Turning to the Bard

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I like comedy.

Given a choice, I would prefer to watch a sitcom on TV than any other kind of show. Being a writer myself, I appreciate the well–crafted dialogue that is the hallmark of truly great comedy. But if the show is not a sitcom and it tries to do a crossover, it usually falls flat.

That was the problem for Twilight Zone on a few occasions. It was designed to be a dramatic program, and its comedy episodes generally did not work. A case in point is "The Bard," which first aired 55 years ago tomorrow night.

It was written by series creator Rod Serling and served as the finale for the fourth season. It was also Twilight Zone's final one–hour episode; the fifth season marked a return to the half–hour format. As I have mentioned on this blog, there were some excellent episodes in the one–hour format. "The Bard" was not one of them.

Jack Weston, whose work I usually enjoy, was a streetcar conductor–turned–aspiring TV screenwriter whose efforts kept getting rejected by TV executives. He was a shameless — and talentless — self–promoter who jumped at a chance to write a screenplay about black magic — even though he had no knowledge of black magic.

To make up for this deficiency he went to a bookstore in search of a book about black magic — and one literally flew off the shelves. It was loaded with spells, and Weston took it home with him. With the help of the book, Weston conjured up William Shakespeare (John Williams), who offered his services, and Weston took him up on it, intending to pass off Shakespeare's work as his own.

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Well, that was the plot in a nutshell.

Weston's play was accepted for production on a weekly TV playhouse program, and he was invited to appear on a program that featured all the hottest names in the industry.

But there were problems afoot, chiefly with Shakespeare, who resented not receiving credit for his considerable contributions. He agreed to stay until he had had a chance to assess the performances of the cast in a rehearsal the next day.

One of those cast members was Burt Reynolds.

Reynolds is known today as a movie actor, but in 1963 his experience was exclusively in television. His was not a new face — but it was a somewhat familiar face, having appeared in nearly two dozen TV series, almost always as a guest star.

He was a guest star in "The Bard," playing — fittingly — an actor named Rocky Rhodes, and he kept making noises about his "motivation."

It was all too much for Shakespeare, who decked Rhodes with a right cross and walked out on the rehearsal.

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That was a bit awkward for Weston, who had already been given his next assignment — an extensive program on American history. To meet it he conjured up several figures from American history — folks like Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin, Pocahontas and others.

Putting Some Jam on the Bread

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Andy (Andy Griffith): They fired the gun, and the shot was so loud it was heard clear around the world.

Barney (Don Knotts): Oh, get out.

Andy: It's a fact. That's the way this country started. You read the book.

Barney: What book?

Opie (Ron Howard): Yeah, what book? Where'd you get that story, Pa?

Andy: Oh, your history book.

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Coming from a family of teachers as I did (and having done some teaching myself), I always appreciated the episode of the Andy Griffith Show that first aired on this night in 1963, "Andy Discovers America."

I enjoyed it for the same reason I enjoy any segment of a TV program or a movie that demonstrates the great creativity that is required to be a successful teacher.

Most teachers don't measure success the way people in other professions do. For them success is measured by how many students absorb the knowledge they have to give, not by how much money they make.

For example, I always enjoy an episode of WKRP in Cincinnati in which disc jockey Venus Flytrap, whose background was always a little murky and who was said to have been a teacher at one time in his life, offered to talk to the son of the radio station's cleaning woman. This young man, who was making a lot of money with a street gang, was thinking of quitting school, and Venus had to convince him that education was worthwhile.

Venus concluded the young man felt that school had conquered him and that he craved the feeling he got from conquest outside the classroom. Venus' challenge was to make the young man believe he could master education. They made a deal — if Venus could convince him in two minutes that he could conquer school instead of believing it had conquered him, he wouldn't quit. Venus proceeded to explain the atom to the young man in terms he could understand, and he stayed in school.

Andy's challenge in "Andy Discovers America" wasn't exactly like Venus', but it required the same kind of outside–the–box creativity.

Opie (Ron Howard) and his buddies were rebelling against their new teacher, Old Lady Crump, and her history assignments, and Andy commiserated with them, but there was a misunderstanding. Opie and the boys thought he was giving them permission to not study history, and that led to a classroom confrontation in which Miss Crump (the first of many appearances on the show by Aneta Corsaut) doubled the boys' homework.

In retaliation they pledged not to do it.

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She and Andy met for the first time when Miss Crump came to the sheriff's office to complain that his comments, however misunderstood, had set her back. When she took the job, she had found her new students to be woefully behind where they should be, and she had attempted to bring them up to speed by applying a little extra pressure. Her efforts had been showing some positive movement when this had come up.

Not long after, the boys told Andy that it appeared Miss Crump would be leaving, perhaps before the next week began.

Andy realized what he had done, and it was clear he was looking for a solution to the problem. Then it came to him. He told the boys he was glad they wouldn't have to learn "all that dull stuff about Indians and redcoats and cannons and guns and muskets and stuff."

That didn't sound like history to the boys. It sounded like adventure stories.

And Andy got the hook in them when he mentioned the gun that fired a shot heard around the world.

He got the boys back on track, to Miss Crump's great surprise when she convened what she believed would be her last class day. After the class had said the Pledge of Allegiance, she asked the boys if they ever heard those words or knew how the country began — and she was pleasantly shocked when the boys knew what to say.

And she made a return trip to the sheriff's office to express her gratitude — and to find out what he had told the boys.

Andy confessed that he didn't know what to tell them, and he didn't think what he said would hold up under scrutiny in court. He said he just told them a story and put "a little extra jam on the bread."

That, it seems to me, is the essence of great teaching — putting a little extra jam on the bread.

Those who are great teachers, like those who are great at anything, can make it look effortless. But appearances can be deceptive.

