The Century of Lucy

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"The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age."

Lucille Ball (1911–1989)

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Historians have called the 20th century "the American century" because of all the world–changing developments that took place here.

I think it could easily be called the century of Lucy.

Lucille Ball would have been 100 years old today, and I have to believe she is just about as popular now as she was in her lifetime. Good comedy never goes out of style or becomes obsolete, and Lucy is still making 'em laugh.

You could say that Lucy was an expert on comedy. She led some comedy workshops and worked with some of the most talented performers of her time — and she observed once that comedy was something that could not be taught. You either had it or you didn't.

It goes without saying that she had it.

It also goes without saying, I suppose, that there were many changes during Lucy's lifetime, but here is something that might put it all into some kind of perspective. The world in which Lucy was born had automobiles but no electric traffic lights. The first one was installed the day before her third birthday.

It is tempting to believe that Lucy was always the beloved figure that she is now — but it wasn't always easy. She faced many challenges in her life. She lost her father before her fourth birthday. For a time, she was cared for by her stepfather's parents.

There were several Lucys, actually. There was the Lucy who began acting in movies and radio when she was in her 20s and blossomed into a star in her 30s. There was the Lucy who was probably TV's biggest star when she was in her 40s. Then, in her 50s, 60s and 70s, she divided her time between television and the movies.

Eventually, it added up to one of the longest careers in show business history — not too shabby for a girl who became America's most popular TV star playing a wannabe actress.

She was one of those women who always looked younger than she was — and appeared to do so effortlessly, although it must have been harder for her to achieve as she aged. Few people probably knew that she was in her 40s when I Love Lucy was the top–rated TV show in America.

She was almost 40 when she had her first child, Lucie, in 1951, about three months before the debut of I Love Lucy. Her second child, Desi Arnaz Jr., was born a year and a half later, after the show was a bona fide hit.

In fact, Lucy's pregnancy was written into the script, and the pre–recorded episode in which her character gave birth to a boy aired on the very day she gave birth to her real–life son.

There were many elements of Lucy's life that she worked into her show. Lucy's marriage to her co–star, Desi Arnaz Sr., for example, was a rich source of material for the Lucy–Ricky relationship on I Love Lucy — although, in reality, it was a sensitive subject. Not because of the mixed–race aspect but because Lucy was actually six years older than Desi.

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In those days, marriages between older women and younger men were not socially acceptable.

(There was an age discrepancy in my own family — between my mother's parents — that my parents didn't discover until both of my grandparents were deceased. The difference between them was only a little more than a year, but all their lives they claimed to have been born in the same year, whittling the difference to only a couple of months, which was socially excusable.)

Until they were outed, Lucy and Desi split the difference and told people they were both born in 1914.

Although the age disparity wasn't nearly as significant in the Lucy–Desi relationship as it is in some modern ones, the concept of cougar is far more acceptable now than it was in 1951. And, as I say, they had to be "outed" at the time.

Later in her life, Lucy spoke of how she missed the old studio system and felt that she owed a lot to it — because she didn't think she had much talent. I disagree. Her comedic gifts, as I say, are still making people laugh nearly a quarter of a century after her death. That's staying power.

I'm always interested in which I Love Lucy episodes are fan favorites. I believe you can learn a lot about someone simply by finding out which I Love Lucy he/she thinks was the best. There are so many options.

I've heard folks name the one where Lucy kept trying to tell Ricky she was pregnant. Or the one where Lucy and Ethel got jobs in a candy factory. Of course, there were many episodes that featured cameo appearances by the entertainers of the day when the Ricardos and the Mertzes went to California.

I guess my personal favorite, as I mentioned here a few months ago, was "Vitameatavegamin," but there were so many great episodes in that series that, as soon as I think of one I really like, I'm sure to think of two or three more that I think are equal to the first one.

If you are a Lucy fan, you'll have some opportunities to see her comic brilliance this weekend. In honor of her centennial, a weekend–long marathon of I Love Lucy episodes will be shown on The Hallmark Channel. And there are bound to be more. Check your local listings.

