Jeepers, Creeper

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Sixty years ago tonight, Alfred Hitchcock Presents aired what may well have been the best episode of its debut season. Titled "The Creeper," it didn't feature anyone today's audiences would be likely to recognize — which probably makes it easier for modern viewers seeing it for the first time to concentrate on the story.

Well, devotees of TV soap operas might recognize Constance Ford, who had a long–running role on Another World from 1967 to 1992. She also had guest spots on some of the most popular TV shows of the 1950s and 1960s.

In the episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents that aired 60 years ago tonight, Ford played a jittery housewife who was anxious about a string of unsolved stranglings in the area. In that sense, she seemed to be like everyone else.

But she was jittery about other things, too. For example, an old beau of hers was hanging around when her husband was out of town. He claimed that her husband had asked him to keep her company while he was away — the husband didn't know about their history — but she knew nothing about such a request and was suspicious of her old boyfriend's motives.

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As it turned out, she had left this guy a couple of years earlier because he had a penchant for cruel behavior. "There's something wrong about you," she told him, and she was right. Being confronted with his shortcomings led him to assault her, switching up the radio to cover her screams.

Indeed, when the maintenance man came knocking on the door, it was to tell her to turn down her radio because the other tenants were complaining — not because anyone had mentioned her screams for help.

At that point, every viewer must have been sure that the ex–beau was the infamous "Creeper" who had been killing women. His behavior was simply too suspicious.

But Ford had put in a request with a neighborhood locksmith for a new lock for her door. He was swamped, though, and couldn't get away to install it for her, but he promised to send someone over to install it as soon as he could. Once she got the old beau out of her apartment and the locksmith called to tell her that an assistant was on his way over to install the lock, she began to breathe a little easier.

It was at that point that her husband called. He confirmed that, yes, he had asked the man who had been in the apartment to come over and keep her company while he was gone.

While they talked the assistant arrived and began installing the lock. The woman returned to the phone. Her husband had some important news for her. The police had a lead in the "Creeper" case.

They were looking for a locksmith.

She knew already.

I know, the ending will be apparent to most modern viewers long before the end actually comes. You have to remember, though, the first season of Alfred Hitchcock Presents was 60 years ago, and the plot must have come as a surprise to many viewers.

That's the way Hitchcock was. When he made "Psycho" a few years later, the story traumatized many viewers. More than half a century later, "Psycho" seems tame — if not lame — to modern viewers.

Hitchcock was cutting edge for his time. I can only wonder what he would do with all the advances that have taken place in film making and TV production since his death.

Spoiling the Perfect Murder

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Most television series run Christmas–oriented episodes at, you know, Christmas time.

But Alfred Hitchcock never did things the way other people did them.

Actually, the episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents that aired on this night in 1956, "Back for Christmas," really had very little to do with Christmas at all. It mostly just mentioned the holiday in the title.

See, the story centered on this middle–aged couple about to embark on a trip to America. The length of this trip was unclear, but they insisted they would be back in time for Christmas — hence, the mention of the holiday in the title. The apparent purpose of the trip was for the husband, John Williams, a metallurgist, to work on a temporary assignment on the West Coast.

On the day of their planned departure, Williams (who appeared in three Hitchcock movies and half a dozen other episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents) killed his wife and buried her in the basement, where he had ostensibly been digging a wine cellar. In typical Hitchcock fashion, viewers didn't see the blow that killed Williams' wife. They only saw him raise a club and bring it down where the audience knew her head to be.

Williams had directed her to take a close look at the hole he had been digging, and she fell right into it after the blow. The audience knew because there was an audible thud a few seconds after the club came down.

The audience also knew that, earlier in the episode, Williams had assessed his wife's height and compared it to the rectangular hole he had been digging. The camera allowed the viewers to see what Williams was seeing, and the audience knew that was no wine cellar. He had been digging her grave.

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The next thing the audience knew, Williams' ship was arriving in America. He and his wife had told their friends they didn't like to fly and were crossing the Atlantic by ship. They were taking their car with them so they could drive across the continent — and, I presume, to have their own transportation in America.

That neatly covered most of the loose ends.

The viewers watched Williams arrive in New York, then drive across the country to California, where he was set up in a ritzy hotel. He wrote forged letters from his wife to the friends back home, at first reassuring them that, yes, they would be back by Christmas, then gradually allowing doubt to creep into their minds. By the time the couple didn't return for Christmas, it would hardly be a surprise.