It reminds me of a story about Johnny Carson, who believed so strongly that the audience deserved fresh material each and every day that he arranged for guest hosts to take over his late–night program when he went on vacation rather than run previous programs. Few, if any, late–night hosts have had the courage to do that.

On one such occasion, Carson arranged for a new guest host to fill in for him when he was out for a day or two. During his absence, he watched the program. The new guest host had not prepared adequately, thinking it would be a breeze, and he bombed.

Afterward, Carson called the guest host and gently observed, "It ain't as easy as it looks, is it, kid?"

Teaching definitely isn't as easy as it looks, but I always thought Andy would have been a great teacher. Jam can make even stale bread taste good.

A Nose for News

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One of the things I enjoy doing when I watch episodes of the Twilight Zone is to look for people who were famous at the time or became famous later on.

Robert Redford, for example, appeared on the Twilight Zone early in his career. So did Dennis Hopper and Robert Duvall.

But not all the guest stars were up–and–comers. Some were already famous, like Burgess Meredith, who didn't appear in the most episodes, but the ones he was in have a tendency to be lumped among the series' best.

With the exception of the one that first aired on this day in 1963, "Printer's Devil."

Meredith appeared in four episodes in all, and "Printer's Devil" was the only one made in the one–hour format of the fourth season. Is that why fans routinely rate it fourth of the four episodes Meredith made? And is that why it seldom comes close to making the top 10 episodes on anyone's list? Was it too long?

I don't know, but I do know that I have always liked "Printer's Devil." It was a rare example of a Twilight Zone episode that benefited from the one–hour format. The episodes that were made in that season frequently seemed to have filler in them that added little to the story but helped to fill the time. There wasn't much filler in "Printer's Devil." That isn't a surprise, given that Charles Beaumont wrote it.

Maybe I like it because it is about journalism, and it had nice little touches that few people outside the Fourth Estate would recognize. Like, for example, the source of the title of the episode.

Do you know what a printer's devil is (or was)? A printer's devil was a printer's apprentice, sort of a go–fer. Some pretty noteworthy fellows got their starts as printer's devils when they were young — Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain.

I don't know the exact origin of the name. No one knows for certain. There are several theories about that, none of which has ever been established. But that really isn't important. You already know enough to appreciate the play on words.

Meredith played Mr. Smith, a linotype operator/reporter who came along at just the moment when the editor of a struggling newspaper was about to commit suicide — and saved the day with his scoops. All he had to do was start setting the type and whatever he wrote came to pass. That's a pretty neat talent, one that could come in handy at a newspaper, especially in 1963 when technology was not as advanced as it is today.

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"Some people have a green thumb. I have a green nose," Smith said. "Wherever there is news, this old nose smells it."

The editor told him there wasn't much news to sniff out, and Smith replied, "There will be."

No one in the story had figured out the truth yet, but you may have — Smith was the devil. (OK, the title of the episode sort of gave that one away, huh?) And he engineered a series of scoops that tripled the newspaper's circulation in a couple of weeks.

The competitor was hurting and made an offer for the resurgent paper, but it was rejected.

Then the competitor's building burned down. It was the biggest scoop yet.

And the editor's girlfriend was suspicious.

The editor had figured out Mr. Smith's true identity and had signed a document that turned over his soul in exchange for Smith's continued services.

After he fired three shots at Smith from point–blank range and did no damage whatsoever.

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Now, I have never been in a situation like that, even after many years in newsrooms, but I would guess that the editor figured if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Not an injudicious conclusion.

But it wasn't very good for his love life.

I don't want to spoil the finish if you haven't seen it. I will say that I thought it could have been a lot better — but that took nothing away from the quality of the rest of the episode.

And Robert Sterling deserved praise for his performance as the editor.

It's a Small World

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It's probably hard for 21st–century viewers to imagine Robert Duvall playing a timid character, but that is exactly what he did in the episode of Twilight Zone that premiered on this night in 1963, "Miniature."

It was still early in Duvall's career. He had made his movie debut the year before in "To Kill a Mockingbird," and he had made guest appearances on TV series for a few years. Duvall hadn't really been typecast yet, I suppose, unless it was as odd characters, and his character in "Miniature" certainly was odd.

He lived with a domineering mother, and he had just lost his job. I'm sure you know the type — thoroughly bewildered by the world around him, a misfit. You've probably seen such a person in movies and on TV shows hundreds of times and encountered them in your daily life on countless occasions. Perhaps you are such a person.

I would call Duvall's character zombielike, but he didn't fit the zombie image that we have today. Zombies weren't really new in 1963 — they had existed in literature for a long time — but they were sort of new to the screen, both large and small. At least, they were still evolving, but they probably didn't achieve the form we know today until "Night of the Living Dead" was released a few years later.

Duvall's character didn't stagger around in a kind of daze, but he might as well have. He was totally lacking in emotion no matter what happened. He lost his job; his boss told him that he didn't fit in. No response, which proved his boss' point. He was never unpleasant; he was always polite, but he showed no signs of being an ordinary guy. He never smiled or interacted with his co–workers. He was a square peg in a round hole.

He came home to his mother and her smothering ways. Again no response. He was never unpleasant to her, either. In fact, he showed no emotion of any kind.

Such a person usually has someone who tries to help in some way. In Duvall's case it was his sister (Barbara Barrie). She wanted to help him find a nice girl and get married — and move out of his mother's house. But he stayed where he was.

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That didn't mean he didn't crave an escape — and he found a suitably unlikely one in the Twilight Zone.

Actually, it was in a museum he frequented, not in search of permanent escape so much as temporary solitude. There he found a dollhouse with the tiny figure of a woman (Claire Griswold) seated behind a piano. The figure seemed to be moving, and music could be heard.

But a guard assured him that the figure couldn't possibly have moved. It was carved out of wood.

