Birth of a Notion: 1960

Showing posts with label 1960. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

The Interchangeability of Perfection

I don't remember how old I was when I first saw the Twilight Zone episode — "The Lateness of the Hour" — that made its debut on this day in 1960. I do remember that I didn't care for it.

It really had nothing to do with the story — I rather liked it when I watched it the second time — or the people in it. As a matter of fact, I recall having a brief crush on Inger Stevens, who played the daughter.

You see, "The Lateness of the Hour" was one of about half a dozen Twilight Zone episodes that were shot on videotape instead of film, then transferred to film (a process called "kinescoping"). My understanding is that it was a cost–cutting tactic; trouble was that the quality suffered. As a child, I didn't know what it was, but when I got older I learned it was a loss of depth perception that made the episodes look like live on–stage performances. All I knew at the time was that it looked different — so different that it distracted me from the story. I probably couldn't have told you much about the episode right after I saw it for the first time.

In the end, the savings amounted to an average of $5,000 per episode, which really wasn't worth all the trouble, and the rest of the Twilight Zone episodes were filmed, not videotaped.

The story was about a small family, the family of a scientific genius. The genius had designed everything in the house to fulfill its function with perfect efficiency, and the family's every need was tended to by five servants who were robots designed by the genius to perform specific roles. One of the robots gave expert massages.

The daughter (Inger Stevens) was concerned that her parents had grown so dependent on the servants — as well as the perfect environment — and she advocated shaking things up. She looked upon her isolation in her parents' perfect home as a sort of imprisonment.

"I've kept you from harm," her father replied. "I've protected you against disease, and insulation in this 20th century is no crime. It's a service. You've never had to look into the face of war or the face of poverty or prejudice. You've been isolated, yes, but what you think of as imprisonment just happens to be asylum and security, yes, and survival."

The daughter was undeterred. She insisted that her father dismantle the robots. She went from request to ultimatum in a bit of a hurry, insisting that she would leave if her father didn't dismantle the robots, and her father yielded to her.

The daughter was overjoyed and started gushing about having parties and making friends and going on trips. And then she started talking about meeting a nice young man and producing grandchildren — which forced her parents to make a rather awkward confession.

They didn't do so right away, though — but the expressions on their faces told the daughter that something wasn't right. Then she recalled that, in all the photos in the family photo albums she had been looking at, there were no pictures of her as a child. When she pursued the point, her father made the confession that she was already realizing as she connected all the dots. She, too, was a robot. More highly developed than the servants, but a robot nonetheless.

They had been childless, her father told her, and desperately wanted someone to love. The daughter was so distraught by the revelation that her father decided he had to remove her from the family. But he couldn't bear the thought of not having her around anymore.

So he transformed her into a maid — apparently she became the maid who was so good at giving massages.

The audience never saw who the new daughter was. I guess I always assumed it was the robot who had been the previous massage–giving maid.

I didn't really think about that. There was something else I noticed when I watched the episode a second time. OK, all the servants — and the daughter — were robots. And Inger Stevens' character aptly demonstrated that robots couldn't feel physical pain when she repeatedly slammed her forearm on the banister of the stairs and lamented, "No pain! No pain! No pain!" Then she collapsed in a heap, sobbing. It was very dramatic — and very contradictory. Robots couldn't feel physical pain, but they — or, at least, Inger Stevens' character — clearly could feel emotional pain.

By the way, if the father looks familiar to you, there is a reason for that. About six months later, the actor who played the father, John Hoyt, was a Martian in "Will the Real Martian Please Stand Up?" which was filmed in the normal way.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Four of a Kind

On this day in 1960, Ferlin Husky's "Wings of a Dove" became just the fourth song to climb to #1 in Billboard's Hot C&W chart that year.

You could expand that list to five if you include Marty Robbins' "El Paso," which reached the top spot late in 1959 and remained there through the first five weeks of 1960.

But in the year itself, only four songs ascended to #1 on the Billboard chart. The other three were Jim Reeves' "He'll Have to Go," Hank Locklin's "Please Help Me, I'm Falling" and Cowboy Copas' "Alabam."

Compare that to modern times, when there seems to be a new #1 hit on music charts every week.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

In the Eye of the Beholder

"Now the questions that come to mind. Where is this place and when is it? What kind of world where ugliness is the norm and beauty the deviation from that norm? You want an answer? The answer is, it doesn't make any difference. Because the old saying happens to be true. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, in this year or a hundred years hence, on this planet or wherever there is human life, perhaps out amongst the stars. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Lesson to be learned ... in the Twilight Zone."

Closing narration

As I observed in this blog when actress Donna Douglas died earlier this year, her most noteworthy pre–Beverly Hillbillies role was an appearance on the original Twilight Zone. That episode was called "The Eye of the Beholder." Fittingly, it was about beauty, and it was shown for the first time on this day in 1960.

Douglas played a woman who was undergoing surgery on her face. Her face wasn't visible until near the end. For most of the episode, it was wrapped in bandages.

You couldn't see the faces of the doctors and nurses who came in and out of her room, either. They were photographed in shadows or at angles that made it impossible to make out their facial features.

But the viewer got a good idea of what was going on from the conversations between the patient and the doctors and nurses who tended to her. She was "disfigured" and seen as ugly by the normal people around her. She had undergone numerous surgeries to correct her deformities. All had been unsuccessful.

Her latest surgery had been one last try. Apparently, there was no other option if this one failed — except for her to go live in a separate colony with others like her.

I was already familiar with Donna Douglas by the time I saw this episode. I had seen the Beverly Hillbillies frequently, and I was sure I recognized her when I saw "The Eye of the Beholder." After all, she was one of the women on TV who was the subject of many a young boy's fantasies, including mine.

But I was bewildered. She didn't sound the same. Now, I was old enough by that time to know that actors and actresses alter their voices to fit their roles, but I also knew that, no matter how much they altered their voices, you could usually identify them. This actress didn't sound at all like Douglas.