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Lucy is remembered as one of TV's early superstars; her movies are seldom mentioned in conversations about her career. However, if you'd rather see her movies on her birthday, Turner Classic Movies will be showing them as part of its annual "Summer Under the Stars" celebration — with today dedicated to Lucy on the big screen. And TCM has some good ones lined up. This morning, you can see Ball with Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn in "Without Love." This afternoon, you can see Lucy and Desi in "The Long, Long Trailer." Tonight, you can see Lucy with Hepburn and Ginger Rogers in "Stage Door."

And there are several others on today's schedule as well. You just really can't go wrong with Lucy.

Speaking of Lucy's movie career, I think it would be a mistake to think that all of Lucy's talents were in comedy. A few years after I Love Lucy went off the air, Frank Sinatra wanted her to appear with him in "The Manchurian Candidate," but director John Frankenheimer wanted Angela Lansbury.

The future star of Murder, She Wrote got the part, and she was rewarded for her work with an Oscar nomination. But it is intriguing to speculate what Lucy might have done with the role of the manipulative Mrs. Iselin.

She might have won.

Vitameatavegamin

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To succeed in comedy on television, I believe it is necessary to excel at physical comedy.

Now, personally, I appreciate the good writing that some of the really great comedies have in common — but it takes a talented performer to coax genuine laughter from the audience.

You know what I mean. There are laughs that are little more than polite titters that practically scream "I know I'm supposed to laugh at this part and I feel obligated to do so, but I just don't feel it."

And then there are the belly laughs, the I–couldn't–keep–from–laughing–if–you–held–a–gun–to–my–head kind of laughs. More often than not, these laughs are evoked by good physical comedy.

The really great ones make it look effortless. But, as Johnny Carson once observed to someone who bombed while filling in for him during his vacation, it ain't as easy as it looks.

It does help, though, if the story has an established joke that can be exaggerated in some way. On May 5, 1952, that rare combination of material and talent occurred in a memorable way on I Love Lucy.

The show was nearing the end of its first season. It had been established early in the series that Lucy (Lucille Ball) wanted to break into show business and believed that Ricky (Desi Arnaz) was actively trying to prevent her from doing so.

By the evening of May 5, 1952, audiences needed no reminders. They were prepared for what they would see.

Well, maybe not.

What they saw was a truly remarkable example of physical comedy. In its way, I think, it was every bit as impressive as the extraordinary physical comedy routines of some of the stars of the silent film era (i.e., Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin) or the great mimes (i.e., Marcel Marceau) — or Lucy's TV contemporaries (i.e., Dick Van Dyke).

In the 1950s — and beyond — commercial spots often were done live from the TV studio. In the context of this story, Lucy's assignment was to do a TV commercial for a health tonic called "Vitameatavegamin," a product that contained "vitamins, meat, vegetables and minerals" — but Lucy didn't know it was also 23% alcohol.

And that — along with a repeated sales pitch that was virtually flawless in the rehearsals but got increasingly out of hand as the alcohol in the product began to take effect — was what that night 59 years ago was about. But not entirely.

The early part of the script was really used to set up Lucy's monologue, and the last part tried valiantly to tie together all the loose ends, but that half hour was really all about Lucy and her gift for physical comedy ...

... that so natural, involuntary shudder when she swallowed a spoonful of tonic that was "tasty ... just like candy" or when, clearly intoxicated, she kept observing that "it's hot in here."

If you ever doubted that Lucy was the best, watch the attached clip.

It's Johnny's Birthday

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Back in the early 1970s, after the Beatles broke up and George Harrison came out with his three–record opus, "All Things Must Pass," he included a composition titled simply, "It's Johnny's Birthday."

The song itself wasn't terribly profound. It was actually part of what Harrison dubbed "Apple Jams," and Harrison recorded it with Ringo Starr to present to John Lennon on his 30th birthday.

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"It's Johnny's birthday
It's Johnny's birthday
And we would like to wish him all the very best
It's Johnny's birthday
It's Johnny's birthday
And it's so nice to have you back to be our guest

"At Johnny's birthday
At Johnny's birthday
We'd like to wish you all what you would wish yourself
On Johnny's birthday
It's Johnny's birthday
And it's so good to have you back from off the shelf
And it's so good to have ...
You back from off the shelf ..."