He returned to the museum the next day and made a beeline for the dollhouse. But everything was changed. The woman was no longer seated behind the piano. She was upstairs, preparing for an evening out with a male figure. Duvall watched the scene play out as the two went out the door and disappeared from view.

Duvall kept returning to the museum and even began talking to the figure. She never responded to him, but he kept talking. And he observed.

His family became suspicious, and his sister followed him one day to see what he was doing. She found him at the dollhouse. When she got him away from the museum, she persuaded him to go on a blind date, but it didn't work out.

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The museum guard was willing to overlook Duvall's idiosyncratic behavior, but then one day Duvall saw the male figure being abusive to the female figure, and he shattered the glass that separated him from the dollhouse. That was too much, and Duvall was taken in for medical treatment. His psychiatrist (William Windom, who also made his movie debut in "To Kill a Mockingbird"), tried to convince him that he had been having hallucinations, but Duvall insisted that wasn't true.

Eventually, though, Duvall's character concluded that the way to be released would be to give the psychiatrist what he wanted so he did what he had to do to convince the doctor that he was cured.

But what Duvall wanted was to go back to the museum, which he did at his first opportunity.

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He hid in the museum until it closed, then he came out from hiding and went straight to the dollhouse.

By that time, his family had figured out what was going on, and they went to the museum with the psychiatrist in search of Duvall. But they never found him.

The guard did, but he didn't say anything — because he saw Duvall in the dollhouse with the female he had tried to defend, and he knew no one would believe him.

It was perhaps the most moving episode in Twilight Zone's five–season run — and a great example of Duvall's remarkable acting range.

A Flying Dutchman of the Space Age

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In 1993, "Groundhog Day" was a truly clever premise for a movie.

But it wasn't truly original.

With apologies to Twilight Zone creator Rod Serling, I would submit for your approval the suggestion that Twilight Zone explored the concept of re–living something repeatedly less than a week after Groundhog Day in 1963 — 55 years ago today, in fact — in the episode "Death Ship."

It wasn't as clear in "Death Ship" as it was in "Groundhog Day." But that is how Twilight Zone operated. Viewers frequently had to wait until the very end to understand what had been going on.

A three–man crew (Jack Klugman, Ross Martin and Fred Beir) was on a mission to explore space in search of planets to analyze and determine if they could be colonized. In the course of carrying out this mission, the astronauts spotted a shining light from a planet. The possibility existed that the planet might be more than merely capable of supporting life; it might actually be doing so, and the astronauts decided to land on the planet and investigate.

On the surface of the planet, they discovered a crashed spaceship had been responsible for the sparkle they had seen from space. The spaceship looked remarkably like their own. Upon closer inspection, they determined that it was a ship from Earth — and they decided to enter it and assess the damage.

When they did so, they had a revelation — the ship was theirs, and their lifeless bodies were inside.

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It goes without saying that this was an unnerving experience, and the crewmen were understandably shaken by it. But the commander (Klugman) kept his head and insisted that there had to be a logical explanation for what they had seen.

The commander concluded that they had bent time in such a way as to peek into the future. He reasoned that they could escape their fate by remaining on the planet and not going back into space, thus averting the entire crash. The crewmen grudgingly accepted the commander's version of events.

At that point, Beir's character was transported to a country lane on Earth where he met up with people from his past who were known to be dead. He ran to the home in which he and his wife had lived, but he found no one there. All he found was a telegram reporting his death.

Klugman brought him back and told him he had been having an hallucination.

Martin was having an hallucination of his own. In his hallucination, he was reunited with his wife and daughter, who had been dead for some time. Klugman intervened in that one as well.

But his theory of what had happened had changed. He believed the planet was inhabited by creatures with telepathic power but little else they could use against intruders. To avoid being colonized, they were using this power to plant terrifying visions in the minds of the astronauts to discourage them from recommending the planet for colonization.

He also believed that they should return to space. That would break the spell. So that is what they did — except when they returned to the planet, they still found the wreckage of the spaceship there. The crew members were convinced that they were dead, but Klugman wasn't, and he insisted that they would repeat the procedure as many times as it took for him to figure out the truth.

Thus the similarity between "Death Ship" and "Groundhog Day." in "Groundhog Day," the audience actually saw Bill Murray re–living the same day, and the humor (and, at times, poignance) was in the variations. In "Death Ship," the repetition was not seen, only anticipated — and there was nothing funny about it.

The first time I saw this episode, I had high hopes for it when I saw in the credits that the story was written by Richard Matheson, and he didn't let me down.

Not only was Matheson the writer responsible for "Death Ship," but he also wrote more than a dozen of the Twilight Zone's top episodes. Most were from the original series although Matheson did write an episode in the mid–'80s series reboot as well as some work for the 1983 Twilight Zone movie.

Whenever I see Matheson's name in the credits — for Twilight Zone or anything else — I am always assured of the quality of what I am about to see. His stories never had wasteful filler, which was frequently a problem for the one–hour episodes of the Twilight Zone in its fourth season.

If you are a fan of the Twilight Zone, you are sure to recognize some of Matheson's episodes. Probably the most famous was "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet," in which a young William Shatner played a man recovering from a nervous breakdown who believed he saw a monster tampering with the wing of the airplane in which he was traveling.

My favorite Matheson–penned episode was "A World of His Own," the finale of the first season.

A Stop in Peaceful Valley

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"You've seen them. Little towns, tucked away far from the main roads. You've seen them, but have you thought about them? What do the people in these places do? Why do they stay? Philip Redfield never thought about them. If his dog hadn't gone after the cat, he would have driven through Peaceful Valley and put it out of his mind forever. But he can't do that now because, whether he knows it or not, his friend's shortcut has led him right into the capital of the Twilight Zone."