When the patient's head was wrapped in bandages, she was played by an actress named Maxine Stuart, who was about 14 years older than Douglas. When the bandages were removed, the actress underneath them was Douglas.

She never spoke — well, she sobbed — but the leader of the futuristic society did. He gave a speech about "glorious conformity" that was being broadcast on devices that looked remarkably like the flat–screen TVs of today.

Actually, I should amend that. Words did appear to come out of Douglas' mouth — but they were in Stuart's voice. Pretty good job of lip syncing, too, considering that label wouldn't be invented for another three decades.

As Douglas ran down the hallways of the hospital, the leader droned on about "a single norm, a single approach, a single entity of people ..." and urged his listeners to "cut out all that is different like a cancerous growth."

It was an interesting episode, one that had allusions both subtle — to fascism — and not so subtle — to conformity.

And it made reference to the old saying that "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Over the years, I have learned — repeatedly — how true that is.

How often have I wondered why someone who is drop–dead attractive is with someone who is ugly — or just plain? More times than I can count. And each time I do it, I feel ashamed for having judged a book by its cover.

But that's something we all do, isn't it?

And it isn't just looks, either, although that is probably the most convenient scapegoat. It can be anything — age, religion, politics, race, you name it.

But if this episode was to be remade today, it couldn't use age or religion or race as the dividing line because that wouldn't be politically correct.

You would just about have to stay with looks, and you would get away with it, too, because there is a general perception that good–looking people get their way all the time. That probably isn't entirely true, but, as one of the many nonbeautiful people, I sometimes wonder what it must be like to be one of the few truly beautiful people and be treated like royalty because of it.

Or to be a star athlete and have everything handed to you in school and on your way up the professional ladder.

I'm sure even the beautiful people have other beautiful people whom they imagine to be more attractive — and the star athletes are probably jealous of other star athletes whom they perceive to be more talented.

No one is immune.

Wednesday, November 04, 2015

The Devil's Deceptions

"The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape. I had seen him before, in all parts of the world. In all forms and guises. Wherever there was sin. Wherever there was strife. Wherever there was corruption. And persecution. There he was also. Sometimes he was only a spectator, a face in the crowd. But, always, he was there."

Brother Jerome (John Carradine)

"The Howling Man," the episode of the Twilight Zone that made its debut on this night in 1960, has always been one of my favorite episodes — but for a long time, I'll be damned if I could explain why.

I suppose "I'll be damned" is an appropriate way to phrase it because the episode dealt with the Devil.

You see, an American hiking through central Europe after World War I (H.M. Wynant) got lost in a storm and sought shelter in a castle. He was urged to leave — but not before he heard a spine–tingling howl. He insisted on knowing more but was told it was merely the wind and was taken to meet the leader of the castle's religious order, Brother Jerome (John Carradine).

Jerome asked what he wanted, and the man said he only wanted shelter from the storm, perhaps some food, but Jerome refused. The man, apparently suffering ill effects from the storm, began coughing and collapsed. When he came to, he heard the howling again and went to investigate.

In the bowels of the castle, he found a man, disheveled but lucid, locked in a cell, who offered a simple explanation for his imprisonment: Brother Jerome and his followers were mad.

"I don't say they are evil," the prisoner said. "They're mad." And he proceeded to tell what seemed to be a plausible story about how he came to be where he was: He had been seen kissing his sweetheart in public.

Brother Jerome interrupted and took the visitor back to his study, where he proceeded to tell him the whole story. The man in the cell was really the Devil. He had been imprisoned there for five years since the end of the war — a period marked by the general absence of unnatural catastrophes, the kind of thing that is usually blamed on the Devil. He was kept in his cell by the "Staff of Truth," Jerome said, the one thing the Devil cannot manipulate, and the visitor pretended to believe him.

But after their conversation, he returned to the cell and freed the prisoner — who was, in fact, the Devil. The visitor discovered that a bit too late; to atone for what he had done, he tracked and finally recaptured the Devil.

He decided to send the Devil back to Brother Jerome. Before going out to make the arrangements, he left his apartment and the locked–away Devil in the custody of a housekeeper. He explained the situation to her (the episode was told in a flashback style, which was apparently his explanation) and warned her to keep the door to the Devil's room locked.

But, of course, once he left, the housekeeper was drawn to the door ... and, as she reached to unlock it, Rod Serling could be heard quoting an old saying: "You can catch the Devil, but you can't hold him long."

I'm still not certain why I like that episode so much.

Sunday, November 01, 2015

The Release of Elvis' Third-Best-Selling Single

What is the greatest Elvis Presley song ever recorded?

You can get compelling arguments from his fans for maybe 100 of the King's recordings. He was a unique talent, of that there is no doubt, and he changed American pop culture forever.

Some will make the case that the single he released on this date in 1960, "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" was his greatest recording, and that is hard to dispute. It was definitely a big hit. But one thing that made it different from many of Elvis' hits is the fact that it wasn't a new song. It was written and published more than 30 years earlier — nearly a decade before Elvis was born, in fact.

Elvis' version wasn't the first to be recorded, nor was it the first to show up on the music charts. But it's the one people remember.

And I guess it is the one that I most associate with him.

As it is with any great recording artist, though, listeners can associate Elvis with many songs. He definitely could not be described as a one–trick pony.

Elvis recorded "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" in the predawn hours of April 4, 1960 as a favor to his manager, Col. Tom Parker. For what appears to be the only time, Parker influenced one of Elvis' recording sessions. Parker asked Elvis to record "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" because the song was Parker's wife's favorite.

The recording was done with Elvis and acoustic guitar, drums, bass and the backup group. Everyone else was asked to leave. With the lights turned out, Elvis performed the song with the iconic spoken portion. Not satisfied with the first effort, Elvis did a second take, then told the producer to discard it because "I can't do it justice."

Instead, they did a third take — which became the recording that was released on this date in 1960.

RCA Records delayed the release by nearly seven months, fearing the song didn't complement Elvis' new post–service style (which was largely his old style enhanced by recent technological developments).

