Actress Arlene Golonka made something of a career playing bubbly girl–next–door types on TV and in the movies.
She appeared on the most popular TV shows of her day and might have been America's sweetheart if not for the fact that the competition for that designation was rather strong at the time. I always thought she was cute and that she should have no trouble attracting attention from the opposite sex, but she never seemed to rise above supporting roles.
In the episode of MASH that aired on Christmas Eve 1972, "Edwina," Golonka played what is best described as a female version of Joe Btfsplk from the Li'l Abner comic strip. If you're too young to remember Li'l Abner, Joe Btfsplk was such a jinx that an ominous dark cloud followed him wherever he went.
Edwina, Golonka's character, was a female Joe Btfsplk. She was, to put it kindly, a klutz — impossibly inept and thoroughly unable to get a date, let alone a relationship. Her woeful love life was the basis of a heart–to–heart she had with Margie (Marcia Strassman in one of her last appearances on MASH) on the occasion of Edwina's birthday, and the outcome was a kind of boycott. None of the females in camp would have anything to do with the males (outside the O.R., of course) until one of them went out with Edwina.
This prompted something of a crisis among the males at the 4077th, and it was decided that someone had to take a bullet for the team. It was determined that the fair way to make this decision would be to draw straws to designate Edwina's date. Not participating was not an option; the penalty for nonparticipation was, in Hawkeye's words, to be "stripped naked, painted purple and dropped by helicopter behind enemy lines."
(In today's environment, such a condescending, politically incorrect approach to male–female relationships most likely would be frowned upon.)
Perhaps inevitably Hawkeye (Alan Alda), the 4077th's legendary Lothario, drew the short straw.
And he did try — boy, did he try — but his date with Edwina was a disaster by anyone's standards.
It was just one thing after another.
At first Hawkeye tried to put the best spin possible on everything. When Edwina tossed her martini glass while trying to think of a toast and spilled her drink on Hawkeye, he insisted that he liked wearing a wet T–shirt because it saved him the trouble of sweating.
But after a series of mishaps — most notably including broken glass and Hawkeye stepping on it in bare feet — Edwina lamented that she had "killed" him. Hawkeye protested, "I don't have that kind of luck."
In the process, though, Hawkeye may have found the root of Edwina's problem. Hawkeye concluded that, in a subconscious attempt to avoid getting hurt, Edwina was physically hurting others — to summarize Hawkeye, she was beating others to the hurt. Edwina seemed to be liberated by this revelation — and in her exuberance, she dislodged the stovepipe in the tent, covering Hawkeye in soot.
Far from being upset, Hawkeye began laughing uncontrollably.
Well, nothing lasts forever. Edwina's time at the 4077th came to an end shortly thereafter, and she was never seen in the compound again.
The glee club meets in the mess tent at 0800 hours. The first number on tonight's schedule is, uh, Father Mulcahy's solo, "I'm Confessin' That I Love You."
P.A. announcer
The episode of MASH that first aired on this night in 1972, "Dear Dad," was the series' first to use what became a rather familiar tactic on the show — telling a story in the form of a letter being written to someone back home.
The device would be used with other characters over the years, but in this case it was Hawkeye (Alan Alda) who was writing a letter to his father during the Christmas season. Other episodes utilizing the "Dear Dad" title would focus on Hawkeye's letters to his father, but letters home from Col. Potter, Radar, Klinger, etc., were also used in future episodes.
Thus the narration was in fact the text of the letter that Hawkeye was writing during a lull in the fighting.
The episode also helped to firmly establish the dual themes of the series — the antiwar theme and the comedic theme. "Dear Dad" was only the series' 12th episode, and MASH was still seeking its identity.
As I say the Christmas season had arrived, and Hawkeye used the letter to fill his father in on the news from MASH 4077th.
Radar (Gary Burghoff) was mailing a Jeep back to the States — one piece at a time.
Henry Blake (McLean Stevenson) delivered a sex lecture despite being clearly uncomfortable doing so.
And Hawkeye and Trapper John (Wayne Rogers) sabotaged the tent where Hot Lips (Loretta Swit) and Frank (Larry Linville) were to spend the evening together.
But all those things could have happened at any time of the year. They didn't have to be a week before Christmas.
What really made the episode a Christmas episode was the final segment, in which the 4077th was hosting its annual Christmas party for the local Korean children. Hawkeye was slated to play Santa Claus.
But his plans changed. He was called away to do emergency field surgery on a chest wound.
Still dressed as Santa, he descended by rope from a chopper as the battle raged around him.
A soldier waiting in a foxhole with the wounded man saw Hawkeye's descent and said to his buddy, "And you said there was no Santa Claus."
The concept of using a letter as the narration for an episode was a good idea and worked better in future efforts. It was a case of improving each time it was done.
But "Dear Dad" succeeded pretty well as a first effort — and it is still a pretty good Christmas episode.
All in the Family poked fun at all kinds of stereotypes — and in the process contributed to the tearing down of some of the walls that divided us in the 1970s.
Sadly much of the TV series' groundbreaking humor would not be tolerated today.
The episode that first aired on this night in 1972, "Archie and the Bowling Team," challenged existing racial and gender roles in its unique way.
Archie (Carroll O'Connor) came home in an unusually good mood. It seemed a member of a prestigious local bowling team — the Cannonballers — had died, opening a spot for which Archie was a finalist. He and two other contenders would compete that night, and their scores would be among the considerations.
Archie had been waiting six years for this opportunity. With the support of a Cannonballer who was known for tearing doors off their hinges when he didn't get his way, Archie figured he couldn't lose.
But while it helped to be a good bowler, as Archie explained to his son–in–law (Rob Reiner), it was also important to be a "special kind of guy."
Mike protested that it was discrimination to "keep a guy out because of what he is."
Archie disagreed. "They don't keep nobody out because of what he is," he insisted. "They keep a guy out maybe because of what he ain't — like if he ain't a good bowler, he ain't gettin' in ... and if he ain't white and Protestant."
At the tryout, Archie knew he bowled better than the first finalist, but the other finalist got off to such a good start that Archie couldn't stand to watch. He arranged for someone to call him with the final result, and he went home.
When the call came through, Archie learned that he and the other finalist had finished with the same score. Archie figured that meant he was in. The other finalist was black.
But he learned differently when his door–trashing buddy came by. The other finalist had been taken. The Cannonballers were under pressure from the other teams in the league to integrate. If Archie had outscored him, the team could have taken Archie, but since they tied, the team had to take the other bowler.
"The world's changin'," he told Archie. He needn't have said that. Archie knew already, and he didn't like it. "Every time it does it kicks me in the butt," he lamented.
This episode is an important reminder of just how much things have changed.
Disaster movies were fixtures in theaters in the 1970s.
"The Poseidon Adventure," which premiered on this day in 1972, wasn't the first disaster movie and it most assuredly was not the last, but it may have been the best.
It included five Oscar winners in its cast — Gene Hackman, Ernest Borgnine, Shelley Winters, Jack Albertson and Red Buttons — and won two Oscars — for Best Original Song and a Special Achievement Award for special effects.