Opening narration

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In the episode of Twilight Zone that was first shown on this night in 1963, "Valley of the Shadow," a reporter (Ed Nelson) got lost and found himself in a small, out–of–the–way town called Peaceful Valley just as his car was about to run out of gas. When he stopped to get more fuel, his dog jumped from the car to chase a cat that was being held by a little girl. The girl pulled out a palm–sized remote control–like device (many years before such devices existed), pointed it at the dog and made him disappear — and the odyssey began.

A good reporter is always in an inquisitive mood, and an already–suspicious Nelson began nosing around Peaceful Valley. What he found only made him more suspicious. The town's hotel supposedly had no rooms available yet all the keys still hung on the wall. The restaurant was closed. The residents of the town were not friendly.

Well, on that last one there, I can say, having grown up in a small town, that is not terribly unusual. Small–town folks are often suspicious of outsiders and their reasons for being there.

Consequently Nelson didn't receive a lot of cooperation from the town's residents. Well, there was one — a pretty young woman (Natalie Trundy) — who seemed to want to tell him more than she could.

But she didn't.

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What he learned about the town and its strange powers he learned from the town's elders.

Perhaps the most important thing he learned was that the gadget the little girl used was a device that could manipulate atoms. It could make things disappear, disassemble and then reassemble people, animals and things. It was a limitless supplier of food, clothing, all the necessities of life. Everyone in this little town seemed to have one.

This device could also heal and even raise from the dead.

When Nelson tried to escape the town, his car collided with an invisible wall, and his dog was thrown from the car and killed. A rather dazed Nelson was led away from the wreckage by onlookers who thought he should be examined by a doctor, but one of the onlookers stayed behind. He pulled out his device and aimed it at the dog, and the animal was instantly revived.

The device also had incredible potential to eliminate human suffering.

To demonstrate this, the mayor of the town stabbed one of his associates in the chest with a letter opener, then calmly aimed the device at the victim while Nelson watched. The blood and wound disappeared as if nothing had happened.

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Nelson couldn't believe the town refused to share this technology with a world that sorely needed it.

The town's elders argued that if the outside world obtained the technology, it would not be used for good but would be exploited for evil purposes. They said this technology had been given to them by a "great man of science" who came from some distant planet, and they would not share it until "men learn the ways of peace."

Nelson could not be allowed to leave so the initial plan was to execute him. But if they did that would they be any better than the outside world, resorting to violence to achieve a goal? They modified their sentence, giving him the option of remaining in Peaceful Valley for the rest of his life — and he chose that over execution.

But he yearned for freedom, and he and Trundy made a break for it one evening. He stopped at the town hall to use the technology to build a handgun, then grabbed the book containing all the equations for the technology so he could share it with the outside world. In breaking into the box that contained the book, though, he triggered an alarm, summoning the elders, who tried to stop him and were shot.

Then he and Trundy left the town, but once they were outside the city limits, he looked at the book — only to find blank pages. The next thing he knew he was back at the town hall and the elders were alive and well. They told him it had all been a test, and he had proven what they expected — that the first use of the technology by an outsider would be for violent purposes. He would have to be eliminated.

But the elimination did not take the form he expected. In the blink of an eye, he was back at the gas station where the story began.

And perhaps that was the way it should be. The elders had explained that the core of the technology was based on time reversal. Perhaps that is what they did to Nelson — reversed time. That would certainly be preferable to ending his life.

But was all that had gone before a dream or reality? At the end of the episode, Nelson and the viewers saw Trundy with what appeared to be tears in her eyes. That strongly implied that it had been real.

This episode was part of the Syfy Channel's annual New Year's Eve Twilight Zone marathon recently. Inclusion in that marathon can be misleading; there were only 18 hour–long episodes of the Twilight Zone, and few are seen in syndication.

If you do get the chance to see this one, though, watch for a pre–Star Trek James Doohan (known to Trekkies as "Scotty"). He played the father of that little girl.

Taking It Easy

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Mr. Tucker (Robert Emhardt): You people are living in another world!

Andy (Andy Griffith): Easy, Mr. Tucker.

Mr. Tucker: This is the 20th century. Don't you realize that? The whole world is living in a desperate space age. Men are orbiting the Earth. International television has been developed. And here, a whole town is standing still because two old women's feet fall asleep!

Barney (Don Knotts): I wonder what causes that.

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It is reasonable to believe that people have the same priorities, whether they live in cities or small towns.

After all, deep down we all want the same things, right? Sure, we're all individuals, and we differ from each other in rather small ways, but, as President Kennedy said in 1963, "In the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet, we all breathe the same air, we all cherish our children's futures, and we are all mortal."

You could add that we all have the same basic needs — food, clothing and shelter — that must be provided.

It was probably a cliche 55 years ago to speak about the fast pace of the modern world.

How long have people been saying there is too much to be done and not enough time to do it? As long as I can remember — and almost certainly well before that. Heck, the cavemen probably complained that they didn't have enough time to hunt for game to feed their families and invent the wheel.

Yet as basic as those priorities were, individual cavemen almost just as surely had their own priorities. Then as now I'm sure there were those who had no dependents and, with only themselves to support, could devote more time to invention.

Such distinctions are not confined to city and country, but sometimes it helps to narrow it down to that.

The episode of the Andy Griffith Show that premiered on this night in 1963, "Man in a Hurry," was about a big–city businessman, Mr. Tucker (Robert Emhardt), whose car broke down outside of Mayberry on a Sunday. He needed to be in Charlotte the next day so he walked to town in search of someone who could fix his car.

He soon discovered what anyone who ever spent much time in a small country town could have told him — it is almost impossible to get anything done in such a place on a Sunday. Or at least it was. Times have changed, and even small towns don't observe a day of rest anymore.