The listening public had no doubts. The song debuted at #35 on Billboard's Top 40 and was #1 before the end of November. It remained in the top position until January 1961. Three months after its release, the recording exceeded sales of 2 million worldwide and was certified gold. It was certified double platinum in 1992.

"Are You Lonesome Tonight?" became Elvis' third–best–selling single ever — behind "It's Now Or Never" and "Jailhouse Rock."

Whether it was Elvis' greatest recording is a matter of personal opinion, I suppose, but its success with the record–buying public is beyond question.

It was a good thing RCA Records reconsidered its original decision and released the single.

Friday, October 09, 2015

Something Unpleasant This Way Comes

In the years to come, she would be known as an Oscar– and Emmy–winning actress, famous for her work on the big screen, on television and on the stage.

But on this night 60 years ago, 29–year–old Cloris Leachman was a guest star in the second episode of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," playing John Forsythe's former girlfriend and present sister–in–law. At the time, she was probably best known for competing in the 1946 Miss America pageant. No doubt Forsythe was the better known of the two.

Forsythe played a pianist who returned to his hometown, hoping to patch things up with his estranged father, with an unsettling feeling that something was wrong. Everything looked the same, but Forsythe's friends and family weren't comfortable seeing him, even though he had been gone four years. That alone was strange, but they were so evasive about certain things — like his father's whereabouts, for example.

He soon found out why. His father had died not long after he had left. His brother (Warren Stevens), who had married Forsythe's girl, had been the beneficiary of a rewritten will and had inherited the father's estate.

Forsythe thought the whole thing sounded fishy. OK, his father was dead, of that there was no doubt, but there was considerable uncertainty about when he died — and how. His father supposedly died of a heart attack while playing tennis, yet Forsythe found a hunting license for which his father had applied the day after he supposedly died.

So Forsythe went to the woods of Maine, where the hunting trip had been planned, to find out what happened.

What the viewers got was a classic Hitchcock double cross.

When the truth was finally uttered by Leachman, she told a story of Forsythe having murdered his own father. They had argued. Leachman's character mentioned a loaded hunting rifle and an accident, never saying how Forsythe killed his father, only telling him that he had never been a musician in Paris or Rome as he had claimed. Instead, he had spent the last four years in a "hospital" in Arizona, and he had run away.

Forsythe's brother, sister–in–law and her father had worked together to protect Forsythe and conceal the nature of the father's death.

"We thought it was the only thing to do at the time," Leachman said. "Now I'm not so sure."

That may have been the most honest statement in the episode. After all, how many times have you been faced with a situation in which you felt you had little choice but to go with the least–objectionable option? If you're like me, the answer is, "More than I can count."

I've heard such a choice described as "the lesser of two evils." That's more poetic than calling something a "no–win situation," but that is what the episode that aired 60 years ago tonight is.

And whereas I thought the series' first episode was a bit predictable, I must confess that, the first time I saw this episode, I didn't see that ending coming.

Wednesday, October 07, 2015

Be Careful What You Wish For

"It isn't just an antique shop where you pick up the pitiful remnants of other people's failures; it's a shrine to failure itself! That's what it is."

Arthur (Luther Adler)

You probably wouldn't recognize the names of any of the actors who appeared in the episode of the original Twilight Zone that premiered on this date in 1960. But the actors' faces would be familiar to anyone who has watched much TV programming that was produced in those days. They were popping up frequently in supporting roles.

As for the episode itself, it was a very Twilight Zone–esque story — a middle–aged couple struggled to make ends meet with their small antiques shop. One day an elderly woman came in looking to sell a bottle. She claimed it was a family heirloom, but the husband knew it was an old glass bottle that wasn't worth anything. She found it in a trash dumpster. He also knew the old lady needed money for food so he went along with her story and gave her a dollar — even though he had no money to spare.

After she left, the man knocked over the bottle and it turned out to contain a genuine genie. You probably wouldn't recognize the name of the actor who played the genie, either, but he offered the couple four wishes.

The owner of the shop was skeptical. As proof that the genie was telling the truth, he wished for some broken glass in a display case to be repaired. The genie touched it, and the cracks disappeared.

Convinced that the genie was telling the truth, the couple wished for a million dollars in $5 and $10 bills, which came cascading from above — inside the shop.

In a fit of generosity, the shopkeepers gave a lot of their money away to folks in the neighborhood who, like themselves, were down on their luck. The last person to visit the shop was an IRS representative, who informed them that they would owe taxes on their windfall. When they counted up the money they had left and deducted the taxes they owed, they were left with $5.

The genie reminded them that he had urged them to think carefully before making a wish. A wish could not be undone except through the use of another wish. The shopkeeper asked the genie what could be wished for that would have no "tricks" attached. The genie said it had been no trick. There were consequences with any windfall. If they had made a wish that took into consideration the taxes, that outcome might have been avoided.

"No matter what you wish for," the genie said, "you must be prepared for the consequences."

The shopkeeper decided to wish for power. What kind of power? the genie wanted to know. President of a corporation?

The wife pointed out that the corporation could go bankrupt.

Mayor of a city?

Could get voted out of office.

The shopkeeper had the answer: He wanted to be the head of a 20th–century foreign country who could not be voted out of office.

So the genie granted him his wish — he was Hitler in the bunker at the end of World War II.

That led to his final wish — to be a simple, struggling shopkeeper once more.

And so he was.

The shopkeeper and his wife decided that their life wasn't as bad as they thought — and agreed to spruce up the old life since they clearly couldn't afford a new one. The wife pointed out that they came out ahead, anyway, noting the glass in the display case that was repaired in the first wish. Unfortunately, though, the glass was broken again a few seconds later, leaving the two precisely where they had been before the genie came into their lives.

I guess the lesson of the story was that you should be careful what you wish for — although, really, shouldn't there be something better to it than that?

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Did He? Or Didn't He?