The surprise was on Williams. His wife — who could be bossy in the preparations for their departure — had secretly arranged for excavators to turn the basement into a wine cellar while they were gone.

Williams got an advance bill for the excavators' services, addressed to his wife, and he knew what that meant. In the course of their work, they would find the body.

Well, she had insisted that the excavators have the work done before Christmas. Apparently, that was to have been her Christmas gift to him. Instead, he was going to be getting a much different gift — presumably well before Christmas. It was only a matter of time before some detectives would be knocking on his door.

The story supposedly was based on a real murder in the United Kingdom. As I understand it, the perpetrator in real life was a doctor who dismembered his wife after killing her.

That was too messy for Hitchcock. I do recall he made one movie in which a man killed and dismembered his wife, but it was all supposition until late in the movie. As a matter of fact, I believe that movie was based on the same case.

That's the way Hitchcock liked it. He's been gone more than 30 years; I think he would have been very uncomfortable with the horror movies that have been at the theaters since he's been gone. They're mostly too gory, too graphic for his taste.

Hitchcock preferred more style than that, more sophistication. He almost always presented murders in such a way that there was at least a touch of ambiguity. You might be 99% certain that someone killed someone else, as Jimmy Stewart was in "Rear Window," but it was always hard to get around that last 1%. I guess it was Hitchcock's way of reminding us that suspicion of guilt is not the same thing as proof of guilt.

Not a bad thing of which to be reminded, is it?

Letters From Home

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"I have no need to write letters to communicate with children. I have you for that, Pierce."

Charles Emerson Winchester (David Ogden Stiers)

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On this day in 1980, M*A*S*H's second episode of the season aired. Traditionally, a network television series begins its new season in September.

Why the delay? Well, there was this three–month strike by the Screen Actors Guild and AFTRA against television and movie studios, and it delayed the start of most series by a month or two.

At the time, as I recall, the public angst was over having to wait to find out who shot J.R. on Dallas. There certainly was no shortage of suspects, and the subject sparked some pretty intense debates while impatient viewers waited for the strike to be resolved.

But perhaps the greater tragedy was the fact that the delay deprived TV viewers of some top–quality writing and acting, such as was displayed on M*A*S*H on this night in 1980.

It was the ninth of what turned out to be 11 seasons on the air for M*A*S*H. The show was a fixture in the Top 10, and its producers knew it had nothing to prove. That is truly a rare opportunity in television — or in any human endeavor, for that matter — to be able to pursue any creative angle you desire, knowing that you can get away with it even if it bombs — but, because you are who you are, such a failure is not likely.

(Sort of like Apple Inc., I guess.)

It can encourage people to push the envelope, which is what the folks at M*A*S*H did in an episode called "Letters."

Speaking of envelopes ...

In the episode that aired on this night in 1980, Hawkeye (Alan Alda) had received a package from home. It was from a friend of his who was teaching fourth grade in Hawkeye's hometown of Crabapple Cove, Maine. In the package were letters from this friend's pupils, who had been assigned to write letters to the people serving in Korea. Hawkeye had written a letter to his friend telling him how boring life could be around the compound — between those chaotic periods when casualties kept the surgeons on their feet for 18 or 20 hours — so his friend had the idea of perhaps sparking some pen pal relationships between the kids and the folks in the M*A*S*H unit.

Hawkeye distributed handfuls of letters to the familiar gang — B.J., Col. Potter, Charles, Hot Lips, Klinger, Father Mulcahy — and made only one rule: They all had to answer the letters they had been given. No swapping, trading or stealing.

Even though Father Mulcahy (William Christopher) had already opened a letter that asked if he had saved many lives. "A doctor really should answer that one," he noted. "I specialize in saving souls, not lives."

Col. Potter (Harry Morgan) reminded Mulcahy of his efforts with someone named Irving, which inspired Mulcahy's response. Turned out Irving was a homeless dog who showed up around the compound — and had a bit of a taste for booze. Well, more than a taste. Irving was a lush.

Mulcahy recalled that there had been a dog like that when he was in seminary. The way the seminary students had cured him was to make him drink bowl after bowl of whiskey until he was sick, then give him more whiskey when he was hung over. It worked on Irving.

"If people only had the horse sense dogs do," Mulcahy wrote.