But Mayberry was always a casual town.

In Mayberry Wally's filling station was open — but just barely. Gomer (the recently deceased Jim Nabors) was there, but he only put gas in cars. Wally handled engine repairs, but he didn't make repairs on Sundays.

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In a desperate attempt to do something, Mr. Tucker stole the truck at Wally's filling station but was apprehended shortly thereafter.

Andy let it slide because he understood Mr. Tucker's predicament, but he urged the businessman to come home with him, have something to eat and wait until the next day to get something done. Mr. Tucker grudgingly agreed to go back to Andy's house, but he insisted he wasn't hungry and continued to try to summon help by phone.

Unfortunately for Mr. Tucker the local phone lines were tied up on Sunday afternoons by two elderly sisters who lived in different towns and found it difficult to get around. So they were allowed to talk for hours on Sunday. (While this sort of thing is unheard–of today, my guess is this was in the days of party lines, which were pretty common in country towns at one time. For that matter they were also in use in many college dormitories.)

Their conversation was hilarious. Mr. Tucker wanted to get a call out to someone — anyone — in the outside world, but the old ladies kept going off on tangents.

First, they spoke at length about feet falling asleep. Then, when Mr. Tucker tried to interrupt and identified himself as Mr. Tucker from Charlotte, the ladies began speaking of a Charlotte Tucker they had known. Apparently, she married a fellow who fell down a lot.

Country folks and city folks just don't see things the same.

But somewhere buried deep inside Mr. Tucker was some country sensibility, maybe some leftover from his childhood. When he stepped out on Andy's porch and found Andy and Barney (Don Knotts) singing "The Church in the Wildwood," they tapped into that hidden sensibility, and he sang softly along with them.

It was a nice change of pace for Emhardt, a character actor who was frequently cast in villainous roles. Sometimes he played corrupt businessmen. The audience never found out if he was a corrupt businessman in this episode, but we got a glimpse — incomplete though it was — into his character's background in that scene on Andy's front porch.

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Obviously somewhere in Mr. Tucker's past was a little brown church in the vale — and a more relaxed way of life — and the memory of it had a calming effect on him.

He got worked up again when Gomer showed up and announced that Wally had come to the station after all and they had towed Mr. Tucker's car in. Gomer assured Mr. Tucker they would fix it that day.

And they did.

But somewhere that deep–inside sensibility that got tapped earlier made Mr. Tucker realize that the slower pace of country life wasn't such a bad thing, either — that stopping and smelling the roses was a good thing to do from time to time. He decided he would do precisely that and opted to spend the night in Mayberry.

He would get to sleep in Opie's room. That meant Opie (Ron Howard) would sleep on the ironing board. Mr. Tucker thought that sounded awful, but Opie disagreed. He called it "adventure sleepin'."

Folks see things differently in the country than they do in the city.

That's still a pretty valuable thing to know.

A Second Chance at an Imperfect Life

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The original Twilight Zone ran for five seasons, and episodes were 30 minutes long in four of them. But in the fourth season, episodes ran for a full hour.

In September 1962 Twilight Zone was replaced on the CBS schedule by an hour–long program — then Twilight Zone was brought back in midseason to replace the replacement. For the remainder of the 1962–63 season, episodes would have to be one hour in length to fill the time slot, which did not sit well with the writers. Creator Rod Serling said the series was "the perfect half–hour show" and warned that the quality would be adversely affected by the expansion.

The quality of most of the episodes was hurt, but there were exceptions. Such an exception could be found in the episode that heralded the program's return to the prime time schedule 55 years ago tonight, "In His Image" starring an up–and–coming George Grizzard who had appeared on Twilight Zone a few years earlier.

Grizzard's character was returning to his hometown, accompanied by his fiancée. They had known each other for only four days; nevertheless they fell in love and became engaged, and Grizzard was eager to show her his hometown.

The only problem — and it was a doozy — was that nothing was like he remembered — not people, not places, not anything.

His home was occupied by someone he had never seen before, and the occupant claimed to have lived there for several years. People he thought he knew turned out to be names from the distant past; some were dead, including one person with whom he believed he had shared a meal less than a week earlier. The local college where he believed he was employed had never existed.

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Then when he went in search of his parents' graves, he found a different couple buried there.

In an inexplicable homicidal rage, Grizzard ran off his girlfriend — and then he was struck by a car while he stood in the road. That was when he began to discover the truth about himself. He wasn't killed, but the impact caused a cut in his arm that wasn't bleeding. When he peeled back the skin, he found wires and rods, not flesh and bone.

Concluding that the name on the tombstone held the key to his problems, Grizzard looked up the name in the phone book and went to the address he found there. Its occupant looked exactly like him.

That person held the answers that Grizzard was looking for. He had created Grizzard a week earlier, giving him all the qualities that he believed he lacked and sending him out into the world. He had also given him all of his memories of his hometown, but those memories were quite dated. Some of the people were deceased. Some of the buildings no longer existed. Some of the people and places had never existed at all.

The two got into a fight. One survived and left in search of the girlfriend. Turned out that the one who survived was the creator; his creation lay lifeless in his abandoned home.

The creator picked up with the girlfriend where the creation left off — and that may be what I liked best about this episode. For the most part the episode lived up to Twilight Zone's reputation for creepy stories — but at the last minute it became a tale about redemption, loneliness and second chances.

I have always felt that the longer format allowed this story to successfully pull off the old switcheroo. I didn't think it could be done as effectively in 30 minutes.

Perhaps the one false note in the episode came at the beginning when Grizzard encountered — and eventually killed — an old woman who wanted to save his soul. Its relevance to the rest of the story was never clearly established. I got the sense that it was largely there to fill time, the writers not being accustomed to writing hour–long scripts, but it did manage to set the table for the primary character's homicidal urges, perhaps an unintended consequence of the creator's attempts to duplicate human life.