"This is Africa, 1943. War spits out its violence overhead, and the sandy graveyard swallows it up. Her name is King Nine, B–25, medium bomber, Twelfth Air Force. On a hot, still morning, she took off from Tunisia to bomb the southern tip of Italy. An errant piece of flak tore a hole in the wing tank and, like a wounded bird, this is where she landed, not to return on this day or any other day."

Opening narration

With only a few exceptions, the episodes of the second season of Rod Serling's original Twilight Zone TV series — which began 55 years ago today — were arguably its weakest.

And the episode that opened the season may have been the weakest of the lot.

It was called "King Nine Will Not Return" — which, even for the title of a Twilight Zone episode, was baffling for the ordinary viewer. That was a bad start, but, heck, the Twilight Zone had its share of those in the first season yet always managed to connect the dots well enough for the viewer. Sometimes that was accomplished in the opening narration, and that was what Twilight Zone tried to do 55 years ago tonight.

But it really wasn't adequate. The episode was inspired, as I understand it, by what was, for many years, a modern mystery — the true story of an American bomber that disappeared after a bombing run on Naples, Italy during World War II. An oil exploration team found the plane, pretty well preserved, in the desert in Libya about 15 years later. The remains of the crew were found the next year.

Viewers could have benefited from knowing this was one of the Twilight Zone episodes that was based on an actual — albeit largely unknown — event. It wasn't strictly factual, though, and I'm not sure how telling the readers that could have been done — perhaps with some sort of text disclaimer that could have run with the opening credits.

The theme of history/time travel frequently figured in Twilight Zone, perhaps never as much as in the series' second season. In hindsight, I suppose that makes the episode that made its debut 55 years ago tonight a harbinger of things to come. The season that lay ahead would have fewer 30–minute episodes than any other during the series' original run, but it may have had a greater proportion of episodes that dealt with time/history/time travel in some way than the other seasons did.

Anyway, it seems that way to me.

It was practically a one–man show. Robert Cummings played a bomber pilot who regained consciousness in the African desert.

The episode did a good job of simulating that disoriented feeling we all have at one time or another, of waking up somewhere and not being sure where we are or how we got there, at least at first. It isn't necessarily the result of a night of drinking — although it often seems to be. Not in this case, though. Bit by bit, Cummings' mind pieced together what happened to his plane — which was in pieces. It was scattered all around him. But his crew was nowhere to be found.

Cummings found that unsettling, naturally, but he tried to reason with himself, telling himself to be calm, not to be irrational. There was a logical explanation for why there was no sign of his crew. But he couldn't think of one, and then he started to hallucinate. He thought he saw his crew from a distance, but when he walked in their direction, they vanished.

He stumbled upon a makeshift cross that had been erected, based on the inscription, upon the death of one of his crewmen, which resolved the fate of at least one of Cummings' men. Then he looked up and saw jets streaking across the sky. Those jets didn't exist in 1943, but still he knew all about them. How was that possible?

Cummings passed out, then came to in a hospital. Turned out it was nearly two decades after that fateful mission — and Cummings had not been on the flight. Someone else took his place, and he had been lost with the others. Cummings, presumably, had been carrying that survivors' guilt around inside him for years. It bubbled to the surface when he saw a newspaper article about his long–lost airplane having been found in the African desert.

Cummings, of course, wondered if he really had, somehow, gone back to the desert. His doctor, psychiatrist and nurse left his room, discussing his case and his "delusion." But then the nurse dropped Cummings' clothes on a table — and some sand fell out of one of his shoes.

This episode is probably most noteworthy for being the first to feature the now–iconic Marius Constant theme. Constant was a French composer/conductor who was known in the music world for his ballets — but is probably better known to the general public as the man who penned the Twilight Zone theme.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Rod Taylor Didn't Ride a DeLorean Into the Future

"When I speak of time, I'm speaking of the fourth dimension."

George (Rod Taylor)

When Rod Taylor died back at the start of this year, there was a bit of a debate over which was his best movie — "The Birds" or "The Time Machine," which premiered on this day in 1960.

For me, there really isn't a debate. As I have written here many times, I admire the work of Alfred Hitchcock very much — and there are many of his movies that I would see and have seen over and over. "The Birds," though, is not one of them. A friend of mine and I were discussing it about a week after Taylor's death, and he described the plot of "The Birds" as a "one–trick pony." That is about as good a description as I have heard.

"The Birds" was good the first time — but "The Time Machine" is always good, no matter how many times you see it.

The cast was first rate, with faces that became more familiar to TV audiences within a few years. Alan Young had been in movies for more than a decade, but it was a year after he made "The Time Machine" that he became Wilbur Post on TV's Mister Ed, which is most likely his defining role.

Likewise, Sebastian Cabot had been in many movies by the time he appeared in "The Time Machine," but he is probably best remembered for his role as Mr. French in Family Affair.

For that matter, Taylor is probably remembered more for "The Birds." That really is a pity.

He received no Oscar nominations for either movie, but I always felt that he was the star of "The Time Machine," whereas Tippi Hedren really was the focus of "The Birds." "The Time Machine" was the story of Taylor's character's travels through time — and the people he met along the way.

The time machine remained in the same physical location but could not be seen when it was traveling in a different time. From time to time, as Taylor traveled into the future, he would stop and explore, usually encountering Young as his own descendant. (Talk about a family resemblance.)

In a minor example of director George Pal's Oscar–winning use of time–lapse photographic effects, Taylor monitored developments in women's fashions by observing the mannequin in the window of the shop across the street from his home.

Now, I liked the idea, but I was disappointed that the director didn't take it to its logical conclusion and try to forecast women's fashions after Taylor's character developed his time machine. The story took place in early January 1900, and it is reasonable to assume that, since the movie supposedly projected Taylor into a future that was thousands of years from his own time, at some time part of it must have taken place in the 20th century.

The '60s, after all, brought us mini skirts, tie–dyed T–shirts and blue jeans as the drivers of women's apparel — quite a change from what people of Taylor's real time (as far as the movie was concerned) expected.