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One of the best vignettes of the episode focused on Hot Lips (Loretta Swit) and the attachment she formed to some of the patients who came through the compound — even, or perhaps especially, the ones who died. The viewing audience saw her sitting next to a mortally wounded soldier, smiling even though she knew he only had an hour or two to live. It was a rare glimpse into what touched Hot Lips on a personal level.

Col. Potter shared his exploits as "Hoops" Potter and his near miss at tying the camp record for making consecutive free throws.

"Take a word of advice from a retired bucketeer," Col. Potter wrote in his reply to one of the students. "If you take up a sport, make it horseshoes where you don't have to be perfect."

Klinger (Jamie Farr), the first–class Army scrounge, told one of the correspondents about his latest get–rich–quick scheme. He had acquired a couple of chinchillas and was planning to breed them for their fur — until Charles (David Ogden Stiers), who had worked with lab rodents when in medical school, informed Klinger that both of his chinchillas were male.

Hawkeye found himself having to answer a letter that struck a nerve. It was from a youngster whose older brother had served in Korea. He had been wounded and was sent to a M*A*S*H unit that patched him up and sent him back to his unit, where he was killed in combat.

"You doctors just make people better so they can end up dead. I hate you all," the letter concluded.

Hawkeye tried to get Father Mulcahy to write the reply, but Mulcahy refused. He said the letter had stirred up deep emotions within Hawkeye, and he would have to deal with them whether he wrote the letter or not. So Hawkeye answered the letter.

"It's not a good idea to take the love you had for your brother and turn it into hate," Hawkeye wrote in his reply. "Hate makes war, and war is what killed him. I understand your feelings. Sometimes I hate myself for being here, but once in awhile in the midst of this insanity a very small event can make my being here seem almost bearable."

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That was good, but I think my very favorite part of the episode involved Charles. He had been enjoying penning sarcastic replies to the letters he had been given, but one letter made him pause. It was from a young girl who wrote about autumn in Maine and the beauty of the leaves. She enclosed a leaf from a birch tree because she wasn't sure if Korea had an autumn, and she wanted to share the beauty with the person who got her letter.

Charles, a native of Boston, knew about autumn in New England. "It is with indescribable joy," he wrote, "that I accept your gift. It is indeed testimony to the beauty that exists in all creation, but perhaps nowhere more than in a young girl's heart."

From time to time, M*A*S*H aired episodes that followed a similar structure. A single thing, like the receipt of all those letters, was an opportunity to look into the hearts and souls of the leading characters. I don't think it was a new technique, but I believe M*A*S*H perfected it.

Perhaps on this night 35 years ago.

Hitchcock Was the Master of Suspense, Even on TV

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"Which one's gonna be the killer? Which one gets the rope around his neck?"

Maggie (Ellen Corby)

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As I have observed on this blog before, visitors to TV.com can rate episodes of their favorite TV programs, but the folks who run the site have changed it over the years. There once was a time when the top–rated episodes for a TV series were listed in descending order — so you could see which ones the viewers (at least, the ones who visited the site) thought were or had been the series' best. That certainly was an interesting feature, especially when you were looking at the page for a series that had been very popular in its day.

You can still rate episodes, and the website still tells you what the overall rating is for an episode. It may take a little while, but you can compare the rating of that episode to the ratings of other episodes and get a pretty fair idea of how other viewers feel about the episode in comparison to others.

And the ratings for the episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents that first aired on this date in 1955 — "Triggers in Leash" — really surprised me. It was the third of 39 episodes in the series' first season — yet it was rated higher than only eight. That puts it around the bottom one–fifth in that first season, and I am at a loss to explain that.

OK, I'll grant you that it wasn't a great episode. But the ending did have the trademark Hitchcock twist.

And it featured a couple of actors who were not particularly well known at the time but became well known in the years that followed their appearances on Alfred Hitchcock Presents — Ellen Corby, who won three Emmy Awards for her portrayal of John–Boy Walton's grandmother on The Waltons, and Darren McGavin, who found fame as TV's Kolchak: The Night Stalker and the grumpy father in the movie "A Christmas Story."

I guess the folks who rate episodes at TV.com rated the episode so poorly because it was set in the West, and, while some of Hitchcock's movies may have been set in the West, it was the modern West, and cowboys and horses were seldom, if ever, seen. In fact, in his intro to the episode, Hitchcock confessed that "There isn't a horse to be seen. We intended to get horses, but they couldn't remember the lines."