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But, today, it serves the purpose of reminding us that today is Johnny's birthday.

Johnny Carson's birthday, that is — although, incidentally, it was John Lennon's birthday a couple of weeks ago today.

Carson, who died in January 2005, would have been 85 today.

So today is a good time to remember Carson's unique contribution to American entertainment. He left the late–night TV scene nearly 20 years ago, and no one has come close to matching his influence on the culture since.

Late–night hosts are still trying to duplicate Carson's accomplishments.

I don't think they will ever succeed.

And, Now, America's Dad Passes Away

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Tom Bosley died today. He was 83.

For just about anyone who was around in the 1970s, he will always be remembered fondly as Happy Days' "Mr. C," one of American TV's most beloved fathers — even though Bosley's career began about 15 years before he took on that role.

After Happy Days ended a decade later, Bosley enjoyed success on Murder, She Wrote and The Father Dowling Mysteries.

And some folks would probably resist the idea that Bosley was "America's Dad." You'll find folks who will promote Mike Brady or Cliff Huxtable or Andy Taylor or Ben Cartwright or someone else. But if you were around in the 1970s, you could probably make a strong case for Howard Cunningham.

I remember when Happy Days made its debut as a midseason replacement on the TV schedule in January 1974.

It was an interesting concept, inspired, no doubt, by the success of the film "American Graffiti" the year before — which actually was set in the early 1960s. I must admit that, at first, I didn't see what all the fuss was about. Most of the storylines struck me as mildly entertaining — but nothing extraordinary.

And, to be honest, I wasn't exactly carried away with the writing at first.

Happy Days was set in Milwaukee in the 1950s and got a lot of mileage from the stereotypes that existed, even at that time, from that decade. Most of the early humor centered around three teenagers — Richie, Potsie and Ralph — and their worldly friend, the "Fonz," Arthur Fonzarelli, as they navigated the choppy waters of youth, love and fake IDs.

Fonzie actually began as a small character, but his presence on the show grew as it became clear that, with his leather jacket, his upraised thumb and his sly "Ayyyyyyy!" he was an increasingly popular member of the cast. By the series' first full season, in 1974–75, he was a hot property, and he was the focus of episodes on a regular basis from that time on.

Richie's father, on the other hand, a hard–working hardware salesman, was always a supporting character, rarely the focus of an episode after that half–season in the spring of 1974.

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But he had some great moments, like the finale of the first season, when, in the heat of Cold War hysteria, he decided to invest in a bomb shelter to protect his family instead of using the money for a family trip. Space was limited, and that caused problems when friends asked if they could come over. Howard had to draw the line.

During a Civil Defense drill, all the friends who thought they had spots in the shelter showed up and quickly learned they could not stay in the Cunninghams' back yard — where the shelter was to be built but construction hadn't begun and its dimensions were only represented by stakes and string.

This caused considerable friction, but Howard was adamant about building the shelter, and he stood firm, alienating his family in the process.

So, during the next drill, viewers saw Howard standing by himself while the sirens were blaring. Richie sauntered out and informed his father that "We had a little family meeting of our own. We voted not to survive."

Richie explained to his father that "we'd rather live now than survive later," and Howard was convinced to give up his plan to build the shelter. As they took down the stakes and string, Howard asked Richie, "What do you think of a man who gets so carried away by his own fears that he forgets about other people?"

Richie replied, "I'd say he's human."

Now, that is good writing.

Then there was a truly memorable moment a few years later, when Richie enjoyed short–lived success as a local basketball hero. His star fell to earth almost as rapidly as it ascended into the heavens, and Howard and Richie were walking out of the gym after a heart–breaking loss. In a take–off of a famous commercial of the time, Howard offered his dejected son a Life Saver.

"Here, have a Life Saver," Howard deadpanned. "It'll make you feel better."

There are many ironies surrounding Bosley's death.

For one, it comes only a few days after Barbara Billingsley, the iconic mother from Leave It To Beaver, passed away.

It also comes one day after the 50th birthday of Erin Moran, who played Bosley's daughter on Happy Days.