It was also quite a change for the theatrical audiences, who, in 1960, might have been shocked to see the fashions that were soon to come their way.

Yvette Mimieux played Taylor's love interest. She was a member of the Eloi, one of two post–apocalyptic species. The Eloi were benign people. At some point, being quite intelligent for a time, the Eloi resolved all the earth's problems, then were segregated into their own group by the other species, the aggressive Morlocks.

Tuesday, July 07, 2015

He That Troubleth His Own House ...

Matthew Harrison Brady (Fredric March): I do not think about things I do not think about.

Henry Drummond (Spencer Tracy): Do you ever think about things that you do think about?

I remember one Christmas when I was maybe 14 or 15, and my mother gave me a copy of Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee's acclaimed stage script for the play, "Inherit the Wind," which was made into a movie that premiered on this day in 1960.

Mom frequently gave me books that she thought I would like, even if most people thought the books were beyond my years. They probably would have been right, too, if the subject had been anyone other than myself, but I was always reading things that, in most cases, would have been more appropriate for someone a few years older. Mom knew that, and she encouraged me to read things that I might not fully comprehend, that I might need to ask questions about — knowing that I would probably comprehend most, if not all, of it. And she was usually right about that.

Besides, "Inherit the Wind" was based on the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Scopes monkey trial that took place 90 years ago, in July 1925, and Mom knew I was always a history buff. She knew I had read about the Scopes trial before. I don't think we had studied it in school yet, though, so she knew there was a chance I might need to know a few things to fill in the gaps in my mind.

The trial — in a case that challenged a law that prohibited the teaching of Charles Darwin's theory of evolution in a state–funded school — drew three–time presidential nominee William Jennings Bryan and famed trial lawyer Clarence Darrow to Dayton, Tennessee, to serve as the legal counsel for the two sides. With oratorical firepower like that in town, the press of the day was there as well. It was the Trial of the Century — or, at least, the First Quarter of a Century.

(Did I say it was based on the trial? That's an understatement. It was practically a transcript of the trial, with the debates between Bryan and Darrow picked up virtually word for word.)

All that activity must have been unsettling for Dayton. In the most recent census, its population was slightly more than 7,000. I'm guessing it was considerably smaller in 1925.

The town's name was changed in the play — to Hillsboro, Tennessee — referred to as "Heavenly Hillsboro" by the press in the story.

The Bryan character was seen locally as the defender of traditional beliefs and values; in the movie, his character was played by Frederic March, and he received a hero's welcome when he and his wife arrived in town.

An equal and opposite reaction was given to the Darrow character, who was perceived as a threat to those beliefs and values. He was played by Spencer Tracy.

You don't have to watch much of "Inherit the Wind" to see clear parallels between the conflict portrayed in the movie and the many social conflicts that permeate our politics today.

"The movie casts the battle as a struggle between the followers of a fundamentalist preacher ... and the snowy–haired agnostic ... who believes Darwinism is as 'incontrovertible as geometry,' as indeed it seems to well over 99 percent of the world's scientists," wrote film critic Roger Ebert.

(Actually, Ebert could have been describing both sides in just about any modern debate, it seems to me.)

In fact, the play does seem to have accurately forecast 21st–century attitudes. The fundamentalists were ridiculed, as they are today, as being hopelessly out of step with modern thinking.

Thinking? The movie was about the right to think, and Gene Kelly's character believed it was in great jeopardy. "There's only one man in the whole town who thinks," he complained, "and he's in jail."

There were others in the cast, of course, including a character who served as the defendant (in the movie, that was Dick York) and Kelly as a reporter for a fictional newspaper, the Baltimore Herald, based on the very real H.L. Mencken and the newspaper that employed him, the Baltimore Sun, which provided financial support for the defense. Harry Morgan played the presiding judge, and there were some witnesses. Nearly all the witnesses testified for the prosecution. The judge ruled that testimony from the defense's academic witnesses was irrelevant, and the defense's only witness was the prosecuting attorney himself.

For the most part, the movie was a two–man show, and you couldn't have asked for two better actors to represent their generation. Tracy received an Oscar nomination for Best Actor; March didn't get a nomination but deserved one as well. (He enjoyed his share of Oscar success, though, receiving five Best Actor nominations in his career — and winning twice.)

("Inherit the Wind" received three other Oscar nominations. Nedrick Young and Harold Jacob Smith were nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay, Ernest Laszlo was nominated for Best Black and White Cinematography, and Frederic Knudtson was nominated for Best Film Editing.)

Writing a few months after a similar court trial in Dover, Pennsylvania, Ebert observed that the movie was "a film that rebukes the past when it might also have feared the future. Beliefs that seemed like ancient history to [director Stanley] Kramer have had a surprising resiliency; two recent polls show that 38 percent of American teenagers believe 'God created humans pretty much in their present form within the last 10,000 years or so,' and 54 percent of American adults doubt that man evolved from earlier species. There is hardly a politician in the land with courage enough to state that they are wrong."

Ebert wrote that in 2006. The public's conclusions may or may not have changed in that time — but my guess is that there are quite a few politicians who would be willing to challenge the validity of those conclusions today.

Some might take a page from Spencer Tracy's dialogue in the movie. "The Bible is a book," he asserted at one point. "It's a good book, but it is not the only book."

Sunday, July 05, 2015

The Start of Phase 2 of Elvis' Career

In the last two decades of his life, everything Elvis Presley did made news. If he was making a movie, it was in the news. If he recorded a new song, it was in the news.

When he was inducted into the Army, it was in the news.

There was kind of a news blackout on Presley for a couple of years while he was in the Army — although he did have ten top 40 hits between his induction in 1958 and discharge in 1960 so I guess some people hardly knew he'd been away — but once he was discharged from the service in March 1960, his career roared back to life. He had barely been discharged when he was rushed into the studio in the spring of 1960 and recorded two of his biggest hit singles, one of which — "It's Now or Never" — was released on this day in 1960.