In the movie Carol Lynley appeared to be singing the song — "The Morning After" — but, in fact, it was sung by an unseen vocalist, Renee Armand. Maureen McGovern recorded the song and made it a hit.
On a fictional cruise ship closely modeled after the RMS Queen Mary, a group of people fought to survive after the ship capsized in a tsunami on New Year's Eve. Up was down and down was up. To survive they had to make their way to what had been the lowest level of the ship — but was now the highest.
I always thought "The Poseidon Adventure" was a cut above most of the disaster movies of that era. Its characters were developed better; consequently, the viewers empathized more than they did in other disaster movies that were more superficial in their character treatments.
The disaster movies of the '70s benefited when the acting was good — which was seldom — and, to be sure, some of the stars of "The Poseidon Adventure" were guilty of flagrant overacting — most notably Hackman, Winters and Borgnine. By and large, though, the acting in "The Poseidon Adventure" was good. It was truly an all–star cast, although some of the stars made little more than cameo appearances.
There were some truly harrowing moments in "The Poseidon Adventure," too. Oh, sure, sometimes they were kind of cheap thrills, the ones that make you involuntarily recoil from the safety of the theater seat you're occupying when the characters on the screen face some kind of threat. Because the acting was better than usual for a disaster movie, audiences cared more about the characters in "The Poseidon Adventure."
Of course, the acting was never the main attraction in a disaster movie. It was the special effects that mattered — and, as I mentioned earlier, the special effects in "The Poseidon Adventure" received a special award at the Oscars.
In hindsight, sure, the story was over the top. I mean, this giant tsunami struck precisely at midnight on New Year's Eve. Perfect timing, huh?
(There has always been a segment of the movie market, though, that responds to escapism — while discerning viewers usually prefer plausible escapability, for some people escapism of any kind will do. Hence the appeal of the "Sharknado" movies. Somehow "The Poseidon Adventure" qualified as plausible escapability.)
But that was the thing about '70s disaster movies. They were always over the top.
Roger Ebert was more cynical in his review of the movie, saying it was "the kind of movie you know is going to be awful and yet somehow you gotta see it."
Like a car accident or a train wreck, I suppose.
But I disagree with that assessment. I didn't think it was an awful movie when I first saw it, and I didn't expect it to be (unlike, say, "The Towering Inferno"), but I was rather young and not as jaded as I later became. Maybe I should have expected worse.
But if I had, I would have been wrong.
The story was plausible enough that it sustained the viewer's interest, and that is a credit to the writers.
But, while "The Poseidon Adventure" received seven other Oscar nominations in addition to the one for Best Original Song, it was not recognized for its writing.
And that bothers me because it seems that it is from the story that the other categories — especially sound, art direction and cinematography — take their leads. If they were worthy of Oscar consideration, the writing that inspired them should have been as well.
In the episode of All in the Family that first aired on this night in 1972, "Edith's Winning Ticket," it seemed like an ordinary weekend in the Bunker household.
Mike (Rob Reiner) and Gloria (Sally Struthers) were on their way to an art museum; as long as they were going out, Edith (Jean Stapleton) asked them to mail a letter and Archie (Carroll O'Connor) wanted them to exchange some new shoes that didn't fit right.
This was one part of the story that struck me as odd. Archie must have tried on the shoes before buying them. Shouldn't he have known they didn't fit well? However contrived, though, it served a purpose for the story. To make the exchange they would need the receipt so Edith started going through her purse.
She eventually found the receipt — as well as some old lottery tickets that had been long forgotten. Archie chastised her for spending money on lottery tickets.
Meanwhile, Gloria had been reading the print on the tickets and discovered they were good for a year after purchase; then Gloria called the store where the tickets had been purchased to inquire about the winning numbers for that day. Turned out one of the tickets was a winner — of $500.
Archie was elated — until Edith told him the ticket didn't belong to them.
And she proceeded — in her unique way — to explain that 10 months earlier she had bought the tickets at the request of Louise Jefferson (Isabel Sanford). Both Edith and Louise had forgotten about the tickets.
Archie focused on how to keep from losing anything — until he realized that Mrs. Jefferson had never paid for the lottery tickets. As long as no money had changed hands, Archie reasoned, the tickets belonged to the Bunkers — regardless of Edith's reason for buying them.
But Edith was just as insistent that the tickets belonged to Mrs. Jefferson. When Louise came over, accompanied by her brother–in–law, Edith took Louise aside and gave her the ticket.
Louise wanted to split the prize money, but Edith wouldn't hear of it. She wouldn't have bought the tickets if Louise hadn't asked her to do so, Edith said, so Louise could reimburse her for the tickets, but the prize was hers.
Back in the Bunkers' living room, Archie and Louise's brother–in–law were arguing about the ticket.
While Archie's back was turned, Louise flashed the lottery ticket for her brother–in–law to see, and they both left the Bunkers' household. Archie, still thinking the ticket was in Edith's possession, grabbed his coat and told Edith they needed to get to the lottery office to cash in the ticket before it closed.
Before Edith could say anything, the doorbell rang. Archie opened the door to find Louise's brother–in–law standing there. He told Archie that he was willing to split the prize with him. Archie refused. The brother–in–law broke into a big grin and bolted.
Archie was amused — until he learned that the Jeffersons now had the ticket.
He should have remembered the old proverb that half a loaf is better than none.
Mike:You're gonna cheat the insurance company and Ma.
One of my favorite movie lines comes from a relatively unknown 1950s Christmas comedy, "We're No Angels," in which Basil Rathbone's character remarked, "Sentiment has no cash value."
That could have been Archie Bunker's mantra in the episode of TV's All in the Family that premiered on this night in 1972 — "The Locket."
Well, it could have been his mantra throughout the entire series — but especially in this episode. Archie had little regard for sentiment — except his own.
Edith (Jean Stapleton) couldn't find an antique necklace she had inherited from her grandmother, and Archie (Carroll O'Connor) had no interest in the matter until he learned how much the necklace was worth — enough to buy a new color TV.
Color TVs were real status symbols in 1972. Many folks still had black–and–white TV sets in their homes, and the one the Bunkers had in their home may have been a black–and–white. Most blue–collar households had black–and–white TVs in those days. When a household acquired a color TV, it was an event.
Archie hadn't been thinking of buying a color TV until that moment when two things happened at once — one was the disappearance of Edith's antique locket and the other was the fact that the picture tube was missing from the Bunkers' TV set. Edith told Archie that the repairman told her a new one would cost $75 — a considerable sum in 1972.
As Archie was complaining about his day, Edith commiserated and told Archie about her missing locket. When Archie dismissed the locket as being worthless — he called it a "hunk of junk" — Edith protested that a local jeweler had offered her $150 for it. Archie's eyes lit up, and he concluded they could get $300 from the insurance company when sentimental value was factored in.
Money could never replace the locket, Edith insisted, and Archie replied that it wasn't going to be replaced by money. It would be replaced by a brand–new color TV.
