One of the things I enjoy doing when I watch episodes of the Twilight Zone is to look for people who were famous at the time or became famous later on.
But not all the guest stars were up–and–comers. Some were already famous, like Burgess Meredith, who didn't appear in the most episodes, but the ones he was in have a tendency to be lumped among the series' best.
With the exception of the one that first aired on this day in 1963, "Printer's Devil."
Meredith appeared in four episodes in all, and "Printer's Devil" was the only one made in the one–hour format of the fourth season. Is that why fans routinely rate it fourth of the four episodes Meredith made? And is that why it seldom comes close to making the top 10 episodes on anyone's list? Was it too long?
I don't know, but I do know that I have always liked "Printer's Devil." It was a rare example of a Twilight Zone episode that benefited from the one–hour format. The episodes that were made in that season frequently seemed to have filler in them that added little to the story but helped to fill the time. There wasn't much filler in "Printer's Devil." That isn't a surprise, given that Charles Beaumont wrote it.
Maybe I like it because it is about journalism, and it had nice little touches that few people outside the Fourth Estate would recognize. Like, for example, the source of the title of the episode.
Do you know what a printer's devil is (or was)? A printer's devil was a printer's apprentice, sort of a go–fer. Some pretty noteworthy fellows got their starts as printer's devils when they were young — Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain.
I don't know the exact origin of the name. No one knows for certain. There are several theories about that, none of which has ever been established. But that really isn't important. You already know enough to appreciate the play on words.
Meredith played Mr. Smith, a linotype operator/reporter who came along at just the moment when the editor of a struggling newspaper was about to commit suicide — and saved the day with his scoops. All he had to do was start setting the type and whatever he wrote came to pass. That's a pretty neat talent, one that could come in handy at a newspaper, especially in 1963 when technology was not as advanced as it is today.
"Some people have a green thumb. I have a green nose," Smith said. "Wherever there is news, this old nose smells it."
The editor told him there wasn't much news to sniff out, and Smith replied, "There will be."
No one in the story had figured out the truth yet, but you may have — Smith was the devil. (OK, the title of the episode sort of gave that one away, huh?) And he engineered a series of scoops that tripled the newspaper's circulation in a couple of weeks.
The competitor was hurting and made an offer for the resurgent paper, but it was rejected.
Then the competitor's building burned down. It was the biggest scoop yet.
And the editor's girlfriend was suspicious.
The editor had figured out Mr. Smith's true identity and had signed a document that turned over his soul in exchange for Smith's continued services.
After he fired three shots at Smith from point–blank range and did no damage whatsoever.
Now, I have never been in a situation like that, even after many years in newsrooms, but I would guess that the editor figured if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Not an injudicious conclusion.
But it wasn't very good for his love life.
I don't want to spoil the finish if you haven't seen it. I will say that I thought it could have been a lot better — but that took nothing away from the quality of the rest of the episode.
And Robert Sterling deserved praise for his performance as the editor.
If there is anything that is almost guaranteed to engage a movie audience, it is a story about an underdog overcoming the odds — and when director John G. Avildsen's "Rocky" made its debut on this day in 1976 movie audiences got enough of that to keep them satisfied until "Hoosiers" hit the big screen 10 years later — although they had plenty of those underdog movies, some good and some not so good, in the interim.
They always do. Movie makers know underdog stories make money. Well, that ones that do it right make money — and "Rocky" did it right.
I well remember the first time I saw "Rocky." It was in a theater in my hometown. Now my hometown theater — well, the one of my early childhood — was one of those spacious theaters with a lobby and a balcony and one truly big screen, but it had been out of business for awhile by the time "Rocky" made its premiere. So I never got to see it in that setting (although I have often wished that I had). I saw it in the more compact theaters in which one sees movies today — more like screening rooms than theaters, if you ask me, but that's a topic for another time. By modern standards, it was rather tiny. It only contained two screens — but that allowed twice as many movies to be shown and, therefore, provided twice as many options for consumers in my hometown.
The arrival of that two–screen theater produced as much buzz in my hometown as the arrival of the first McDonald's.
Anyway, in that more modern moviegoers' milieu, I saw something from the old days of which I have heard but I have seldom actually seen. I saw an audience stand and applaud when the movie was over.
