
|
148 lines
TELEVISION, Page 80Play It Yet Again, Lucy
Why is TV recycling its history more exhaustively than ever? Are
the endless reruns better, or just different?
By RICHARD ZOGLIN
Sooner or later, we always seem to wind up back in the
candy factory. You remember the scene: Lucy and Ethel go to work
on a candy-wrapping assembly line. A conveyor belt feeds them
chocolates at a ridiculously fast clip. They try desperately to
keep up, frantically stuffing the candy into their blouses, hats
and mouths before the supervisor returns. A comedy classic.
And now a comedy cliche. Nearly 40 years after the scene
was first aired -- on Sept. 15, 1952, as the opening episode of I
Love Lucy's second season -- it may be the most frequently
repeated bit of film in television history. One recent sighting
came in October, on the NBC special Funny Women of Television.
It got a vigorous workout during all those TV tributes to
Lucille Ball following her death in April 1989. It is one of two
episodes reprised in full on a laser disc released by the
Criterion Collection to commemorate the show's 40th anniversary.
And, of course, on any given day it is probably being shown on
some local station somewhere, part of the endlessly renewable
cycle of I Love Lucy reruns.
Has a popular art form ever been so infatuated with its
past? Increasingly, it seems that we are not viewing television
so much as perpetually re-viewing it. A network show that
becomes a hit is only starting its TV life cycle. The next step
is a big syndication deal, then years and years of reruns on
local stations and cable. Virtually every TV anniversary, star's
death or Emmy Awards show provides an excuse to trot out another
edition of Scenes We Like to See Over and Over Again: Ralph
Kramden bickering with Alice, Elvis gyrating on Ed Sullivan, Lou
Grant meeting Mary Richards for the first time ("I hate
spunk!").
Even network prime time is falling under the spell of the
past. Last February, CBS drew stellar ratings for a two-hour
special celebrating The Ed Sullivan Show, and did nearly as well
with tributes to All in the Family and The Mary Tyler Moore
Show. Last weekend the network launched another classic-TV
binge, with homages to M*A*S*H and The Bob Newhart Show, along
with a second compilation of Sullivan clips. In June, to much
fanfare, the network introduced a new sitcom from Norman Lear.
The show, Sunday Dinner, was soundly beaten in the ratings by
the program that followed it -- 20-year-old reruns of Lear's All
in the Family.
TV's recycling process has been pushed to peak capacity by
a profusion of cable channels searching for low-cost
programming to fill their schedules. Nick at Nite woos baby
boomers each evening with campy sitcoms like The Donna Reed Show
and Get Smart. The Family Channel has cornered the market in old
westerns (Wagon Train, The Virginian), while the Arts &
Entertainment Network, originally conceived as a haven for
fine-arts programming, now runs oldies like The Avengers and
Mrs. Columbo. Ted Turner's cable operation may attract a lot of
attention with MGM movie blockbusters and environmental
specials, but its most dependable ratings grabber is that un
glamorous, uncolorized war-horse, The Andy Griffith Show.
Newer cable outlets are being forced to scrounge ever
deeper in the vaults for fresh oldies. Comedy Central, the
all-comedy cable network, has resurrected C.P.O. Sharkey, a dog
from the mid-'70s starring Don Rickles. Nostalgia Television,
a six-year-old network aimed at the "mature" audience, has
unearthed such forgotten chestnuts as Date with the Angels, a
short-lived '50s sitcom starring Betty White, and The Dennis
O'Keefe Show, a one-season wonder from 1959-60.
The godfather of TV's back-to-the-past movement is the
Museum of Television and Radio, a 15-year-old repository of
memorabilia founded by former CBS chairman William S. Paley. At
its elegant new quarters in midtown Manhattan, visitors can
wander in and out of four screening rooms, browse through a
computerized card catalog listing some 45,000 items, and repair
to one of 96 TV and radio consoles to enjoy anything from
President Kennedy's Inaugural Address to Don DeFore's inaugural
appearance as Thorny on The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.
The museum's aggressive president, Robert Batscha, insists
that his institution is not pandering to nostalgia but
preserving an important social and cultural record. Sure enough,
the museum has rounded up hundreds of kinescopes and tapes from
TV's past that might otherwise have been lost. Its curatorial
work, moreover, has sparked a revival of interest in such
seminal TV figures as Jackie Gleason and Ernie Kovacs.
Rummaging through the museum's collection is rewarding on
both levels -- nostalgic and scholarly. A Woody Allen TV
special from 1969, for example, provides a rare glimpse of Allen
in his transitional phase from stand-up comic to film
innovator. One segment is a brilliantly realized silent-movie
short, with Allen as the Chaplinesque hero and a young Candice
Bergen as his co-star. But the show's most startling revelation
is a guest appearance by the Rev. Billy Graham, who joins Allen
for a lighthearted but essentially serious discussion of God,
morality and premarital sex. It is fascinating simply because
it could never happen on a TV entertainment show today.
The vogue for vintage TV can be at least partly attributed
to the baby-boom audience, which grew up on TV and has a
seemingly insatiable appetite for revisiting the media icons of
youth. But it may also reflect a rejection, by audiences of all
ages, of the creative exhaustion and tired formulas of most
current TV fare. Television of the past was, to be blunt, not
only different but very often better.
An old drama series like The Fugitive (with David Janssen
as Dr. Richard Kimble, on the run after being wrongly convicted
of murder) looks hopelessly unfashionable today, with its
melodramatic narration, simplistic characters and stubborn
avoidance of social relevance (no date rapists to be found). It
does offer, however, something rarely seen in current TV drama:
dark, intense morality tales, pitting one man's instinct for
survival against his instinct for doing good.
Not every recycled show holds up so well. Some fondly
remembered oldies, like The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, seem
dated, and neither time nor camp tastes have improved Mister Ed.
But even middling sitcoms like The Patty Duke Show are more
effortlessly engaging than most of the nervous joke machines
that pass for comedies today. Good ones like The Dick Van Dyke
Show remind us that the trivial plot lines of old domestic
comedies were often a mask for shrewd satire of suburban
neuroses. The best ones, like I Love Lucy, which invented the
vocabulary for the modern sitcom, have the formal perfection and
infinite repeatability of great pop music.
Yes, even that darned candy factory.