So Archie paid a visit to his insurance agent to report the loss and learned that he was only covered if the locket was stolen — and he made up a story about the locket being taken by "the neighborhood mugger."
There were too many gaps in Archie's account, though, so the insurance company arranged to send someone out to the Bunkers' home to get some additional details.
In the meantime, Edith returned to the house with good news. Her locket had been found. It turned out that the locket really had been stolen, and she had been called to the police station to identify it. The police were holding it as evidence for the trial of the thief, then it would be returned to her.
All the activity had kept Edith from doing her shopping so she left to do it then. Better late than never.
Archie, still unaware of Edith's news, returned home to accept delivery of a new color TV. He was positively elated. But his elation soon dissolved into desperation and despair when he learned that Edith's locket had been found, and he was determined to keep Edith away from the house while the insurance agent was there.
So he sent Gloria (Sally Struthers) out to run up and down the street and try to divert Edith when she came into view. Naturally it didn't work, and Edith showed up shortly after the insurance agent did. Archie thought all was lost.
But then Edith told the insurance agent that her locket had been stolen and she described the man who stole it. She even provided his name. Archie was delighted and encouraged Edith not to push her luck. She insisted that she wasn't lying.
Then she proved it.
When the insurance agent produced a document for her to sign stating that the locket had been stolen and she didn't know where it was, she balked.
"But I do know where the locket is," she said, and out came the whole story about her locket. The agent was delighted, having saved the company $300. Edith was delighted that the locket had been found.
And Archie was left with the bill for a new TV. It is safe to say he wasn't delighted.
Forty–five years ago this month, the concept of fusion wasn't new, but Steely Dan was.
Fusion has evolved, I suppose, from earlier uses in science and medicine to computing, and somewhere along the way it came to describe the result of the combinations of two musical genres. Like restaurants that try to join two kinds of food, it hasn't always been successful. I mean, some things work when they are combined with other things. Some things don't.
Steely Dan, which released its debut album, "Can't Buy a Thrill," in November 1972, was a unique fusion of jazz and rock.
Oh, that wasn't exactly new in 1972, either, and as Henry David Thoreau once observed, when a person is familiar with the truth of a concept or principle, that person loses interest in its many applications. Fusion wasn't a hot topic in 1972. There had already been decades of talk of nuclear fusion.
In fact, if time travel was possible and you could go back to November 1972, you most likely would find that the primary topics of conversation were President Nixon's landslide victory over George McGovern or Secretary of State Henry Kissinger's declaration that peace was "at hand" in Vietnam. Sports fans would probably talk about the undefeated Miami Dolphins.
But "Can't Buy a Thrill" was a musical triumph in late 1972, spawning a huge hit in "Reelin' in the Years," which reached No. 11 on the charts. Elliott Randall's guitar solo was named by Led Zeppelin guitarist Jimmy Page as his favorite solo of all time.
One of the things I remember from my childhood was how "Reelin' in the Years" was the favorite of a friend of mine who was probably a year or so older than I was. He was an aspiring guitarist, and he learned to play that song. He was pretty good, too.
But the bigger hit on the album was always my favorite — "Do It Again," which climbed to No. 6 on the charts.
Steely Dan's style leaned strongly to soft rock. That worked better with other styles, mostly jazz sprinkled with a little blues and some R&B.
Steely Dan never really seemed comfortable with anything stronger, as if fusing hard rock with jazz wouldn't work because jazz is too fragile.
I suppose that's in the way you look at it, but Steely Dan's fusion seemed new and fresh, even if it really wasn't.
"I had a dream last night that I was asleep, and I dreamed it while I was awake!"
Hawkeye (Alan Alda)
In the episode of MASH that first aired on this night in 1972, "Bananas, Crackers and Nuts," the staff had just put in a brutal stretch of surgery — but the word was that the enemy had pulled back to regroup and no further action was expected for a week.
Immediately Hawkeye (Alan Alda) and Trapper John (Wayne Rogers) lobbied for some R&R, but Henry (McLean Stevenson) was leaving the camp for awhile, which left Frank (Larry Linville) in command. And Hawkeye and Trapper knew Frank wouldn't approve a leave for them.
So they came up with a scheme to try to persuade Frank that Hawkeye was losing his grip on reality and would need time off in Tokyo. In their plan, Trapper would accompany him because Trapper was "the only one that can handle him." It seemed like a foolproof plan.
They staged a scene in the mess tent in which Hawkeye, dressed in surgical garb, came in with a plate of freshly cooked liver and sat down within arm's reach of a bottle of ketchup. In his conversation with Frank and Hot Lips (Loretta Swit), Hawkeye strongly implied that the liver came from the corpse of a North Korean.
Frank agreed to authorize the time off.
But Hot Lips wasn't convinced and suggested that they summon a psychiatrist to examine Hawkeye. It turned out that Hot Lips knew a brilliant psychiatrist (Stuart Margolin) who had been crazy about her for years.
When they first met, Hawkeye implied that he was in love with Frank — an eyebrow–raising confession as far as the psychiatrist was concerned. And the psychiatrist decided to take Hawkeye back to Tokyo with him for observation.
That was when the episode really took off. Hawkeye and Trapper hatched another plan — with the help of Radar (Gary Burghoff) — to set up the psychiatrist using the object of his affections as the unwitting bait.
They switched the signs on Hot Lips' tent so the psychiatrist would think he was going into the visitors' tent. Then, once he was inside, the sign was switched again. When Hot Lips went into the tent, the psychiatrist grabbed her, Hot Lips screamed and the rest of the camp came running.
It was still early in the series' first season, but Hawkeye was establishing a reputation for resisting authority. OK, his character had already established that in the movie — but a TV series is a different animal. Each sitcom must have its own running jokes to succeed and must maintain them regularly. MASH did a pretty good job with that. After all, it lasted 11 seasons.
Margolin made another appearance on MASH — in its second season — as yet another specialist, summoned to the camp to perform nose surgery.
In October 1972 All in the Family was in its second full season and in the midst of what would be a five–year reign at the top of the national TV ratings.
Everyone, it seemed, was watching, and it gave the writers a bully pulpit any president would envy. They responded with a series of episodes that continually broke new ground in American comedy.
The episode that aired on this night in 1972, "The Bunkers and the Swingers," dealt with the subject of wife swapping — a topic that was rarely mentioned on TV at that time.
Lee Kalcheim, Michael Ross and Bernie West won a Primetime Emmy for their writing in this episode, which gave a different spin on freedom of speech and protecting the expression of unpopular ideas (or, in this case, lifestyles).
Edith (Jean Stapleton) had found a magazine on the subway and had been drawn to the recipe section — not noticing that the magazine was about the wife swapping lifestyle. Next to the recipes she found a "swap section" — classified ads seeking couples for rendezvous although they appeared to be worded as ambiguously as possible. The ad that drew Edith's attention spoke of a couple seeking another couple to "swap good times."