A sport of some kind is always good for that kind of reaction (for a real–life example, one need look no further than this year's World Series, won by the Chicago Cubs for the first time in more than a century) — even though other pursuits can be used. "Rocky," of course, was about an individual sport — boxing. Team sports are good, too, but they teach a different kind of lesson that extols different values. Those movies are tributes to the virtues of teamwork and unselfishness. Movies about individual sports are more about determination, self–sufficiency and resourcefulness.
You couldn't really say Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) was down on his luck. He had never had much in the way of luck. He wasn't a bum, as Marlon "I coulda been a contendah" Brando memorably said of himself in "On the Waterfront." Rocky really could have been a contender. He was a Philly brawler who had squandered his prime and figured he would never get to fight for a title, not even once. (In the words of a Beatles' song, "Isn't he a bit like you and me?")
That was a source of frustration for Mickey (Burgess Meredith), the operator of a gym and trainer of would–be contenders, which, in turn, was a source of friction between Rocky and Mickey.
But then Rocky was offered an opportunity to fight the champ, a fellow named Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers), to mark the occasion of America's bicentennial. The champ didn't take the fight seriously, but Rocky did. He got up in the predawn hours to drink a glass of raw eggs and run in the dark, cold streets of Philadelphia, and he used sides of beef as punching bags in a meat freezer under the management of his friend Paulie (Burt Young).
Mickey swallowed his pride and approached Rocky about helping him prepare for the fight, but Rocky, briefly succumbing to that all–too–human tendency to engage in a little "how do you like me now?" banter, refused. When Mickey walked away, humbled and hurt, Rocky followed and reconciled with him.
Now, in case you have never seen this movie — and, frankly, it is hard for me to imagine anyone who hasn't seen "Rocky" by now — it is important to realize that Apollo wasn't looking for a legitimate fight. He was looking for more of an exhibition, a fight against an unknown on New Year's Eve. Rocky didn't get his shot at the title because he had been an up–and–coming contender. He was chosen purely at random. The champ saw Rocky's nickname — "The Italian Stallion" — and liked its possibilities as a marketing angle for the fight.
The champ never thought the Italian Stallion would be a serious threat, and he didn't go through serious preparations for the fight, which kind of foreshadowed, in a life–imitates–art kind of way, Buster Douglas' stunning upset of seemingly invincible heavyweight champion Mike Tyson in 1990. In one of my enduring memories from the movie, Apollo's trainer (Tony Burton) watched with alarm a TV report on Rocky's training regimen in the meat locker and kept telling Apollo to come watch the segment. But Apollo was too busy going over marketing plans for the fight.
Many things were finally coming to Rocky after a lifetime of waiting. Here he was getting a chance, at long last, to fight for the title, and he had also found love. Adrian (Talia Shire) was Paulie's sister, kind of plain and quiet. She worked at a pet store and lived with Paulie. She cooked his meals, cleaned his house, did his laundry. Apparently as a younger man he had promised to look after her because the family had concluded she couldn't look after herself. "I don't get married because of you," he yelled at her in frustration the night she moved out of his house — and into Rocky's tiny apartment. Maybe her family thought she was retarded or autistic. Fact was she was just introverted.
It was probably the love story — more than anything else — that made "Rocky" and its many sequels work. Most people probably fantasize about doing whatever they do professionally so well that they receive standing ovations and live handsomely for the rest of their lives.
Most people never achieve that, of course, so they can't relate to "Rocky" on that level (except in their dreams), but most people probably do find love — some don't but most do — and sometimes it is against the odds, in their own minds if no one else's.
On that level, most people probably could relate to "Rocky" in their real experiences — even if they had never participated in a sport, whether team or individual.
Rocky's love for Adrian was at the heart of everything he did. The movie was as much about his commitment to her as it was his commitment to giving his very best shot in the fight of his life. Maybe — no, make that probably — more.
So much of that is due to Shire's performance. Audiences already knew her as the Corleones' sister from the "Godfather" movies, and she had been nominated for Best Supporting Actress for her performance in "Godfather Part II."
She received a Best Actress nomination for her work in "Rocky" as the shy, sensitive Adrian. It was a powerful performance, all right, and perhaps she should have won — but she won neither Oscar.