OK, some of the shifts in the story were a little too implausible, but it had the twist ending that Twilight Zone fans had come to expect.

"There may be easier ways to self–improvement," Serling said in his closing narration, "but sometimes it happens that the shortest distance between two points is a crooked line — through the Twilight Zone."

Killing Time

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Agatha Christie's "The Clocks" was published 50 years ago today, and it was distinguished by several often unrelated themes.

I guess the title gives away the main theme. In the very first chapter, a stranger was found dead in a room filled with clocks, each with its own significance. All but one were set more than an hour ahead.

Clocks continued to play a rather important role in the story (although I thought it was rather clumsily woven into the resolution of the mystery), so much so that I recall wondering, as I read it for the first time, if Christie had been influenced by the classic movie "High Noon," in which clocks in every home and every place of business ratcheted up the tension.

That would go a long way toward explaining some things, like the presence of a rather obvious homage to Hitchcock's "Rear Window" late in the book — in the course of the investigation, a young girl was questioned. She had a broken leg, which kept her confined inside where she watched the neighbors from a window. Not knowing who they were, she gave them names based on her observations.

The detective of record was Hercule Poirot, and his work on this case was noteworthy because he never went to any of the crime scenes nor did he question any of the witnesses. It was entirely an intellectual exercise for Poirot, who was old and retired (although he appeared in three more Christie novels before his celebrated final case, "Curtain," was published more than a decade later) but eager to assume the role of armchair detective.

Poirot shared the story's spotlight with a British intelligence agent who did much of the actual legwork — including interviewing the girl with the broken leg — but he shared all his notes with Poirot.

There was another interesting angle to the story. Poirot actually discussed his opinions of other fictional detectives and their authors, about many of whom modern readers know little or nothing — other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Christie was careful, I noticed, not to mention her contemporaries.

There were two somewhat interlocking stories being told — the murder mystery and a spy story — and both originated in the same house although they had precious little to do with each other beyond that.

There were other times when Christie tried to merge a murder mystery with an espionage thriller, and the end result usually didn't completely succeed as she probably hoped it would. "The Clocks" did not prove to be an exception to that.

In general, though, "The Clocks" was successful as a murder mystery, and the reviews, while mixed, were pretty good. Not bad for a 73–year–old writer.

The Time Mister Ed Met the Dodgers

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Mr. Ed was aired before my time, really, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy watching reruns of those shows.

One of my favorites was first broadcast 50 years ago tonight — perhaps it is one of my favorites because I am a Dodgers fan, and Mr. Ed was a Dodgers fan, too. Anyway, in the episode that aired 50 years ago tonight, he paid a visit to the Dodgers and their then–manager Leo Durocher, who is often credited with saying "Nice guys finish last."

(I don't know if Durocher ever actually said it — or if he was the first to say it. I just know that I often hear it said that he said it, and sometimes I hear it said that he was the first to say it.)

Alan Young, who played Wilbur Post, was about the only series regular — other than Mister Ed himself — who was featured in the episode. I don't think Connie Hines, who played Carol Post, was in that episode. If she was, she didn't have much of a presence in it.

But she never did have much of a presence in the series, to be honest. Ed only spoke face to face to Wilbur — sometimes, he spoke to people on the phone or when there was some kind of barrier between them, like a wall — and their conversations were the foundation for the show.

The actor who played Wilbur's neighbor died a month earlier, and his character had not been replaced. His wife was still on the show for awhile, but she had a diminished role. She usually only showed up when Carol was around, but if Carol wasn't featured in this episode, there probably wouldn't have been much of a reason for her to be seen, either.

The episode was the revival of a dormant theme in the series. In the second season (1961–1962), Mister Ed "met" George Burns and Clint Eastwood. Then, in the 1963–1964 season premiere, he got to meet Durocher and some of the players for his favorite baseball team.

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It's been awhile since I've seen the episode, but, as I recall, Ed was watching a Dodgers game on TV, and he noticed some things that the Dodgers were doing wrong — on the mound, at the plate, in the field — and placed a phone call to the Dodgers to offer some tips (giving his name as Wilbur Post). Come to think of it, I think he made a series of such calls.

Durocher took his advice, it worked, and the Dodgers (who actually did win the National League pennant and swept the New York Yankees in the World Series that year) went on a wild winning streak. In gratitude, Durocher invited Wilbur to visit the team — and maybe provide a few more helpful pointers.

Wilbur, accompanied by Ed, who was his "good luck charm," went to Dodger Stadium. He even got to take a little batting practice.

Really, I believe it's one of the truly funny scenes in American sitcom history. Holding the bat handle in his teeth, Ed stood (on the right side of the plate) while Sandy Koufax delivered the pitch, and Ed drove it into the outfield.

Ed went charging around the bases; none of the infielders challenged him. He turned the corner at third base and headed for home.

"Slide, Ed, slide!" Wilbur shouted out — and, by golly, Mister Ed slid. The terrified catcher climbed halfway up the backstop.

An astonished Durocher said, "That's the smartest horse I ever saw."

"He's not so smart," Wilbur replied. "He forgot to touch second base."

As I say, it's been awhile since I have seen this episode, but, whenever I have seen it, it's been the same for me as it is with a movie I've seen many times before.

I know that scene is coming. But it always makes me laugh, anyway. It makes me laugh in anticipation of it. It makes me laugh when I see it. And I continue to laugh after I've seen it.

It even makes me laugh to think about it when I'm not watching it and I haven't seen it for awhile. Now, that's funny!

'She Loves You' Reaches the Half-Century Mark

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If there is one thing you can say about the Beatles, it is that they were exclusively a band of the 1960s — well, I guess that stopped being completely true when a couple of songs were released in the '90s that combined recordings of the late John Lennon and the three surviving Beatles, but it's mostly true.