It was an interesting thing, that song. It was conceived in almost a casual way. The melody was inspired by "O sole mio," an Italian standard from the 19th century, but the theme of the song was inspired by a recording that had been a modest hit a decade earlier, and the lyrics were written in half an hour by Aaron Schroeder and Wally Gold — who were assigned the task of writing the lyrics because they were the only songwriters in the music publisher's office when he arrived one day.

Yet the song wound up selling more than 20 million copies and is second only to "Hound Dog" on the list of Elvis' top–selling songs.

In January, on what would have been Elvis' 80th birthday, Swide.com wrote about Elvis' Italian legacy and listed the Italian–influenced songs he recorded.

That was an impressive argument, but more persuasive than any song in Presley's musical library, even "It's Now or Never," was this observation:

"Elvis, especially in the second phase of his career — from the '60s on — fell in love with the 'Bel canto,' became a balladeer and between his vocal influences he incorporated Italian tenors Enrico Caruso and his heir, Mario Lanza."

There isn't really a doubt in my mind that his vocal style was suited for Italian ballads, and it was especially obvious, I thought, in his post–Army recordings.

Early in his career, it was often noted that Elvis sounded like a black singer — due, no doubt, to the musical influences of his Mississippi roots — which gave him enormously lucrative cross–over appeal. I don't know if that is true, but the numbers don't lie. He had three dozen #1 hit recordings in his career and made nearly as many movies.

He never really lost that — for lack of a better phrase — black sound, but it didn't seem to dominate his work as it had before.

Much of his work was accomplished after his return from the service, and it is clear to me that his performing style was toned down, less the Delta influence and more the Italian crooner style. He wasn't stationed in Italy, but maybe he was influenced by music he heard on radios in the barracks or live in the clubs of Germany, where he was stationed.

I'm not enough of an Elvis fan to know about that — but I do know that, around the time he recorded "It's Now or Never," Elvis appeared on The Frank Sinatra Timex Show. In addition to his Italian lineage, Sinatra's disdain for rock 'n' roll was well known; long before they appeared on television together, Sinatra said of Elvis' staying power, "Only time will tell. They said I was a freak when I first hit, but I'm still around. Presley has no training at all. When he goes into something serious, a bigger kind of singing, we'll find out if he is a singer. He has a natural, animalistic talent."

Sinatra may well have influenced the second phase of Elvis' career before the first phase had ended.

During his lifetime, Elvis' fans probably would have bought anything that he recorded and, even though the quality of his music tended to suffer after his time in the service, in all likelihood because of the his movie career, it is clear from even a casual listening that the style of his music was different, possibly due to a different ethnic influence than the one he had at the beginning.

He continued to sell records, as always, but they were different. Even "It's Now or Never" was different from what had come before. True, it became Elvis' second–best–selling recording — but it had none of the in–your–face quality of "Hound Dog."

A new age had begun.

Wednesday, July 01, 2015

Occupying a World of His Own

"I made you too strong. I forgot to add some human frailty."

Keenan Wynn

On this night in 1960, Twilight Zone concluded its first season with an episode that I have always liked.

I wouldn't say it is in my top 10 Twilight Zone episodes, but it is probably in my top 20. Hey, that isn't bad. There were 156 episodes of the Twilight Zone between 1959 and 1964. The #20 episode on my hypothetical list would be in the top 13%, and I figure that the episode that aired 55 years ago tonight, "A World of His Own," probably deserves to be in my top 10% — which, I suppose, would put it around #15, and that is about right.

That really shouldn't surprise anyone. The theme was writing, and, for good or ill, I am a writer. (I also admire the work of the man who wrote this episode, Richard Matheson.)

Now, I understand about the drawbacks of profiling, but there are advantages to it, too. Profiling can be helpful in understanding why certain people seem predisposed to do certain things in life. To me, it has often seemed to be that way with writers. I often ask myself, why do writers write? Why do I write? Profiling could be useful in answering those questions.

Of course, writers come in all races so racial profiling doesn't really help. Nor does gender profiling because I have known both female writers and male writers. For that matter, age, religion, sexual orientation aren't very helpful. All those things contribute to the life experiences that writers so frequently write about.

After a lifetime of reflecting on the experience of being a writer — and writing about that experience — I have reached a conclusion. Writers want to be able to control their lives better than most of them actually do. Even writers of nonfiction — like the reporters with whom I have worked on newspaper staffs — want to have more control over things in their lives, and being able to write a complete eyewitness account of something that happened, whether a criminal trial or a football game, is a way of exerting that control.

I think most nonfiction writers secretly would like to be fiction writers because, in the pages of a novel, the writer alone decides what happens. If what happens in those pages seems unlikely but not entirely impossible, the writer's persuasiveness is what will determine whether the readers believe it is plausible.

In "A World of His Own," Keenan Wynn played a writer who had found a way to control his world. He used a dictaphone — one of those old–fashioned contraptions that busy people used to record ideas, dictate letters and other documents and so on half a century ago. Today's business executive probably sends out emails from his smartphone, which would require some extensive rewriting of this episode if someone was to remake it.

Anyway, Wynn's character could conjure up his ideal woman and the woman to whom he was married — different women — simply by dictating a description into this dictaphone. To make the character go away, he would take the tape describing that person and toss it on the fire in the fireplace in his study. That was how he "un–created" characters.

As you can imagine, his wife was skeptical. She was sure she had seen a woman through the window and was baffled about how that woman could have gotten out.

So Wynn's character did a demonstration for her, conjuring up his ideal woman — Mary.

It was all too much for his wife, who started to leave the house but was stopped when Wynn's character conjured up a rogue elephant to block her way. She assured her husband that she would escape at the first opportunity and have him committed.

Well, that left Wynn with no alternative. He had to dispose of his wife the same way he disposed of Mary — by throwing the tape describing her character into the fire. And that is what he did.