"When she hesitates before kissing Rocky for the first time," wrote film critic Roger Ebert, "it's a moment so poignant it's like no other."
In a way, I guess, the audience already knew how the fight between Rocky and Apollo Creed would turn out before it even happened.
It didn't really matter, I guess, if Rocky wasn't a winner in the ring (except it always bothered me that, in the fight scenes in the first and subsequent Rocky movies, when punches landed, they always sounded like car doors being slammed in echo chambers).
He won the love of his life against all odds.
And so, too, did the movie. It won Best Picture (as well as Best Director and Best Film Editing) at the Academy Awards — in spite of heavyweights like "All the President's Men" and "Network" on the Academy's ballots.
Talk about your underdog–makes–good finish.
And Bill Conti was nominated for — and probably should have won — the Oscar for Best Original Song. "Gonna Fly Now" is such an iconic movie tune now. Forty years later it lives on in more memories than the winner of that Oscar, Barbra Streisand and Paul Williams' "Evergreen."
Take my advice. If you have a daunting task facing you and you need to get pumped up, listen to "Gonna Fly Now." Works every time.
Actually, Conti probably should have been nominated for Best Original Score. But there is a limit for even an underdog's triumphs.
"I am nothing more than a reminder to you that you cannot destroy truth by burning pages!"
Romney Wordsworth (Burgess Meredith)
Burgess Meredith made four separate appearances on Twilight Zone. I'm not sure what the record for appearances is, but that must be close. His co–star in the episode that premiered on this night in 1961, Fritz Weaver, only appeared in half as many episodes.
And most people, when they think of Burgess Meredith on the Twilight Zone, remember his portrayal of the bookworm who survived a nuclear blast because he was reading in the bank vault during his lunch break.
Meredith's Twilight Zone characters were usually bookish, nebbishy types — quite a contrast to the rough–around–the–edges boxing trainer he played in the early "Rocky" movies — and the one I liked best was featured in the episode that first aired on this night in 1961, "The Obsolete Man."
In a then–futuristic world that often seems to be emerging before our very eyes today, Meredith played a librarian who had been deemed obsolete and, consequently, had to be terminated. You see, in this futuristic world, there were no more books. (As a writer, I would not want to live in such a world, anyway.) As a result, there was no demand for the services of a librarian.
And anyone who could not justify his existence, anyone who could make no contribution to the success of the state, had to be terminated.
As is the case in any totalitarian society, it had been decided by a central committee what was true and what was not, what was needed and what was not.
It makes sense, doesn't it? In a twisted kind of way that, under certain circumstances, doesn't seem so twisted. Does it seem familiar? It should.
As Rod Serling said in his opening narration, "This is not a new world, it is simply an extension of what began in the old one. It has patterned itself after every dictator who has ever planted the ripping imprint of a boot on the pages of history since the beginning of time. It has refinements, technological advances and a more sophisticated approach to the destruction of human freedom. But like every one of the super–states that preceded it, it has one iron rule: Logic is an enemy and truth is a menace."
Upon being found obsolete, Meredith's character was told he would be liquidated within 48 hours. He was allowed to choose the method for his liquidation and the time it was to be carried out.
Meredith's character asked to be assigned "an assassin" to whom he would disclose his chosen method for execution but no one else was to know. That was an unusual request, but it was granted. Meredith also wanted the execution to be carried out in his room at midnight the next day.
He also wanted to die "with an audience." The chancellor (Weaver) readily agreed. Executions, he said, were often televised. They had an educational effect on the viewers.
The next day the chancellor received a request from Meredith. He wanted the chancellor to visit him in his room. It was a request he honored, even though, as he told Meredith, he might well be the target of an act of vengeance from a condemned man. The chancellor had, after all, been partly responsible for the ruling that had condemned Meredith.
The chancellor told Meredith that he had come to prove something — "that the state has no fears, none at all."
Meredith giggled. "You come to my room to prove that the state isn't afraid of me? What an incredible burden I must be, to have to prove that the state isn't afraid of an obsolete librarian like myself."