Edith responded, and the wheels were in motion for the couple (played by Rue McClanahan and Vincent Gardenia) to pay the Bunkers a visit.
But Edith shared the information with Gloria (Sally Struthers), who immediately realized that the couple's intentions were not what Edith thought they were, and she shared the information with Mike (Rob Reiner), insisting that he had to do something. He resisted.
"How am I going to explain wife swapping to your mother?" he asked.
"Just tell her in plain, simple English," Gloria replied.
"Well, you tell her in that English!" Mike said.
Mike and Gloria had tickets to see the ballet so they couldn't stay to explain things to Edith. But Mike sent a telegram to the couple telling them to cancel their plans to visit.
He didn't realize that the couple was already en route to the Bunkers' and arrived only minutes after Mike and Gloria left.
Archie wasn't sure what to make of them, but he warmed up to them when they gave him a box of prime cigars. And Edith was given perfume — Chanel No. 5.
"That's their highest number," she told Archie.
Turned out the guests were trophy winners in an annual dance contest, and they used that as a way to break the ice with the Bunkers.
But the Bunkers eventually learned the couple's true nature, and Archie was livid. He told them they were communists.
McClanahan's character tried to explain to Edith. Their marriage "didn't seem to matter anymore," she said. "We were drowning. Swinging saved us!"
Edith replied, "I think I would rather have drowned."
The couple left, a somewhat tragic figure even though Gardenia's character said a familiar line to students of history. It would do today's students well to remember it.
"I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
Forty–five years after Gardenia spoke that line on All in the Family, it is a timely reminder of the way that unpopular ideas are being stifled on America's college campuses. The story was a reminder of why we have freedom of speech in this country. Popular ideas don't need protection. Unpopular ideas do.
Well, McClanahan and Gardenia's figures were tragic in this episode, but their futures weren't. Both had bright futures in the All in the Family universe. McClanahan went on to co–star on Maude, which was the first All in the Family spinoff, before becoming a regular on The Golden Girls.
Gardenia — in a different role — was the Bunkers' neighbor for a couple of seasons, but his primary vocation was in the movies. He was even nominated for an Oscar at the same time he was playing Frank Lorenzo in 1973.
"Three hours ago, this man was in a battle. Two hours ago, we operated on him. He's got a 50–50 chance. We win some, we lose some. That's what it's all about. No promises. No guaranteed survival. No saints in surgical garb. Our willingness, our experience, our technique are not enough. Guns and bombs and antipersonnel mines have more power to take life than we have to preserve it. Not a very happy ending for a movie. But then, no war is a movie."
Hawkeye (Alan Alda)
Even long–time fans of MASH may not have noticed, but there was a policy that existed for more than half of the series' run — the laugh track that was always present in scenes that showed The Swamp or the mess tent or the colonel's office (or anywhere else) was not present in the operating room.
That was a sign of reverence and respect. The operating room is a serious place so, even though the surgeons cracked as many jokes in the O.R. as they did outside it, there was no laugh track there.
It was not always that way. It was a policy that evolved and was actually a compromise. See, the creators of the series — Larry Gelbart and Gene Reynolds — didn't want a laugh track at all. CBS rejected that but ultimately agreed to a compromise in which the laugh track was omitted from operating room sequences.
In a way, the episode that aired on this night in 1972, "Yankee Doodle Doctor," gave the show's fans a peek into the future.
Not that there were that many fans in 1972, anyway. The show was in its first season and wound up rated #46 when the season was over. It appeared to be on its way to cancellation, but it got some traction from summer reruns and was rescued. It was in TV's Top 10 every season for the rest of its run.
But that was still in its future when "Yankee Doodle Doctor" aired 45 years ago tonight.
As the episode opened, it became clear to the audience that an Army documentary was going to be made about the 4077th.
And as the episode unfolded, it became clear to Hawkeye (Alan Alda) and Trapper John (Wayne Rogers) that it was pure propaganda, right down to the insipid narration that Frank (Larry Linville) did, which referred to the surgeons at the 4077th as "saints in surgical garb," and they wanted nothing to do with it.
But after they had sabotaged the finished film — driving the director from Special Services and the unit's commanding general (Herb Voland in a recurring role) away — Hawkeye and Trapper convinced Col. Blake (McLean Stevenson) to let them make their own movie.
And what a movie it was.
With the help of Radar (Gary Burghoff) and Nurse Cutler (Marcia Strassman), they made a slapstick feature that paid homage to the Marx Brothers — with Hawkeye dressed as Groucho and Trapper as Harpo. Radar played a patient who was being "operated on" by Hawkeye — with a saw.
It probably goes without saying that, given the slapstick nature of the movie Hawkeye and Trapper produced, the laugh track was used liberally.
But not in the final scene. In that scene, Hawkeye, seated next to an actual recovering patient, delivered the monologue that is reproduced at the top of this post. No laugh track was used — well, nothing funny was said in that segment so it would have been strange if one had been used. But it gave viewers a taste of what it would be like to watch MASH without a laugh track.
OK, that last scene wasn't in the O.R. But it was in post–op. Close enough.
Strassman, who was making her second appearance on MASH, seemed to be destined to be a cast regular, but she left after the season ended. I haven't been able to find out why, but she went on to land several significant parts on TV and in the movies.
Mary (Mary Tyler Moore):Tell us, Miss Mary Jo Beth Ann Lou, what are some of your favorite hobbies?
Rhoda (Valerie Harper):My favorite hobbies are cheerleading, liking people and living in America.
In the 1970s Valerie Harper as Rhoda on the Mary Tyler Moore Show was one of the best role models for girls and young women.
The star of the show, Mary Tyler Moore, was portrayed as the epitome of the modern single working woman, but as the associate producer of a local TV newscast, she occupied the elite end of that spectrum. Besides she was beautiful and always wore clothes that accentuated her physical beauty. She was hardly typical of the young women of her generation although she did inspire many to pursue their dreams. She was a pioneer in a male–dominated field, and she was to be commended for accomplishing what she did in a way that was perceived as nonthreatening. But she was not typical.
Rhoda was more representative of modern single working women. She was a window dresser at a department store, and she didn't have a covergirl body although the baggy clothes her character wore made it hard to see that she really was more shapely than viewers were led to believe. A native of the Bronx, Rhoda had a brash way of speaking and a boisterous personality.
That was a lethal combination for Rhoda. People were even less attracted to such a character then than they are today.
Still, Rhoda was a revolutionary character in modern television. She was a role model for all the girls who lived in the real world where imperfections and shortcomings of any kind could be and frequently were obstacles to success. Rhoda seemed to revel in her acceptance of that world and her place in it.
Once, for example, Rhoda was invited to "go downtown and goof on people." She asked what that meant and was told it meant to "walk around, act weird, hope somebody notices."
"That's my life, kid," she replied.
Another time, at a social gathering, Rhoda introduced herself as "another person in the room."
So it was a little disappointing 45 years ago tonight when, in the episode "Rhoda the Beautiful," Rhoda seemed to cave to the segment of the culture that values appearances over everything else, that judges the book's cover, not its content.