Other than that, though, the Beatles simply can't be pigeonholed. They experimented with all sorts of styles and sounds, especially in the last two or three years that they were recording together. They were pioneers, huge influences on the bands that followed, and some of their fans will tell you that is what they liked about the Beatles' recordings. They weren't retreads of things that they had done before.

That may be why their songs still seem fresh, all these decades later. You may know the words to "Come Together," but it still has a contemporary sound, almost as if you are hearing it for the first time.

But that isn't true only of the songs the Beatles recorded in the mid– and late '60s. The early songs have their place in the evolution of pop culture as well.

In the Beatles' early days, though, their songs often were clearly commercial, designed to sell not inspire. It often seems to me that is what most 21st–century critics find objectionable.

Such listeners overlook an important point. You've got to give the people what they want before you can start giving them what you want, and the market for recorded music is controlled, as it always has been, by the folks in their volatile teen years. A catchy tune, a memorable refrain — that was what the public was looking for, and the Beatles supplied it in their early albums.

One such song was the one that was recorded 50 years ago today — "She Loves You."

Since the Beatles broke up, it's seemed to be fashionable to discuss or write about their later songs — "Hey Jude," "Let It Be," "Come Together," etc. — whenever the subject of the Beatles is introduced into the conversation.

Nothing terribly wrong with that except it disregards the early songs that brought the Beatles to America's attention in the first place.

Actually, I guess you could say it was Ed Sullivan who brought the Beatles to America's attention — and the 50th anniversary of that will be coming up in February.

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But it was their music that hooked people. It was unlike anything that had been playing on the radio.

It's also what people were joking about in the mid–'60s. If you watch reruns of the popular TV sitcoms of that decade, you will occasionally encounter jokes about the Beatles. They were the hot group, the leaders of what came to be called the "British invasion" — and, consequently, easy targets for jokes.

One such popular joke was to mistake the group's name for a type of insect.

Another popular angle focused on the simplicity of some of their refrains. The refrain for "She Loves You," for example, was this — "yeah, yeah, yeah!"

When you hear the jokes that were made when "She Loves You" was at the top of the charts, they seem obvious and dated now, but they were real thigh slappers 50 years ago.

I've heard that the Beatles wrote the song after seeing a Roy Orbison concert in England on June 26 — which happened to be the day that John F. Kennedy delivered his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech in Germany.

Shortly before his murder in 1980, John Lennon, in an interview, gave Paul McCartney the credit for the song idea. They had agreed years before to share the songwriting credit on their songs, even if one had contributed much more to the project than the other, but, occasionally, each told the real story behind various songs.

For Lennon, this was one of those times.

And anyone who read the lyrics before hearing the song probably thought it was hopelessly simplistic — but after they heard the song, they were hooked.

I observed recently to a friend of mine that many Beatles songs evoke the sensation of joy, but several of McCartney's songs so relentlessly shove joy down your gullet that you are begging for mercy in no time.

"She Loves You" was an exception to that. It had an infectiousness to it that listeners were powerless to resist.

Still does.

But it could — and can — be tiresome. Hence, I suppose, the jokes about "yeah, yeah, yeah."

But that's a tradeoff I'm willing to accept.

There aren't many jokes anymore about the refrain in "She Loves You," which was released originally as a single and, eventually, was included in compilation albums, most of which (i.e., the Beatles' collection of rarities) were released years after the Beatles broke up.

It does not share the spotlight with a dozen other songs on an album. It does not lean on others, nor does it fly on borrowed wings. It stands alone.

And that makes it a true rarity.

Car Shopping With Barney

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I suppose it was appropriate that the episode of The Andy Griffith Show titled "Barney's First Car" was first aired on April Fool's Day half a century ago.

Because only a fool would make the deal Barney (Don Knotts) made.

He agreed to give his life's savings of $300 (which isn't a whole lot in 2013 but it was a lot in 1963) to a little old lady (delightfully played by Ellen Corby) for her used car. It was the old story — little old lady who supposedly only drove the car to church on Sundays — but, in reality, she was a hustler, and the vehicle she was trying to sell Barney had worn out gears — along with other problems — that, unknown to Barney, had been temporarily restored to their former glory with sawdust in the transmission.

Corby was so convincing she even persuaded gullible Barney that he had the same name as her dear departed husband and, consequently, if Barney bought the car, it would be like someone in the family had it, not a stranger. Andy cautioned Barney to think about it, to at least take the car to a mechanic who would look it over before any money changed hands.

And Corby — in a sly maneuver — suggested the same thing.

But Barney was determined to get a car come hell or high water. Against Andy's advice, Barney bought Corby's story — and the car — and he made plans to take the gang — Andy, Opie, Aunt Bee, Thelma Lou and Goober — for a ride so he could show off his new wheels.

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It was on that ride in the country that the car finally broke down, and Barney had to admit that he had been taken.

And it was after they finally got the car back to Mayberry that Gomer took a look under the hood and discovered all its problems.

That was all the convincing Andy needed, and he and Barney set out to return the car to the little old lady. But it broke down before they could get there.

Andy volunteered to walk back to a store to call Gomer to bring a tow truck, but someone else came upon the scene and, not seeing Andy and Barney asleep in the back seat, hooked up the supposedly abandoned car and towed it to a garage.

The tow truck turned out to be part of Corby's fleet. In a brilliantly funny conclusion, Andy and Barney arrested the gang — but not before Corby tried to bribe Barney with the offer of a used car that he said "sounds like what I've been looking for."

A gem of an episode.

For The Birds

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As I have written here before, I am a great admirer of Alfred Hitchcock's work.

It's something I picked up from my parents. They were Hitchcock fans, too, and they introduced me to many of his best movies.