In an amusing twist, Rod Serling assured viewers, in the final scene, that it was a fictional story, that people couldn't really get rid of other people by tossing tape into a fire — to which Wynn took exception and tossed an envelope labeled "Rod Serling" containing tape into the fire.

And Serling dissolved, not to be seen again until the second season of Twilight Zone began in September.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

The Unnatural

General manager: Want to look at a pitcher?

Mouth McGarry (Jack Warden): At this point, I'll even look at you.

General manager: He's a lefty.

Mouth McGarry: Lefty, schmefty. What's the difference? If he's got more than one arm and less than four, he's for us.

Twilight Zone is absolutely one of my favorite TV series of all time. But no series is perfect, and Twilight Zone certainly had its share of misfires. I have mentioned before how I always watch the Syfy Channel's semiannual Twilight Zone marathons on New Year's and the Fourth of July and how there are certain episodes I always make it a habit to watch, whenever they happen to be aired.

Likewise, there are episodes I avoid. Those are the episodes I loathed the first time I saw them. Oddly enough, those episodes often turn out to be the most popular among other Twilight Zone fans. (I've never been able to explain that. It's kind of like being in my own personal Twilight Zone episode.)

That seems to be the case with the episode that first aired on this date in 1960 — "The Mighty Casey," a title that was inspired by Ernest Thayer's 1888 poem "Casey at the Bat." Now, I will admit that I have always liked baseball — more when I was a boy than now, I suppose — but I just never warmed up to this episode.

Others did, though.

The tale was about a fictional down–and–out baseball team called the Hoboken Zephyrs that was so bad it had to call a single victory a streak. The story opened with the team holding tryouts — and drawing a pretty motley crew.

Jack Warden played the beleaguered manager. He was convinced there were no — ahem — diamonds in the rough.

And then an older man came to the dugout. Warden thought it was a joke — a middle–aged man angling for a role as a rookie pitcher? No, he was a scientist who wanted to introduce Warden to the pitching prospect, s somber–faced fellow named Casey. The older man was Casey's creator. Casey, you see, was a robot.

Warden sent him out to the mound to throw a few pitches. His fastball scorched the catcher's mitt.

His off–speed stuff bewildered batters who tried to hit it. Granted, they were Zephyrs — and wannabe Zephyrs. The real test would come when he faced legitimate big–league batters.

Warden figured he had nothing to lose — his club was already 31 games out of first place — so he put Casey on his roster.

And it really seemed to pay off. The mysterious Casey appeared unbeatable. He went on a shutout binge; he put together a real winning streak and had Warden dreaming of winning a pennant.

Then disaster struck. Casey got beaned in a game and was taken to the hospital for evaluation. While he was there, it was determined that he had no pulse, no heartbeat.

Baseball rules clearly state that a lineup must be made up of nine men — and Casey didn't qualify, but his creator said he could give Casey a heart if that was what was necessary to earn the designation of human.

And that's what he did.

But, when Casey rejoined the club, there was a problem. The addition of a heart had given him something he had never had before — compassion.

It was obvious right away that something was different. He was smiling.

And when he took the mound, it was crystal clear that something was different. His pitches didn't baffle hitters. They were connecting — and frequently, spraying hits everywhere and driving in runs in bunches.

In the locker room, the scientist and Casey tried to explain to the manager that he no longer had the killer instinct that had served him so well before.

Casey said the scientist had urged him to go into social work, and that was what he was going to do. "I want to help people," he said as he left the locker room.

And the Zephyrs were back where they had been before Casey came along.

The scientist left Casey's blueprints with the manager — and it was strongly implied that those blueprints eventually were used to create a pitching staff that enjoyed great success.

As I say, I just never really cared for this episode. There were times during its run that Twilight Zone dabbled in stories about robots, and I never really liked them.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

"I don't want to make a big thing out of this, but what kind of a place is this?"

Marsha (Anne Francis)

No doubt about it. Anne Francis was a beautiful woman ... especially when she was young. (Now, before you say, "Who wasn't?" hear me out.)

She had all the qualities necessary to play a damsel in distress in the movies. That was a big part of her beauty — the impression people seemed to get that she was fragile. But she wasn't. Appearances can be deceptive, and that was never more accurate than in the case of Anne Francis.

She was tough, and she could be skeptical. In "The After Hours," the episode of the Twilight Zone that first aired on this night in 1960, her character observed that the elevator that was taking her to a department store's ninth floor (which, as it turned out, didn't exist) was empty, save for her and the elevator attendant (they still had elevator attendants in 1960) even though the lobby had been crowded with shoppers wanting to be taken to the upper floors.

She was told that the elevator in which she was riding was an express elevator that only took customers to the ninth floor, where special items were available. Didn't really seem like the item she sought — a gold thimble — was so special, but she had told the attendant that it was advertised.

She was able to rationalize that ... but rationalizing things became progressively more difficult.

She became aware of strangers — apparently department store employees — who knew her by name (Marsha). And then she learned from the store's manager that the store had no ninth floor. Spooky, huh? Spooked Marsha so much she had to lie down in an office and slept through the store's closing. When she woke up, she was locked in.

So she went looking for a way out.

Then she became aware of people gathering around her — disembodied voices that seemed to be coming from the mannequins who could be seen throughout the store.

In the world of the department store, the mannequins had their own world, and each month one of them left the store to live in the world of the humans. It was like a little vacation.

Only Marsha had forgotten that she was a mannequin on holiday and that her time in the outside world had expired. She hadn't recognized the mannequins she encountered in the store — and her tardiness in returning had delayed the next mannequin's departure.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Marsha?" another mannequin asked Francis after her character remembered everything and the other mannequins said goodbye to the mannequin whose turn it was to live with the "outsiders," as they were called. "Was it fun?"

"Ever so much fun," she replied with a smile. "Ever so much fun."

And the mannequins assumed their natural positions.