In the episode Rhoda had been participating in a weight–loss program and had shed 20 pounds. She looked great, so great in fact that she was chosen to be a contestant in a beauty pageant at the department store where she worked.
But Rhoda was having a hard time accepting the new and improved version of herself. She had been struggling with weight issues all her life as so many people do. It was part of her personality — and it was a handy excuse when she failed at something. What would she do now?
But to Rhoda's credit, she stayed on her diet. She was in her maintenance phase, which apparently meant continuing to avoid all the things she had been avoiding since going on the diet. That led to one of the funniest scenes in the episode.
Rhoda walked into Mary's apartment while Mary was eating a candy bar. Embarrassed, Mary put the candy bar down, but Rhoda insisted that she finish it. So that is what Mary did — but she soon regretted it because Rhoda asked her questions about it, telling Mary that she had forgotten what chocolate tasted like. So Mary had to describe the candy bar to Rhoda. When she was finished, Rhoda said, "That's the best candy bar I ever watched."
Even as the list of semifinalists for Ms. Hempel was narrowed and Rhoda remained in contention, she continued to put herself down. It annoyed Mary to the point that she chided Rhoda for not allowing herself to enjoy the experience.
"It's not so easy to say nice things about yourself," Rhoda protested, and that was something to which I could certainly relate. I remember on my first newspaper job, one of my first assignments was to write an article about myself, introducing myself to the readers. While I had a list of accomplishments of which I was proud (still am, for that matter), I really struggled with that article. It took me longer to write than any article I've ever written, even the ones that dealt with complex subjects.
Rhoda was right. It isn't easy for many people to speak — or write — about themselves. I guess it seems immodest to most.
There was an element of disappointment there, too, I suppose. When Rhoda became one of the contenders for Ms. Hempel (Hempel's Department Store being where she worked), she had been counting on a negative reaction from Phyllis (Cloris Leachman) as the basis of an excuse for not winning.
But Phyllis threw her a curve, insisting that she was beautiful and an obvious choice for Ms. Hempel.
To Rhoda's great surprise, she won the pageant — and gave hope to the seemingly hopeless.
You know, she might have been a pretty good role model in this episode after all.
"A young boy and his father were in a car accident. Both were injured and rushed to the hospital. They were wheeled into separate operating rooms and two doctors prepared to work on them, one doctor for each patient.
"The doctor operating on the father got started right away, but the doctor assigned to the young boy stared at him in surprise. 'I can't operate on him,' the doctor told the staff. 'That child is my son.'
"How can that be?"
The riddle
Good television is many things.
Mostly, I suppose, it is a reflection of its time. Watching an episode of a classic TV series is often like looking into a window to the past. Sometimes it reflects the reality that the writers and producers may have wished was so — but wasn't really. Other times, though, it can be brutally, unflinchingly honest.
And an episode of All in the Family that first aired on this night in 1972 — "Gloria and the Riddle" — holds up a mirror in 2017 to show just how far America has come (and how far it has yet to go) in its attitudes about certain things. In this case sexism.
Forty–five years ago, Gloria (Sally Struthers) had her family stumped by a riddle she had picked up while working with a friend of hers for what was known at the time as women's lib. You can see the riddle at the top of this post.
The answer to the riddle — that the surgeon who couldn't operate on the injured boy was the child's mother — seems to leap out at you in 2017, doesn't it? But it wasn't so obvious in 1972. I recently saw a survey of schoolchildren who were told the riddle, and a majority identified the surgeon as being the boy's mother. I doubt that the results of such a survey would have been anywhere close to that in 1972.
And the answer that most of the remaining children gave definitely wouldn't have been given by many (if any) respondents in 1972 — that the boy had two fathers.
Certainly sexism still exists today, but it is also beyond dispute that doors that were closed to women in 1972 are no longer closed to them in 2017.
In 1972 there weren't many positive role models for young women outside of the traditional ones. Well, successful ones, that is. The women's liberation movement promoted the idea of women achieving in previously male–dominated fields, but that idea really hadn't taken root in American thinking yet.
Girls and young women, for example, could admire and be proud of the achievements of the space program, but it would be more than a decade before Sally Ride became the first American woman in space.
In the years that have passed since that time, many women have flown on space missions, and some have died there.
Any American could (and still can) take pride in Supreme Court decisions and opinions, but until Sandra Day O'Connor was nominated to replace Potter Stewart in 1981, only males could realistically dream of occupying a seat on the highest court in the land and writing legal opinions that would influence millions of lives.
Today women occupy three of the nine seats on the Supreme Court.
And, in 1972, no woman had ever been on a major political party's national ticket. There have been three since — Geraldine Ferraro and Sarah Palin were their parties' first female nominees for vice president, and Hillary Clinton was the Democrats' first female presidential nominee last year.
No woman has been elected president or vice president — but that will change eventually, just as it did for Catholics and blacks.
Change comes slowly sometimes, and it depends upon many variables — not the least of which is the messenger.
On this night in 1972 All in the Family was the messenger.
"To my mind, Yes may be the single most important of all the progressive rock bands."
Geddy Lee of Rush
I was a late arrival to the Yes party, I suppose.
The band's "Fragile" album had been in the music stores for a long time before I acquired a copy, but it was brand–new to me, and I was hooked by the other–worldly music I heard.
I may have been just discovering Yes, but that was far from the band's most current release. Among the Yes albums that were released after "Fragile" (but, again, before I got a copy of it) was "Close to the Edge," which hit music stores on this day in 1972 and marked a bit of a turning point — for the band and for me.
With my first purchase of a Yes album, I entered the world of progressive rock, where I would find the likes of Pink Floyd, Emerson Lake and Palmer and Jethro Tull — and others. And, while I listen to other things, too, I've never left that world.
When I bought the "Fragile" album on cassette long after its successor, "Close to the Edge," was released, I had just persuaded my parents to let me have a portable cassette recorder, and "Fragile" was one of the first cassettes I bought. I can't remember now why I bought it. I hadn't heard any of the tracks — and it didn't take long for me to figure out why. In those days radio stations seldom gave much airplay to songs that were longer than about four or five minutes — and many of Yes' recordings were nearly twice as long — even longer on "Close to the Edge."
Needless to say Yes wasn't getting much air time. And if it wasn't played on the radio in those days, chances were good I hadn't heard it.
I must have heard about Yes from someone, but I can't think of who that might have been. I wish I knew because that person was responsible for introducing me to one of my favorite musical experiences, and I would like to express my sincere gratitude.
But the experiences of listening to "Fragile" and "Close to the Edge" were very different.
While many of the tracks on "Fragile" were lengthy, they weren't as long as the tracks on "Close to the Edge," which was like a Yes symphony in three tracks/movements.
For nearly 50 years, Yes has had a distinctive style, but it was never really the same after "Close to the Edge." That was the last album that included drummer Bill Bruford, who joined King Crimson. Bruford was as distinctive in his own way as The Who's Keith Moon; others could take his place after he left, but they could never duplicate his sound.