When one thinks of Hitchcock, one doesn't think of cowboys and Indians. Perhaps that is why the viewers have given the episode such a low rating. It didn't seem like a plausible combination.

I thought the episode reinforced Hitchcock's reputation as a master of suspense, no matter the century, no matter the sub–genre.

It was about a couple of men who got into an argument over a hand of poker, and their fight escalated to a gun duel at an eatery in the country. Corby ran the eatery, a plain sort of place, just a one–room cabin, really, with a few tables and chairs and the stove all within view of each other.

The whole drama was played out in that one room.

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At first, Corby tried to get between McGavin and Gene Barry, but she soon gave up and began to use psychology, suggesting that both would die, one in the gunfight and the other would be convicted of murder and executed.

That made the two pause — and they decided to have a truce and sit down and have some ham and eggs.

Corby pleaded with them not to go through with the duel.

But she didn't persuade them. Instead, they agreed not to shoot until the bird in the cuckoo clock stuck his neck out to announce that it was high noon.

So they stood up and faced each other, realizing that the clock would strike noon in a few minutes.

As the fateful moment drew near, Corby made a move for the mantel, saying that she wanted to protect the crucifix from any stray bullets.

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There was less than a minute to go before the clock would strike noon — but the clock had stopped.

Corby insisted that she didn't touch the clock, that the "hand of God" stopped the clock to keep the two gunslingers from shooting it out. Chastened, the two gunmen left together.

As the audience soon found out, the crucifix had been used to keep the mantel from tilting. The clock wouldn't run unless it was on a level surface. When Corby removed the crucifix, the surface ceased to be level, and the clock stopped.

That was Hitch's twist ending.

I thought it was done well. I didn't anticipate the ending although all the clues were there. And Hitchcock made the clock a character in the episode, frequently showing it in the background but never drawing attention to it until the very end.

Yep, I thought it deserved better than the rating it gets at TV.com.

The Birth of Saturday Night Live

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[talking into the telephone] "What are you wearing right now? No bathrobe? [notices the audience, hangs up telephone] Good evening. I'm Chevy Chase!"

Chevy Chase, Oct. 11, 1975

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American television changed 40 years ago tonight. At least on Saturday nights.

In 1975, CBS ruled primetime on Saturday nights with "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," "The Bob Newhart Show" and "The Carol Burnett Show" running in a two–hour block from 9 to 11 p.m. (Eastern time), but late night was still a vast, unexplored frontier. NBC's affiliates had been running "Best of Carson" compilations from Johnny Carson's Tonight Show on weekends, but Carson announced in 1974 that he wanted the weekend programs pulled and archived so they could be used during the week when he wanted to take time off.

My memory is that Carson always invited a guest to substitute for him when he took time off, though, right up until his retirement in 1992, and I'm not sure how extensively "Best of Carson" was used, if at all, in some markets. Its weekend schedule was very flexible. Affiliates were allowed to show episodes either on Saturday or Sunday, at their discretion.

In the days leading up to that first show, inaugural host George Carlin appeared on primetime promotional ads in which he was depicted as a participant in a stage construction project. NBC was putting the finishing touches on a new show, he told the TV audience, and he invited everyone to tune in on Saturday night.

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If you were a George Carlin fan, you were already familiar with the material he used in the first–ever Saturday Night Live monologues. He didn't deliver an original and topical monologue, as hosts do now. He basically lifted jokes from several albums that had been in circulation for years and compiled them into a monologue.

But it was still a treat to see him doing those routines. And he commanded enough star power to draw audiences. So, too, I suppose did the first show's musical guests, Janis Ian and Billy Preston, both of whom had enjoyed some popularity in the early to mid–'70s.

And that is the primary objective of a new TV program — attract an audience. There certainly was a late night audience waiting to be tapped. In 1975, most of America still had only the three networks, a public broadcasting network in many (but not all) areas and maybe an independent station or two. Cable TV was a presence in only a few areas — and wasn't nearly as extensive as it is today.

Everything about the show was new and evolving. Even the name was different. It started out as just Saturday Night. When the program debuted, there already was a program called Saturday Night Live starring Howard Cosell on ABC, and it remained on the air for the first months of SNL's existence. More than a year after Cosell's program was canceled, the show now known as Saturday Night Live took that name — in March 1977.