Wednesday, June 03, 2015

On Being a Non-Conformist

"In the parlance of the 20th century, this is an oddball. His name is James B.W. Bevis, and his tastes lean toward stuffed animals, zither music, professional football, Charles Dickens, moose heads, carnivals, dogs, children and young ladies. Mr. Bevis is accident prone, a little vague, a little discombobulated, with a life that possesses all the security of a floating crap game. But this can be said of our Mr. Bevis: without him, without his warmth, without his kindness, the world would be a considerably poorer place, albeit perhaps a little saner."

Opening narration

It is fair to say that James B.W. Bevis (played by Orson Bean) was eccentric. It is also fair to say it was hard for him to find his niche. When first we met him, he was about to be fired from his 11th job in 18 months.

It would, likewise, be fair to say that, if Mr. Bevis didn't have bad luck, he'd have no luck at all. After he had packed his belongings and was about to put them in the back seat of his 1924 Rickenbacker, the jalopy was pulled away by a car whose back bumper had become entangled with the Rickenbacker's front one — and it wound up on its side following a traffic accident.

Somehow, Mr. Bevis got back to his home — except it wasn't his home anymore. He found the landlady carrying his belongings to the curb.

Mr. Bevis had no other place to go so he went to a bar — where he could look in a mirror and see his guardian angel sitting in a booth, but he couldn't see him when he looked directly at the booth.

Don't worry. Bevis was baffled, too — until the guardian angel explained it to him:

"Several hundred years ago, one of your ancestors performed an act of great courage. Now, part of his reward was to have a guardian angel assigned to one of his descendants in each generation. Current subject: James B.W. Bevis."

He went on to explain that it was his job to "watch over" Mr. Bevis, and he had been brought there by the events that had unfolded that day. He told Mr. Bevis that he could reverse the outcome of the day for him.

And he did. But it just didn't set well with Mr. Bevis. It wasn't who he was. In order for the day to turn out differently, he had to be different. He had to dress differently. He couldn't have a cluttered desk or play football with the kids on his street. He couldn't drive a 1924 Rickenbacker anymore.

He had to stop liking zither music and building model ships and the rest of it. He had to stop being himself.

And he wouldn't hear of it.

So his guardian angel restored his old life — with the original outcomes of each scenario. No job. No home. No car.

But James B.W. Bevis wasn't beaten. He resolved to find a new apartment and a new job and resume building a model ship he had been working on.

It was a nice examination of the life of a non–conformist.

Wednesday, May 06, 2015

A Different Drummer

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.

"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.

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.

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.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Be Careful What You Wish For

Rocky (Larry Blyden): If I gotta stay here another day, I'm gonna go nuts! Look, look. I don't belong in heaven — see? I wanna go to the other place.

Mr. Pip (Sebastian Cabot): Heaven? Whatever gave you the idea you were in heaven, Mr. Valentine? This *is* the other place!

In the episode of the Twilight Zone that first aired 55 years ago tonight, a bad guy (Larry Blyden) died in a shootout with police, then awoke in the afterlife, in a place where his every wish was granted. Sebastian Cabot was there, and he introduced himself as the bad guy's "guide" whose primary mission was to make the bad guy comfortable.

Things got a little too comfortable for Rocky, though, and he started shooting at Mr. Pip, but even though he was firing from point–blank range, none of his bullets struck Mr. Pip.

That was the point where he realized that he was in the afterlife, and he began asking for all the things that he had dreamed of when he was living, all the things he had believed would make his life perfect — money, fancy clothes, a luxurious apartment, beautiful women. Even though he was dead, he was going to live the high life.

Mr. Pip also arranged for him to win at all the games of chance he had played on earth and lost — only this time, he won. Every time.

All that should have made him happy, but it didn't. Knowing things were set up — with games of chance, with women — robbed them of something. A mistake had been made somewhere, he thought. He didn't belong in heaven.

Then he rationalized it: There must have been something really good that he did that made up for everything else. Otherwise, he simply didn't belong in heaven. That was for Sunday School teachers and the like. (Well, Mr. Pip acknowledged that there were some schoolteachers there ...)

It really began to mess with his mind. What could he have done? And when had he done something good? How could he find out?

Mr. Pip suggested the Hall of Records, so they went there to find the answer. But the answers they found only raised more questions in Rocky's mind. Rocky realized that, from a young age to the time he died, he had been a bad guy — killing small animals when he was a child, stealing from local merchants, organizing a street gang, then graduating to more serious crimes as he got older.

It was truly mystifying to him, and he found himself being bored with winning all the time and having beautiful women around, knowing it had all been arranged.

He told Mr. Pip that he didn't believe he belonged there. He said he didn't belong in heaven. "I wanna go to the other place."

And Mr. Pip, in the episode's punchline, replied, "This is the other place!" And he began to laugh in a way you never heard Mr. French laugh.

Moral of the story? Be careful what you wish for.

Monday, February 09, 2015

Joanne Woodward Got One of the First Stars on Hollywood's Walk of Fame 55 Years Ago

Fifty–five years ago today, the official groundbreaking ceremony was held for the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The first star to be dedicated on the popular tourist destination belonged to Joanne Woodward, Academy Award winner for "The Three Faces of Eve."

Well, actually, that is what is said, but it isn't really true. Woodward was one of eight people who originally had stars on the Walk of Fame. The first star placed on the walk was for director Stanley Kramer. Nothing special should be read into that. It is my understanding that a block of more than 1,500 stars was designated, and Kramer's was merely the first to be created. Woodward was the first to pose with her star, though, which is located on Hollywood Boulevard.

Woodward's late husband, actor Paul Newman, is on the Walk of Fame, too.

It is my understanding that more than 2,500 stars are on the Walk of Fame now. Not all of them belong to movie stars, of course. Some are entertainers from TV, others from radio, still others from recorded music and/or the theater. Some, like Gene Autry, had multiple stars along the walk.

And there are special stars awarded to those who have distinguished themselves in other fields — for example, the crew of Apollo 11, the first mission to the moon, and boxer Muhammad Ali.

Former movie star Ronald Reagan is the only U.S. president on the Walk of Fame.