Not surprisingly, I suppose, Yes has never again reached the creative heights it reached with "Close to the Edge." After 45 years, it holds up where other Yes albums do not — and remains fresh and new even upon repeated listenings.
When people die, you can generally count on hearing one of two things said.
Either the recently deceased died before his time — or he lived a long, full life.
You never hear that someone died at the right time, that he didn't live so much as a minute more or a minute less than he should have.
Jim Croce was one of those rare individuals about whom both things could have been said.
He was young when he died — only 30 — and he only made five studio albums in his too–brief career. His breakthrough album was his third, "You Don't Mess Around With Jim," which hit the music stores in April of 1972.
As young as he was, though, he really did live a full – if not long — life. And the success "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" brought him was well deserved if short lived.
Well, the success wasn't short lived. The album contained three songs that got significant airplay, including one that went to No. 1 on the charts after Croce's death in a 1973 airplane crash.
In hindsight, he was like a comet. He had made two previous albums that never made much of a splash so, for most folks, his career was limited to two years — 1972 and 1973.
"You Don't Mess Around With Jim" was the first exposure most people probably had to Jim Croce. It didn't contain his biggest hit. That would probably be "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown," which was at the top of the charts a few months before Croce's death. After his death, "Time in a Bottle" was revived from "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" and became Croce's final No. 1 hit.
It also made "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" a No. 1 album — nearly two years after it first hit the music stores.
Listen to "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" today, and you can get an idea of what could have been.
I guess everyone has a favorite from that album. The title track got a lot of airplay, and it is that kind of song — at least, it was the kind of song that was right at home on the radio at a time when Don McLean's "American Pie" was topping the charts.
My favorite has always been "Rapid Roy (The Stock Car Boy)."
It's a lot like the title track, but that wasn't the only kind of song Croce could do. As many people belatedly discovered after his death, he could do love songs, too. "Photographs and Memories" was on this album, and it is one of the best love songs you will ever hear — a song about lost love.
"Operator (That's Not the Way It Feels)" is a similar love song — also about loss.
I don't think Croce wrote many songs about how one feels when in the grip of puppy love. His songs were more about the end of a relationship.
Perhaps, if he had been given more time, he would have explored other phases of love affairs in his music. But Croce's Comet disappeared too soon.
Judy (Barbra Streisand):I know I'm different, but from now on I'm going to try and be the same.
Howard (Ryan O'Neal):The same as what?
Judy:The same as people who aren't different.
Peter Bogdanovich's "What's Up, Doc?" which premiered on this day in 1972, was inspired lunacy. It was a screwball comedy in the proud tradition of screwball comedies.
I will always remember the first time I saw it. I saw it on the big screen with my parents and my brother.
When I was growing up, I could always tell when something truly amused my father. If he was only mildly amused — or if he wasn't really amused but wanted to be polite — he would chuckle lightly. But if something really struck him as funny, he would laugh a full–throated, no–holds–barred laugh.
The latter was the way he laughed when we saw "What's Up, Doc?"
Oh, sure, it was pure silliness. But it was the kind of silliness that is seen less and less these days.
At some point along film's evolution, the humor in slapstick grew to rely on bathroom jokes and what used to be called four–letter words; obviously there is some overlap of the two. Not so with "What's Up, Doc?"
Granted, I think most, if not all, of this shift came along after "What's Up, Doc?" was showing in movie theaters, and that might have been why there was so little of either in that movie.
I recall few four–letter words in the dialogue, and the only bathroom humor occurred when Streisand was caught taking a bath in O'Neal's bathroom.
It had a rapid–fire script with one–liners that you could easily miss if you were laughing. That meant that you had to see it a second time — and perhaps a third or fourth time and keep the urge to laugh in check — to get the full benefit of the writing.
I have seen it many times since that first viewing. I never get tired of the snappy dialogue or the acting. The last time I saw it, it seemed to me that the dialogue was still as fresh and funny as it was 45 years ago.
As it always is in truly good screwball comedies, the premise was simple. A musicologist (Ryan O'Neal) and his fiancee (Madeline Kahn) were in San Francisco where O'Neal's character was to receive a grant. This grant was intended to help him study his theory of ancient man's use of rocks in making music.
O'Neal had a plaid overnight bag in which he carried his collection of prehistoric rocks that he used in his studies. The story centered around that bag and three others that looked just like it. One belonged to Barbra Streisand, who played what appeared to be a bit of a drifter. Her bag seemed to contain nothing but underwear. One belonged to a wealthy hotel guest who carried her jewels in it — and, consequently, had attracted the attention of a thief — and the fourth belonged to an apparent whistle blower who had top–secret documents in his bag — and someone was trying to take the papers from him.
All four wound up at the same hotel in San Francisco.
From there, it was probably best for the viewer to simply watch things unfold and not dwell on the details. Things moved too fast to ponder details for too long.
It's that rapid pace that made "What's Up, Doc?" such a pleasure to watch. As critic Roger Ebert observed, "[Y]ou can't direct comedy at a snail's pace. It has to move and crackle."
And Bogdanovich certainly didn't direct at a snail's pace. Ostensibly his intent was to pay homage to Howard Hawks and the screwball comedies of his day. In that regard, he certainly succeeded. But Bogdanovich had studied the form well and had his own ideas so the movie was a delightful blend of familiar screwball devices and new ones.
My favorite scene has always been when O'Neal's hotel room had been destroyed in screwball comedyesque fashion, and he was visited the next morning by the manager of the hotel (the always droll John Hillerman), who introduced himself to O'Neal as "the manager of what's left of the hotel."
He told O'Neal he had a message for him from the staff of the hotel. What is it? O'Neal wanted to know.
"Goodbye," the manager replied.
"That's the entire message?" O'Neal asked.
"Yes," Hillerman replied. "We would appreciate it if you would check out."
"When?" O'Neal asked.
"Yesterday."
Kahn made her first feature–film appearance in "What's Up, Doc?" and gave audiences a taste of her considerable talent and the many great performances to come. Sadly her life and career were cut short by ovarian cancer in 1999.
Kahn's character was, in Ebert's word, "spinsterish," and she played it very well, considering she was only about 30 at the time. And she really stood out when she was on the screen, but I don't recall her being much of a factor in the climactic sequence of the film.
I guess no screwball comedy would be complete without some kind of chase (typically car, I suppose), and "What's Up, Doc?" had one with all the characters from the various subplots racing in various types of automobiles through the streets of San Francisco and nearly all ending up in San Francisco Bay.
Car chases are fairly traditional movie elements, but again, Bogdanovich put his own spin on things. For awhile, Streisand and O'Neal were on a delivery boy's bicycle that wound up, somehow, inside a Chinese dragon. You need to watch the movie to see how that was accomplished.
Some of the more delightful elements of "What's Up, Doc?" do require some explanation because only a select group of people will get them otherwise.
Most of these elements were musical. "What's Up, Doc?" was not a musical, but it had a lot of musical references — which was appropriate since it was centered on a musicologists' convention.