What we now know as Saturday Night Live began simply as NBC's Saturday Night. The "live" was a description. Go back and watch Chevy Chase's intros of those early programs. "Live from New York," he always said, "it's 'Saturday Night.'"

If you remember those days, you can probably hear Chevy saying that in your head without having to look up a clip at YouTube or anyplace else. Of course, SNL has been using that inroduce each episode for 40 years now so you don't really have to search your memory bank for an audio file of Chase saying that phrase.

Chase said it that way from the first. Then, as now, the show opened with a skit. That first skit showed two people sitting in chairs facing each other. One was writer Michael O'Donoghue who played a professor giving a European immigrant (John Belushi) English lessons. That skit is remembered as the "Wolverine" sketch because the professor was always giving the immigrant sentences to say that included that word. For example ...

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Professor: Let us begin. Repeat after me. I would like ...

Immigrant: [in a thick accent] I would like ...

Professor: ... to feed your fingertips ...

Immigrant: ...to feed yur fingerteeps ...

Professor: ... to the wolverines.

Immigrant: ... to de wolver–eenes.

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The English lesson was cut short when the professor clutched his chest and collapsed on the floor.

From off–camera, Chase emerged to announce that it was Saturday Night. Ever since that time it has been a staple of the show to have someone — sometimes several people — break character to utter that familiar phrase.

The show, as I say, was evolving. My memory is that Carlin didn't participate in any skits other than his opening monologue. Today, of course, guest hosts are full participants in that week's show. I don't know when that changed. It probably developed over time. SNL always has been a work in progress.

The skits were handled by the Not–Ready–For–Prime–Time Players, which introduced America to people who became quite familiar in short order — Chase, Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Laraine Newman and Garrett Morris.

Often, SNL has created cultural catchphrases, reaffirming its social relevance after four decades on the air. It has been resilient. In the late '70s, few people thought SNL could survive the departure of Chevy Chase, but it did. It has become a training ground and career launching pad for the stars of tomorrow.

The program's political skits have become so legendary that a compilation program of politically themed skits always airs during a presidential election campaign, and Chevy Chase's early portrayals of a clumsy Gerald Ford are sure to be included.

In countless unexpected ways, SNL has influenced the culture. Who would have thought on this night in 1975 that it would still be on the air in the 21st century?

A Different Drummer

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Secretary: Can I get you anything, sir?

Gart (James Daly): Yes, a sharp razor and a chart of the human anatomy showing all the arteries.

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"A Stop at Willoughby," the episode of the Twilight Zone that premiered on this day in 1960, has always been one of my favorite episodes from the series — and I'll be damned if I know why.

I do know that Rod Serling said it was his favorite episode from the first season of the Twilight Zone, but I'm not certain that he ever said why. Maybe he didn't know.

I'm a devotee of the Twilight Zone marathons on Syfy every Fourth of July and New Year's. Most of the time, the marathon is composed of episodes from the original series, but once it was half episodes from the series that ran in the mid–1980s — which I enjoyed even though most of my friends didn't care for the second incarnation of the series — and I had fun getting to see those episodes again.

My point is, though, that every time Syfy has a Twilight Zone marathon, I look for "A Stop at Willoughby" in the schedule, and I am sure to watch it, whenever it is on, even if it is in the middle of the night. I've been known to get up out of bed to watch it.

I still can't tell you why I like it so much. I can only tell you that there are a handful of Twilight Zone episodes that are like that for me. I haven't met a Twilight Zone fan who is not like that about certain episodes. Some of them can tell you exactly why they like the episodes so much, but most seem to be like me. I can't tell you why I like certain episodes the way I do — nor can I tell you why I dislike certain episodes, too. There are some that I will look for in the schedule so I will know when not to watch the marathon.

The only conclusion I have been able to reach is that we Twilight Zone fans are a discerning bunch. We can be passionate about watching certain episodes — and just as passionate about not watching other ones.

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It probably has something to do with the fact that the protagonist feels trapped in his job, his life, his everything. He didn't think he was being true to himself. I've felt that way. I know exactly how he felt. Most of us probably do.

Anyway, "A Stop at Willoughby" was about an advertising executive named Gart (James Daly) who had been pushed to his limits by the stress of his business. As the audience was just getting to know him, he was in a high–pressure meeting waiting for his young protege, who had been given a $3 million account to handle.