Bosley himself celebrated his birthday at the beginning of this month.

Bosley, it appears, was the first member of the cast to die. His wife on Happy Days, played by Marion Ross, is still alive, as are the other members of the original cast. Even Al Molinaro, who played the owner of Arnold's, is still alive and kicking at the age of 91.

But time, in its relentless fashion, will start to take them, one by one.

Rest in peace, Mr. C. And thanks.

America's Mom Passes Away

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I was never really a fan of Leave It To Beaver.

It came along before my time, and my family didn't even have a TV until I was in elementary school. By that time, Leave It To Beaver had been off the air for awhile.

But there are those among my contemporaries for whom Leave It To Beaver played a pivotal role in their formative years. And, I would venture to say, the nurturing, stay–at–home mom played by Barbara Billingsley was an integral, if often understated, character in the idealized fantasy of that show.

Anyway, I feel I would be remiss if I did not note Billingsley's passing yesterday at the age of 94.

I guess any list of great TV moms would have to include June Cleaver. Jerry Mathers, who played the Beaver, considered Billingsley a mentor and a friend as well as a colleague and compared her character to another great TV mom, Edith Bunker, who usually played the straight woman.

Like most of the actresses who have played great TV moms, Billingsley was a reflection of her times. Diahann Carroll was the first black TV mom — well, the first one with her own series — and Florence Henderson and Shirley Jones were harbingers of a new era for women, an era that seemed almost to reach its zenith with Bonnie Franklin but then went into new and unexpected directions in the years that followed.

In many ways, it all began with Billingsley, who was a true TV icon. Some may argue — and not without some justification — that Lucille Ball was the first TV mom (or perhaps the first truly popular one) — or that Harriet Nelson and Donna Reed got there first.

But Billingsley really set the standard — perhaps because TV grew in public acceptance through the 1950s and more television sets could be found in private homes in the late 1950s than in the early 1950s — and TV actresses have been reaching for that bar for decades.

That is her legacy.

She took the role of June Cleaver very seriously. A heavy smoker in her youth, she reportedly gave it up because she didn't feel June Cleaver should smoke. She was conscious of her responsibility as a role model and a TV icon.

After Leave It To Beaver, Billingsley was typecast and rarely got other acting opportunities. She said she had far too much reverence for June to accept any projects that made fun of her.

But that didn't keep her from accepting projects like "Airplane!" in which she played an elderly passenger who volunteered to translate the "jive" talk from two black passengers.

Even casual viewers could pick up on the irony of the WASPish June Cleaver — who always dressed impeccably, served nutritious meals and, speaking in a non–political sense, behaved in a conservative manner — translating a distinctive English dialect spoken by members of a racial minority group as if they came from a foreign land.

And the topper was June Cleaver storming off, after her brief argument with the black passengers, muttering, "Jive–ass dude don't got no brains anyhow."

Mathers was right. Billingsley did have a great many talents, most of which never were put on display on Leave It to Beaver. But she seemed content with that.

Some have criticized June Cleaver and the idealized image of American motherhood that she presented for encouraging stereotypes. But, like great art, great music, great literature, television reflects the audience of its day in many ways. Television's archives are filled with programs and news reports that tell us who we were and what we hoped to be at a certain point in time.

In the late 1950s and early 1960s, many young American women wanted to be June Cleaver.

In 2010, there are still those who would like to be June Cleaver. But the times have changed, and stay–at–home moms are far less common than they once were.

If a young woman wants to be a stay–at–home mom these days, her best bet may be to watch the glorified version — and dream of a time when a young woman could hope to be like June Cleaver, wearing her trademark pearls while doing the gardening or dressed to host a party even while preparing dinner for the family in her spotless kitchen.

Rest in peace, June.

Animal Crackers

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The other day, with all the Jay Leno–Conan O'Brien stuff in the news, I wrote about my yearning for the days when Johnny Carson was the king of late night.

I didn't realize, when I wrote that, how timely it was. In fact, I didn't realize it until today, when I discovered that yesterday was the fifth anniversary of Carson's death.