Then he said he would tell the chancellor the real reason why he came. Although it wasn't stated in so many words, my best guess is the chancellor came out of a sense of curiosity. That would certainly be what Meredith's words implied: "I don't fit your formulae. Somewhere along the line there's been a deviation from the norm. Your state has everything categorized, indexed, tagged. You are the strength. People like me are the weakness. You control and order and dictate, and my kind merely follow and obey. But something's gone wrong, hasn't it? I don't fit, do I?"
The chancellor disagreed. In a few minutes, he told Meredith, he would be begging for mercy "like they all do."
But then Meredith turned the tables on the chancellor.
He explained that the method he had chosen for his execution was to have a bomb go off in his apartment.
He also told the chancellor that he had locked the door — and, consequently, the chancellor would also die when the bomb went off.
Meredith asked him how he would use the time he had left — and said that he would spend the time reading his Bible. As the state had determined that God did not exist, possession of a Bible was an offense punishable by death. That made it the only possession he had that mattered to him at all.
Meredith began to serenely quote from the Psalms, and finally, in the last minutes, the chancellor broke down and pleaded for Meredith to let him go "in the name of God." Under those terms, Meredith said, he would unlock the door — and the chancellor dashed from the apartment only seconds before the bomb went off.
Meredith had been calm and accepting of his fate, but the chancellor had shown cowardice during the broadcast of Meredith's execution and was himself judged to be obsolete.
A welcome reminder, I suppose, that he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword.
Lennie (Lon Chaney Jr.):I wish we had some ketchup.
George (Burgess Meredith):Whatever we ain't got, that's what you want!
(1939 is widely regarded as the greatest year ever for the motion picture. Ten movies were nominated for Best Picture that year, and today I take a look at the last of those 10 movies to hit the theaters.)
"Of Mice and Men," which made its debut 75 years ago today, was a gritty tale — and, frankly, a rather unlikely project for producer Hal Roach, who was mainly known for his comedies. But because of a lawsuit, Roach agreed to produce a film version of the John Steinbeck story.
The main characters, George (Burgess Meredith) and Lennie (Lon Chaney Jr.), were traveling ranch hands, trying to collect enough money to buy their own place. Well, that was George's dream. All Lennie wanted to do was "tend the rabbits." Lennie seemed gentle enough, but he just didn't know his own strength — which was considerable.
They were mutually dependent. Lennie was mentally handicapped but possessed remarkable physical strength. George was the idea guy, the brains of the outfit. Lennie had an obsession with soft things, an obsession that caused some problems. George told Lennie they were "bad things" that he mustn't do, and Lennie lived in fear of violating George's rules.
"Of Mice and Men" was remade twice, the last time in 1992. I sometimes wonder if it could be made a fourth time — and I usually conclude that it couldn't because, on the surface, it seems to fail the politically correct litmus test.
The theme of abuse — of a mentally retarded man, of a black man, of a self–absorbed woman — might pass the test, but the almost stereotypical treatment of those characters could negate their effectiveness in the 21st century.
Steinbeck himself observed, for example, that the young and pretty wife of the boss' son was "not a person, she's a symbol. She has no function except to be a foil — and a danger to Lennie." For that reason, Steinbeck gave her no name in the book, but she had one in the movie — Mae. To pass muster in the 21st century, I think her character might need to be fleshed out even more.
Played by Betty Field in the 1939 movie, Mae wasn't as one–dimensional on the screen as she was on the pages of Steinbeck's novella. She was still a shallow character — but she was played smartly by Field, who was appearing in only her second movie.
A problem for the P.C. crowd might also be the callous treatment of the aging dog. The dog's owner was persuaded to let one of the hands shoot him because he was old. It neatly foreshadowed the end of the book and the movie, when George killed Lennie in what might almost be seen as a mercy killing today.
I don't want to spoil it for you if you haven't read the book or seen the movie. But you should do both if you have done neither, and, if you have only done one, you should do the other. "The Grapes of Wrath" wasn't the only thing that Steinbeck ever wrote — but it was the only one that became a Best Picture winner.
I've seen all 10 of the movies that were nominated for Best Picture in 1939, and, with this blog post, I have now written about all 10 as well. I don't disagree that the winner, "Gone With the Wind," was a great movie, but if I had been alive at the time and I had been given a vote, I think I might have voted for "Of Mice and Men." I thought the story was better, and, actually, I thought the acting was, too, even though the acting wasn't recognized by the Oscars.