Turned out, the protege had resigned and taken the $3 million account with him to another agency. We all have bad days, but Gart's was textbook bad. On the train ride home, after glancing out at the falling snow, Gart dozed off. He was probably in a hurry to get the day over with.

And Gart began to dream — a really odd dream that had him riding in a turn–of–the–century train and visiting a turn–of–the–century place called Willoughby in the summer of 1888. It was a serene place of town squares and horse–drawn wagons, barefoot boys with fishing poles and band concerts — very appealing for a man who preferred a slower pace. Gart could see it from his window. But before Gart could leave the train, he woke up and he was back in the present day with all of his problems.

He found no sympathy when he got home. He found a wife whose opinion of him was that he lacked the drive to succeed.

That's what the episode was about — the pressure to produce even if one works in a field he loathes. Sometimes that can be done. Apparently, at one time, Gart had been one of those people who could produce in spite of a work environment he detested. But no more — and he knew it.

"Some people aren't built for competition," Gart told his wife, "or big, pretentious houses they can't afford. Or rich communities they don't feel comfortable in. Or country clubs they wear around their necks like a badge of status."

Gart dreamed of Willoughby again when he was commuting on the train, but again he was unable to get off before the train started to move. He resolved to get off the next time.

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And he did.

He reached his breaking point at the office and called his wife, begging her to be home when he got there, but she hung up on him.

He was next seen riding the train again. He fell asleep again, too, but not before expressing the desire to return to Willoughby again. And he did. He got off the train and mingled with the people there.

The next thing the viewers saw was the modern train stopped along the tracks. A passenger had jumped from the train and was lying dead in a snow bank. A hearse was on the scene to pick up the body. After the body was loaded, the hatch was closed, and the audience could see "Willoughby & Son Funeral Home" written on it.

Gart had escaped.

Patriarch of 'The Waltons' Passes Away

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It's becoming depressingly routine.

Here we are, not quite halfway into February, and celebrities are dying at an alarming rate. The month began with the news of Maximilian Schell's death, which was quickly followed by Philip Seymour Hoffman's death.

A few days later, it was Shirley Temple, followed by Sid Caesar.

And now, Ralph Waite, the father on The Waltons, is dead at 85.

I remember watching The Waltons when it was on during prime time, and I tried to think of an episode that summarized Waite's character, but I couldn't come up with one.

What comes to mind when I think of Waite as John Walton Sr. is not a particular episode but the steadiness of his character within the context of the series, always there for his family, ready to offer advice but not insistent upon it.

He was probably the ideal father, supportive of his children, whatever they wanted to do. He was a faithful husband and a dutiful son. He didn't draw much attention to himself.

Oh, I'm sure there must have been an episode or two when the spotlight was on Daddy Walton. I just don't remember now what it was. Maybe it was a conversation he had with John Boy when he was facing some sort of crisis. The series really was about John Boy, after all. He was the aspiring writer, the young man with his life stretching out in front of him.

But there were episodes in which John Boy wasn't the focus, and it is possible that there was one about John Sr.

He was the only adult in the cast who didn't win at least one Emmy during the series' nine–year run. Richard Thomas, Michael Learned, Ellen Corby and Will Geer were all winners; I'm not even sure Waite was nominated.

Perhaps that is appropriate. When The Waltons was slated to come on the air in 1972, Waite was reluctant to audition for it. He was a stage actor, and he didn't want to be locked into a TV series that might run for several years — even though CBS seemingly tried to make the show fail, scheduling it opposite two popular programs on the rival networks.

His agent persuaded him to do it, telling him he could make a little money before the show was canceled. He wound up staying with it for nine years, demonstrating the kind of personal commitment to his work that his character had to his family.

Outside of his acting career, Waite, a liberal Democrat, sought election to the U.S. House from California three times in the 1990s; he lost each time.

I suspected that he might have won if he lived in another part of California. The southern California district leans Republican even though the state has voted for Democrats for president six straight times. It was represented for a time by Republican Sonny Bono, and Waite lost both the special election and the general election following Bono's death in 1998.

Generation Flap

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It was often said, as I was growing up, that there was a gap between the generations.

It was most visible in the division over the Vietnam War, I guess. There were — as there always are — exceptions to the rule, but, generally speaking, younger people were opposed to the war and older people were supportive of it. In my experience, it was the mother of all wedge issues.