The most obvious was the use of the Cole Porter song "You're the Top" in the opening and closing sequences. Less obvious to most would be the other Porter songs that could be heard in the hotel lobby.
In the chase scene, remember when I mentioned the Chinese dragon? Well, in that scene, the Chinese marching band played "La Cucaracha" on German glockenspiels.
Screwy, huh?
And then there were Bogdanovich's nods to the movie industry. The best ones came at the end. While looking for Streisand (whose name in the movie was Judy), O'Neal said, "Judy? Judy? Judy?" a nod to a phrase that is often associated with Cary Grant, the star of "Bringing Up Baby," a classic screwball comedy.
Grant never said the line. But Humphrey Bogart did say, "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." In "What's Up, Doc?" Streisand did, too, substituting "he" for "she" but using an acceptable Bogart voice.
And in the best movie homage, Streisand told O'Neal, "Love means never having to say you're sorry." That, of course, was Ali MacGraw's famous line in "Love Story," the movie that made O'Neal a star. In "What's Up, Doc?" his response was, "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
Even after a lifetime of observing human activity, it still surprises me at times to see how superficial our judgments really are.
Last year's elections provide the perfect example. This is not a new thing, but it seems that more people than usual are willing to believe the worst about those who voted differently than they did. The flip side is that they are just as willing to overlook the shortcomings in those who voted the same as they did.
This doesn't apply only to politics. It applies to everything else. People in general are more comfortable believing the best about those with whom they share certain characteristics — age, race, gender, faith, education — and the worst about those with whom they have less in common. But those kinds of characteristics are superficial, and it is a mistake to trust — or distrust — anyone solely on those factors.
I think that must have been the lesson of the episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show, "Some of My Best Friends Are Rhoda," that premiered on this night in 1972.
In the episode, Mary had been in a minor collision with a woman with whom she then struck up a friendship. They had been members of the same sorority — on different campuses but probably around the same time. They seemed to be about the same age.
When they came back to Mary's apartment, Rhoda (Valerie Harper) suggested that she and Mary play tennis. Mary's new friend picked up on that and suggested that Mary play with her. They agreed to do so.
Mary's relationship with this new friend really seemed to blossom, and Rhoda was getting jealous. She didn't try too hard to conceal it, either, although it's been my observation that people are more transparent than they think they are.
When Mary's friend wanted to find a fourth player for a doubles match at the tennis club, it was obvious fairly quickly that she did not want to invite Rhoda. She kept making excuses for not asking Rhoda to join them. Mary wanted to know why.
It turned out that the problem was that Rhoda was Jewish, and the tennis club didn't want Jews. Well, that was how Joanne presented it to Mary initially. But Joanne's true colors became clear.
Mary, a gentile, pretended to be Jewish. The instantaneous change in Joanne's facial expression spoke volumes.
So did the expression change on Joanne's face when, a minute later, Mary confessed that she was not Jewish after all.
"I knew that," an obviously relieved Joanne said. "Don't you think I knew that?"
"No," Mary replied. "I don't think you knew that. I think for a minute there you weren't sure — and it made a difference."
That was the end of their friendship, but Mary had stood for what she knew was right.
I seldom hear the episode mentioned, but it was a strong statement for its time — and one of the best Mary Tyler Moore Show episodes.
Archie (Carroll O'Connor):Don't bother the U.S.A. government with the Constitution.
Mike (Rob Reiner):Why? Afraid they're gonna read it?
In my experience, most people will express a fierce sense of loyalty to at least one person — a spouse, a parent, a sibling, a friend — but that sense of loyalty often disappears when the chips are down.
It's one of the basic instincts of human nature, I suppose — to look out for No. 1 — and that is precisely what Archie Bunker (Carroll O'Connor) did in the episode of All in the Family that first aired on this night in 1972, "Archie and the FBI." But it backfired on him.
The episode began as a quiet evening around the Bunker household. Gloria (Sally Struthers) was helping Mike (Rob Reiner) with his Spanish exercises — I presumed he was taking Spanish in college although I don't recall whether that was ever mentioned. Not that that was important. I don't think Spanish was ever mentioned again — or that any Spanish words were used in the episode.
Archie was observing — and cracking jokes — when there came a knock at the door.
It was an investigator asking questions about a friend, co–worker and neighbor from across the street.
And the flag–waving Archie, overtaken by panic–induced paranoia, gave the investigator answers that sounded like he hardly knew the man — when, in fact, Mike and Gloria kept saying that the neighbor was one of Archie's best friends.
Archie assumed the investigator was from the FBI — I suppose it was a natural assumption as the man told Archie he was from the government — but the questions he asked were not the sort of questions one would expect in a legitimate investigation. He wanted to know what sort of books Archie's friend read, what his drinking habits were, the organizations to which he belonged, that kind of thing.
That made Archie understandably nervous — and more inclined to distance himself from his friend, who just happened to be in the kitchen while Archie spoke with the investigator. Edith (Jean Stapleton) summoned Archie to the kitchen, where the friend insisted on being told what was being said (and asked) about him.
Archie soothed his friend with a promise that everything he said was positive and assured him that they were "best buddies." Archie's friend didn't seem to be convinced, but he left. After the investigator (who had a creepy, kind of robotic smile that he flashed frequently) finished interviewing Archie, he left, too.
Not long after, Archie got a phone call from another neighbor, who said the investigator was at his house asking questions.
Archie asked the neighbor why the investigator was asking questions about the other neighbor — and was told that the investigator was asking questions about Archie.
That was the first half of the show.
When All in the Family returned from its commercial break, paranoia had Archie fully in its grip. He was convinced that he was suspected of being a subversive so he flew his American flag at night. Then Mike planted the idea in Archie's mind that the house might be bugged — so Archie went around peeking under cushions and talking into objects.
Lionel (Mike Evans) came over after the investigator finished asking questions at his house. When Archie asked him what Lionel's family had said, Lionel replied, "We know what you are, and we told him."
Then the first neighbor — the one about whom the investigator interrogated Archie — came by in his American Legion uniform, which he claimed to be wearing for bugle practice, and the two argued about which of them was a subversive.
The friendship was careening off the cliff when the phone rang. It was Archie's shop steward with the information that the investigation was not being conducted by the FBI. It was the Air Force, and the investigation was connected to a defense contract that had been completed months earlier.
When that had been brought to the FBI's attention, the investigation had been dropped.
Edith was elated. That meant the two could go back to being friends again.
Not so fast.
It isn't always easy to go back to the way things were when other things have happened — and when the episode ended, it was unclear whether Archie and his friend would be able to patch things up.
"All that best buddies stuff," Archie said, "it's all for kids anyhow."
"After 23 years of stifles, the dingbat turns on me."
Archie Bunker (Carroll O'Connor)
Sometimes I can't help but marvel at the frankness of the modern culture.
For example, when I was growing up, certain things still were not said in public — and rarely in private. Sex — the act itself or anything that was exclusively masculine or especially feminine — was seldom brought up in the movies — and never on television. In person–to–person interaction, sex and bodily functions were topics only with one's closest peers.