Actually, it's been even longer since Carson left The Tonight Show. He retired in May 1992. For anyone who grew up with Carson, it is astonishing to believe he has been gone from our TV screens nearly 18 years.

At the risk of sounding like someone in the grip of "Good Old Days Syndrome," as I have heard it described, Carson was the best. Perhaps this is the most accurate barometer: You could never tell from watching him on his show how intensely private he was. I've heard it said that Ed McMahon, Carson's sidekick, referred to him as "the most private public man who ever lived."

And if anyone would know, it would be Ed McMahon.

Carson made it look so easy. That is something people with talent tend to do. They make difficult things look easy. You see them doing whatever it is that comes naturally to them, and you think to yourself, "I could do that!" And then, when you try, you suddenly discover how much effort is required to make something difficult look so effortless.

Dennis Miller touched on this very thing not long after Carson died. He was a guest on The Tonight Show, and he was telling Leno about how poorly he had done the first time he hosted a talk show. When the show was over, he received a call from Carson, who told him, "It's not as easy as it looks, is it, kid?"

Death of an 'Angel'

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Only minutes ago, it was announced that 1970s TV icon Farrah Fawcett has died of anal cancer at the age of 62.

I don't think the news will come as a surprise to anyone. She has been struggling with cancer off and on for the last three years. Last month, her longtime partner, Ryan O'Neal, suggested, in an interview with People, that the end was near. Recent reports indicated she was back in the hospital and was not doing well. But, in spite of all the advance warning, I think the news of her death will be met with sadness from anyone who is old enough to remember her incredibly popular poster or her breakout role on "Charlie's Angels."

I was a teenage boy in the '70s. I had a copy of her poster on my wall. Like many of the boys my age, I was taken — if not taken in — by her looks. But there always was more to Fawcett than her tousled hair and shapely figure.

Fawcett herself spoke of the mixed blessing that her popularity was. It opened doors for her, but, at the same time, it obscured her talent as an actress, which can be seen in the films she made and TV programs on which she appeared.

Cancer, as O'Neal told People, is an "insidious enemy." Truer words were never spoken. I've seen cancer claim my friends, and I've seen it take famous people I admired. It is true that we have made strides against it in my lifetime, but there is still so much to be done.

Today, I doubt that we will conquer cancer in my lifetime. Indeed, I wonder if we will ever conquer it. But, if you are in a position to contribute to the effort in any way, please visit the American Cancer Society's website.

About the only thing I have left to say is this:

Rest in peace, Farrah.

Outlook Appears Grim for Farrah

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If you were a teenage boy in the 1970s — as I was — there can be little dispute that Farrah Fawcett was perhaps the most desired woman in the entertainment industry. Most boys my age had a copy of her famous poster on the wall. It sold 12 million copies, a figure that remains unsurpassed.

But Farrah, with her tousled hair, perfect teeth and slender build, was more than a pretty face. She proved over the years that she was a talented actress, earning Emmy nominations for performances in TV movies based on the true stories of a battered wife and a predatory and narcissistic mother.

Next week, she will be featured in what may be the most important film of her life — a two–hour documentary on her battle with cancer.

According to recent reports, it may be miraculous if she lives to see the airing of the documentary a week from today — although, based on comments made by her longtime partner and current caretaker Ryan O'Neal in an interview with People magazine, she spends much of her time asleep these days. She might not be awake to watch it.

Reports suggest that Farrah is in the final stages of her cancer, and she seems to have reached a level of acceptance. Her weight is said to be between 86 and 101 pounds, and she seems to be taking most, if not all, of her nourishment via IV. O'Neal says her treatments have ended and her famous hair is gone now, and her appearance has been described as "hauntingly gaunt."

Farrah is to be commended for her courage in filming her fight with cancer and allowing it to be shown. Many people might consider it an intrusion to be filmed at such a time, but Farrah has put personal considerations on the shelf, choosing to show as realistically as possible what people facing cancer must endure.

If your life hasn't been touched by cancer, all I can say is that you are fortunate. I have seen the ravages of what O'Neal calls an "insidious enemy" in my own life.

I wish Farrah the best. I pray for a cure. But I probably will not watch the documentary.