For people of my generation, Meredith was already an established star of movies and TV. We have rarely seen him when he was as young as he was in "Of Mice and Men," but he was barely in his 30s when it was made.
Chaney was already a movie veteran, having appeared in nearly 60 movies by the time "Of Mice and Men" was made. His claim to fame is his work as the Wolf Man in the 1940s, but, before he did that, he lobbied for — and got — the role of Lennie.
I didn't realize, as a child, that one of the cartoons that always entertained me was, in fact, a vicious parody of Chaney's performance. I laughed at it, not knowing what it was spoofing. Since I have seen "Of Mice and Men," I know why my father laughed, too.
It feels wrong to laugh at it now. I guess that is the influence of the P.C. crowd, but, really, it isn't fair to hold Steinbeck or Looney Tunes to modern standards when they functioned in the world that existed more than 70 years ago.
So laughing at the Looney Tunes cartoon may be something of a guilty pleasure, like laughing at some of the skits on Saturday Night Live.
Chancellor:You're a librarian, Mr. Wordsworth. A dealer in books and two cent fines and pamphlets and closed stacks and the musty insides of a language factory that spews out meaningless words on an assembly line. Words, Mr. Wordsworth, that have no substance and no dimension like air, like the wind, like a vacuum that you make believe has an existence by scribbling index numbers on little cards!
Wordsworth:I don't care. I tell you, I don't care. I am a human being! And if I speak one thought aloud, that thought lives on long after I'm shoveled into my grave.
Twilight Zone
June 2, 1961
Burgess Meredith may have been featured in more episodes of the original Twilight Zone series than any other actor.
Well, more than any other big–name actor, I guess.
There may have been — indeed, probably were — performers who appeared in more episodes than Meredith did.
But I don't think any other star was seen in more episodes.
Most of Meredith's career was in movies, but he was featured in four episodes of Twilight Zone. When his name is mentioned in connection with the series, people usually mention "Time Enough At Last," the episode in which Meredith played a timid, book–loving bank teller who survived a nuclear attack because he retreated to the vault to read during his lunch hour.
That is a good episode, but, to be honest, the one that always comes to my mind first when I think of Meredith's contributions to the series is the one that made its debut 50 years ago tonight — "The Obsolete Man."
(And my guess is that, in the current economy, a lot of people are feeling like obsolete men ... and women. But that's another story.)
It was an apt title because, in the futuristic setting, a person's relevance was determined by his/her occupation. (And that, too, can be seen as a metaphor — for just about all times and all places on this planet.)
Meredith played a librarian, but there was no use for librarians in that society because books had been outlawed by the state. There were no similar tasks for a librarian to perform; consequently, Meredith's character was obsolete.
According to law, because he had been declared obsolete, Meredith had to be terminated. He had no choice in that, but he did have some choices — such as the method for his execution and when and where it would take place.
He also had the option of allowing his execution to be televised. He requested that, and his request was granted.
He also asked that the man who presided over his prosecution (played by Fritz Weaver) be there, and that request was also granted.The chancellor arrived less than an hour before the execution. Meredith's character locked the door and then told the chancellor that the method he had chosen was to be blown up by a bomb that had been placed in his apartment. At the stroke of midnight, the bomb would go off and everyone in the apartment would be killed.
Meredith's character then began to read aloud from his edition of the Bible. Possession of the Bible was a crime punishable by death because the state had "proven" that there was no god. Meredith said that made his Bible quite valuable to him.
He calmly proceeded to read biblical passages while the chancellor became more and more agitated, finally pleading with Meredith to let him go "in the name of God."
That was a request that Meredith was willing to grant, and he flung open the door, allowing the chancellor to escape mere seconds before the bomb went off.
But he had exposed himself through his behavior, and the next thing the audience saw was the chancellor being escorted to the same courtroom in which Meredith had been declared obsolete, where he was accused of being obsolete as well because he had shown cowardice.
"The chancellor ... was only partly correct," said series host Rod Serling at the end of the episode. "He was obsolete, but so is the state, the entity he worshiped. Any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of man, that state is obsolete."
(By the way, you can see this episode at 5 p.m. Central on July 4 on the Syfy Channel's Fourth of July Twilight Zone marathon.)
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!