But that generational division could be seen in almost every other area of life as well — music, fashion, hair length — and I have learned, as I have traveled life's path, that the "generation gap" was not a phenomenon.

It is a constant of the human condition, this driving need for the young to express themselves and an equally strong negative reaction to such self–expression from their elders. I have seen it played out between my own generation and the generation that followed — and, in time, the generation that followed mine will experience the same thing with the next generation. And so it goes.

It is, in the words of a song that was popular when I was in my teens, the way of the world.

It's a topic that has been explored in many ways, and, 10 years ago tonight, the Frasier show memorably did so in its own, unique way in an episode titled "Juvenilia."

Frasier had been encouraged to be a guest on a youth–oriented program at the station in an attempt to attract more young listeners to his own show, which was said to appeal mostly to older men who kept the radio on for company. Frasier was reluctant, but, after speaking to one of the perky (and complimentary) hosts, he agreed to make an appearance.

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Initially, things seemed to be going well ... until the hosts turned on Frasier, accusing him of "pass[ing] the buck" on "real problem[s]" with the callers to his show and bringing up embarrassing moments from his past, like the time when he nearly committed suicide during the breakdown of his marriage.

Meanwhile, two somewhat related subplots had been playing out.

Frasier's brother Niles was trying to find a special gift for Daphne and, after hearing a story from Roz's romantic past, decided to attempt to swipe a street sign for Daphne Lane and make it his love offering.

And their father Martin started to fret when a young co–worker didn't call after a flirtatious encounter at a company party.

Both subplots complemented the main theme well. I thought it was one of the best episodes of the series' ninth season.

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Anyway, Frasier managed to turn the tables on his hosts quite nicely — with the help of Kirby, the young man he had tutored in exchange for an old high school classmate's assistance in encouraging a relationship with a comely acquaintance.

Kirby was one of my favorite temporary characters on Frasier. He was played by Brian Klugman, who was actually in his mid–20s when he played the recent high school graduate — and "Juvenilia" was his final appearance on the show.

In real life, Klugman is the nephew of one of my favorite TV actors from my childhood, Jack Klugman, "Oscar" from TV's The Odd Couple — but also a member of the cast of one of my favorite movies, "12 Angry Men," which will observe the 55th anniversary of its release later this year.

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I don't know if the elder Klugman was responsible for the younger's career choice.

But it sure was nice to have a Klugman on my TV screen again.

It was almost like a blast from my past.

The Reincarnation of Charlie's Angels

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Thirty–five years ago tonight, the original Charlie's Angels began its first season on American television.

And tonight at 7 (Central), the reincarnation of that series will make its television debut. The timing of the premiere of this remake is hardly coincidental.

I won't be able to watch it — I teach a class at the community college on Tuesday and Thursday nights — but I will be interested in hearing what others have to say about it.

The original series, as I recall, was often ridiculed by critics for lacking substance. It was held out as an example of "Jiggle TV" because the "angels" usually wore skimpy or provocative clothes while carrying out their undercover investigations. (I have heard it said that creator Aaron Spelling wanted a bikini in every scene.)

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That was what attracted viewers, critics complained — sex appeal, not clever stories or brilliant acting.

To be honest, I saw nothing wrong with that. I was a teenage boy when Charlie's Angels made its debut, and I watched it, as did my friends, for the same reason that teenage boys probably will today. We were curious about sex.

Savvy marketers know there is money to be made peddling fantasies. The angels of the '70s sure did inspire their share of fantasies (and, to be fair, so did girls in comedies like Three's Company), and the stars knew it.

"When the show was #3, I figured it was our acting," Farrah Fawcett said. "When it got to be #1, I decided it could only be because none of us wears a bra."

Of course, teenage boys in the 1970s had Farrah's iconic poster to inspire their fantasies when the show wasn't on. Today, I suppose, teenage boys will simply go to the internet to find pictures of their favorite 21st century angels. No doubt they will find many — legitimate and otherwise.

Well, that's what motivates teenage boys. I'm well past that stage in my life, and I'd like to hear the opinions of the veterans of the original series, but they've been disappearing in recent years.

Fawcett is gone now, of course. Her fellow angels, Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith, are still around — as are Cheryl Ladd (who replaced Fawcett), Shelley Hack (who replaced Jackson) and Tanya Roberts (who replaced Hack) — but the men of the series, John Forsythe (who provided Charlie's disembodied voice) and David Doyle (who played Bosley, Charlie's middle man), are deceased.