These days I keep up with my goddaughter on Facebook. I love her dearly, but I am often astonished by the language she so casually uses in her conversations with her friends and family. Words that, when I was younger, I would have been embarrassed to use even with my best friends — and never around my parents or anyone from their generation. It's a different world, I remind myself. There were walls in those days. Many walls.
But All in the Family started breaking down those walls in the early 1970s.
Women like my goddaughter probably will never know the debt they owe to women like Jean Stapleton, who played Edith on All in the Family and was at the center of an episode that aired on this night in 1972 — "Edith's Problem" — that focused on one of those gender–oriented topics of which people never spoke at the time.
Menopause.
I've seen many women in my life who were pioneers in their fields. I've even had the honor of knowing a few personally. And perhaps they all would have been pioneers eventually even without the inspirational women who went ahead and did the heavy lifting. But it would have taken them longer.
Jean Stapleton was one of those trailblazers. As Edith Bunker, she was able to articulate things in a way that women of her generation could understand — and her relationship with her daughter Gloria (Sally Struthers) allowed her to reach across the aisle.
It was a unique position, and Edith always used it well. The early '70s was a tumultuous time in America, and Edith led both the acceptance of the new ways and the assault on the old.
And so much of it came down to what people thought — and that meant language. George Carlin observed that we do think in language, and the language that we use (or don't use) says a lot.
Menopause was not a word that was used very much in those days, at least not openly. It isn't an obscene word. It describes a condition that most people in those days preferred to ignore, perhaps because it was associated with aging — and no one likes to get old.
But in "Edith's Problem," viewers learned that menopause could happen to a woman any time after she turns 40. And that certainly isn't old.
Gloria told Edith that, and Edith articulated the frustration that many women must have felt over the years. She was incredulous that her daughter had to be the one to tell her what was happening.
"When I was a young girl," Edith lamented, "I didn't know what every young girl should know. Now I'm going to be an old lady, and I don't know what every old lady should know!"
On this night in 1972, however, Edith was completely bewildered by what was happening around her and within her.
So was Archie (Carroll O'Connor) who was bending over backward trying to be nice. Edith, though, took it the wrong way.
"He ain't talking to me," she told Gloria. "He's talking to some old lady."
Archie was trying to be patient and understanding, but he was pushed beyond his breaking point when Edith announced that she didn't want to go to Disney World, which had been their original destination. Instead, she wanted to visit her cousin and her cousin's family in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
Archie went ballistic. "The only way you're going to get me to go to Scranton is if some screwball hijacks the airplane," he told her. "I know all about your woman's troubles there, Edith, but when I had the hernia that time I didn't make you wear the truss."
And then he delivered what may have been Archie's best lines of the series. "If you're going to have a change of life, you've got to do it right now. I'm going to give you just 30 seconds. Now come on, change!"
What I found refreshing about this episode was its realistic treatment of its subject. TV programs have long been criticized for making problems appear to be more easily resolved than they really are, but this episode ended with no real resolution — a concession, perhaps, to the reality that menopause cannot be dispensed with overnight like a 24–hour virus. It takes a lot of work, and some couples can't give it that kind of commitment.
The only thing that was clear when "Edith's Problem" ended was that more work remained to be done.
But most people forget that it languished at #46 in the TV ratings in its first season, which began on this day in 1972, and almost didn't make the cut.
Other shows have survived — some have even thrived — after sluggish starts, but M*A*S*H did so while writing its own rules and virtually ignoring conventional wisdom.
It often seemed to be searching for itself in that first season — not entirely content to play things for laughs, even though it was mostly billed as a sitcom.
And that apparent ambiguity almost led to its cancellation after that first season. No one really knew what it was, but the series was saved thanks to an impassioned plea from the wife of a CBS executive who liked the show — whatever it was.
M*A*S*H was always more than a comedy. It just didn't know how to achieve its mission.
Its first three seasons leaned toward slapstick, but, at the end of that third season, when Henry Blake (McLean Stevenson) left the series — permanently — when his character's airplane was shot down over the Sea of Japan, M*A*S*H truly began to blend comedy with drama and pathos to create some of the most imaginative half–hour episodes ever filmed.
Before Stevenson's departure, there were flashes of what was in store, even in the pilot episode, which largely introduced the cast to the audience.
That was when viewers first learned of Radar's strange ability to know what people were going to say before they said it.
They learned of Frank and Hot Lips and their torrid affair.
And they learned that Hawkeye and Trapper John were skirt–chasing, gin–swilling doctors, gifted in matters of medicine.
By the way, if you're a M*A*S*H fan, you probably think of actor William Christopher when you think of the character of Father Mulcahy, the unit's priest. And that is certainly as it should be. Christopher appeared in more than 80% of the series' episodes — only one appearance shy of matching Jamie Farr for third place in frequency of appearances.
And Christopher probably should have had that extra appearance — but someone else played Father Mulcahy in the pilot episode that aired 40 years ago tonight.
It really is a shame that Christopher wasn't in that pilot episode — since Father Mulcahy figured rather prominently in the story's conclusion.
You see, Hawkeye was trying to organize a raffle to raise money so his Korean houseboy, Ho–Jon, could go to the U.S. and enroll at Hawkeye's alma mater. The winner of the raffle would receive a weekend in Tokyo accompanied by a beautiful nurse, whose name (Lt. Dish) was mildly reminiscent of Pussy Galore from the James Bond series.
M*A*S*H could be irreverent and decidedly incorrect politically in those days before Saturday Night Live challenged so many television taboos.
For example, in the initial episodes of the series, Hawkeye and Trapper John (Wayne Rogers) and the smarmy Frank Burns (Larry Linville) had a black bunkmate, a doctor named Spearchucker Jones.
He disappeared a few months after the show's premiere — with no explanation given.
The natural assumption might have been that CBS received some complaints from viewers who were offended by the racist connotations of the name, but apparently, the character was a casualty of story accuracy.
The writers learned that there were no black doctors during the Korean War so the character was quietly removed.
Well, anyway ...
When the big moment for the raffle drawing arrived, Hawkeye had it all worked out for someone to win who would be sure to turn it down — Father Mulcahy.
A brigadier general, who had been summoned by a phone call from Hot Lips, arrived at precisely the moment that Mulcahy was revealed to be the raffle winner and bellowed, "Do I understand that the priest of this outfit has just won a weekend with a nurse in Tokyo?"
"It's a prayer come true," Hawkeye replied.
At that point, Hot Lips entered the tent, pulling Frank behind her. He had been wrapped in gauze and sedated to keep him from interfering with the raffle.
And Hot Lips delivered perhaps the finest line I have heard in a pilot episode.
"Those two," the exasperated Hot Lips sputtered, pointing at Hawkeye and Trapper, "they're ruining this war, for all of us!"
Fortunately for TV viewers in the 1970s, M*A*S*H kept "ruining" war for the next 11 years.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