So, while it will be possible (in theory, at least) to get feedback from some of the original stars, I suspect, though, that the series remake will be a back to the future kind of experience for TV viewers who remember the original.

Sarah Bull of The Daily Mail wrote back in May — after previewing the program — that its objective appears to be "to live up to the legacy of the original TV series and film remakes."

Interestingly, though, Bull mentioned by name the stars of the movie that was inspired by the series — but not the stars of the original TV series, without whom the movie and the remake that airs tonight would not be possible.

The movies were pretty successful. I presume the series will be, too. But will it be successful because, like the original, it appeals to Americans' obsession with sex? Will it be successful because the writing is terrific and the acting is great?

Or will it be successful because of a combination of the above?

Star Trek Turns 45

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It has been 45 years since Star Trek made its debut on American television.

The series lasted only three seasons, but I've always felt that its cancellation in 1969 accelerated its elevation to the iconic status it has enjoyed for nearly half a century.

Star Trek aired its last episode only a short time before Americans walked on the moon for the first time — arguably the peak of public fascination with space exploration. But the fascination with the series' concept (which creator Gene Roddenberry once described as a " 'Wagon Train' to the stars") never seemed to wear off.

It spawned popular movies and new TV series with new characters, even after Roddenberry's death in 1991. By that time, it was known within the industry simply as "the franchise," a sure moneymaker and ratings grabber.

Since the mid–20th century, there have been many TV series that have been good, but relatively few have influenced the culture to the extent that Star Trek has.

Who, for example, has never spoken of "boldly go[ing] where no man has gone before?" But how many people know that line was taken from a White House booklet on space exploration that was written during the Eisenhower administration almost a decade before the show's inaugural episode aired on Sept. 8, 1966?

Or, for that matter, who has not urged a friend or relative to "live long and prosper" while flashing Spock's Vulcan hand signal?

And phrases like "Beam me up" became part of the popular language.

I was quite young when the show was on the air. In fact, my family had just acquired its first television, and, as small children are wont to do, I suppose, I gravitated to cartoons and sitcoms during those days.

I was really too young when Star Trek was on the air to appreciate its deeper meanings, but, since the original series was canceled, I have often wondered if, perhaps, the influence of Star Trek was as great as it was because it was so inclusive.

The 1960s are often remembered as a time of societal awakening to racial and sexual injustice, but it was rare when television truly mirrored society. If you go back and look at the series that were on the air at the time, there were relatively few that had episodes that addressed such sensitive topics, let alone had regular casts that were as diverse as the one on Star Trek.

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In 2011, people are accustomed to the idea of seeing programs with predominantly black or Spanish–speaking casts or programs in which women are the lead characters, but in the mid–1960s, significant roles for performers who weren't white and male were few and far between.

They were so rare, in fact, that, when a show featured a lead character who wasn't white and/or male (i.e., Julia or I Spy) it drew attention not for the talents of the writers and the stars but for presenting the reality of an evolving and changing society.

In a way, I guess, the 45th birthday of Star Trek is really the 45th birthday of the arrival of more ethnically diverse entertainment in America. That seems to have been part of Roddenberry's vision. He told network executives that he wanted an adventure series set in space, but he told friends he was going to seek another level — one of providing some kind of a morality tale in every episode.

And, to a great extent, he succeeded.

He did so well, in fact, that he may have inspired not only an enormously successful line of movies and TV series but also, perhaps, the greatest number of parodies in entertainment history.

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I've always suspected that the writers for Frasier were Star Trek fans. They often found ways to work in Star Trek references — including in the passion of supporting character and "Trekkie" Noel, who was fluent in Klingon even though it is a fictional language from a fictional civilization.

In a truly memorable episode of Frasier, Noel (who was revealed at the time to be both Jewish and fluent in Hebrew) agreed to help Frasier recite a blessing in Hebrew for his half–Jewish son's bar mitzvah but decided instead to make the translation in Klingon when he felt Frasier had failed to uphold his end of their deal.

Perhaps the best parody came in the early days of Saturday Night Live, when John Belushi played Capt. Kirk and Chevy Chase played Spock.

I suppose Star Trek's unique role in entertainment history made it an open target for parodies.

But it also made many things possible.