And a lifetime of watching Hitchcock movies has convinced me that you can learn a lot about a person based on which Hitchcock movie is his/her favorite.

But I'll be darned if I know what it is.

Personally, I'm torn. I really like 'em all, but my very favorites are "North By Northwest" and "Psycho." I can, however, make a case for "Vertigo" or "Rear Window" or "Strangers On A Train." Depending on my mood, I can even make a case for "To Catch A Thief."

Well, I told you I'm a Hitchcock fan!

I know several people who would tell you that the Hitchcock movie that premiered 50 years ago today — "The Birds" — is their favorite.

It's never been my personal favorite. I watched it for the first time when I was about 20, and I thought it was good, but, if anyone had asked me at the time, I would have said that I preferred maybe half a dozen Hitchcock films to that one.

My opinion hasn't really changed over the years, and I have often wondered about why that is so. Here is what I have concluded:

"The Birds" is the only Hitchcock movie I can think of in which the villain is not a human.

That's an important distinction for me. You see, however bizarre their behavior may have been, anything that birds do falls under the heading of natural phenomena in my book.

It is not a conscious choice. Blaming animals for behavior that leads to the loss of human life makes as much sense as blaming a tornado or an earthquake.

Human behavior, on the other hand, frequently is the result of a conscious choice — at some point and on some level.

Well, that's the distinction. And I think it does say something about those who pick "The Birds" as their favorite Hitchcock movie.

But, as I say, I'll be darned if I know what it is.

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I do know, however, that animals and suspense movies are an effective combination.

The shark in "Jaws," after all, was named to the list of the movies' greatest villains by the American Film Institute. "Snakes on a Plane" provided considerable chills for moviegoers as did the dinosaurs in "Jurassic Park."

But those creatures were always menacing in those movies. The only time they were not threatening was when they appeared to be confined.

The birds in "The Birds," though, were docile at the beginning of the movie — and at the end, even when they seemed to have congregated in one spot.

The official story I heard was that "The Birds" was inspired by a novel, and I don't doubt that, but I am inclined to think the reason why Hitchcock was drawn to a story about birds gone wild is because, for the most part, birds are seen as nonthreatening creatures. The same cannot be said of sharks or snakes or even dinosaurs (although dinosaurs disappeared long before man came along).

Nonthreatening creatures that suddenly become threatening seem to be more frightening. Maybe that's because we are taught from an early age that dogs and cats — and birds — are friendly creatures whereas sharks and snakes and bears are hostile. We don't expect dogs or cats — or birds — to be hostile; when they are, we don't know how to react.

I suppose that is particularly true of birds.

As I was writing this, a flock of birds flew past my window. Under ordinary circumstances, I probably wouldn't think twice about that.

But I've been writing about Hitchcock's "The Birds."

Spooky.

Winning the West

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Narrator (Spencer Tracy): This land has a name today and is marked on maps. But the names and the marks and the maps all had to be won, won from nature and from primitive man.

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I don't remember if "How The West Was Won" was the first movie I ever saw at a movie theater.

It might have been. As I have mentioned in this blog before, I grew up in a small town in central Arkansas that had an old–fashioned single–screen movie theater downtown (and a drive–in on the outskirts of town). It wasn't unusual for it to take two or three years — or longer — for first–run movies to arrive in my town.

By that time, of course, they were no longer first–run movies. Many had probably already been shown on TV by the time they made it to my hometown theater.

I have vague memories of seeing "How The West Was Won" — which made its American debut on this date in 1963 (it premiered in the United Kingdom about four months earlier) — on the big screen.

In those days, the theater used to distribute cards that indicated which movies were showing on which days during whichever month it happened to be, accompanied by mini reproductions of the movie posters that were on display in the lobby and outside the theater. "How The West Was Won" had two dozen mug shots of the stars who were featured — and that caught my child's eye.

I was old enough, by the time I saw the movie, to read some, and I remember reading what I could of the card and pointing out the stars with whom I was familiar. My parents were both teachers, and my mother started teaching me the alphabet and how to read before I was in first grade.

I don't remember hearing the word "epic" before I saw "How The West Was Won," but that movie has always been my personal standard for what an epic should be — a big, sprawling movie so big it took three directors, two dozen Hollywood stars and thousands of extras to tell the story of Westward expansion in the 19th century.

And what a story it was.

Oh, sure, it was a sanitized version of American history, glossing over many of the more painful chapters, but it was still a good story. It was so sanitary that children could — and did — watch it without suffering any trauma. And, if the adults in the child's family didn't mind tap dancing around some sticky subjects.

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As many stars as "How the West Was Won" had, only one that I know of — Debbie Reynolds — was in it practically from start to finish.

Sometimes I think it should have been called "The Story of Lilith Prescott," but I guess that wouldn't have attracted viewers.

Also, I suppose it would have been hard to give that kind of billing to just about any actress — even one as popular as Reynolds — over stars like Jimmy Stewart, Henry Fonda or John Wayne, even though those three actors had relatively small roles when compared to Reynolds'.

(Another thing. It probably would have been hard to justify a $15 million budget in 1962 for a movie in which Reynolds was regarded as the major star. She was a popular star in her day, as I say, but she was never the kind of bankable star Stewart, Fonda and Wayne were.)

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Even though I was quite young when I saw it for the first time, I will always be glad I saw "How the West Was Won" on a big screen.

It was made for the wide screen. It was simply too big to be confined to a TV screen.

Marathon Men

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Fifty years ago tomorrow, the Beatles recorded their debut album, Please Please Me.

In a single day. In less than a single day. In roughly nine hours.

Well, not everything was recorded on that day. There were a few singles that had been released — and had been wildly popular. "Love Me Do," for example, was the Beatles' first release a few months earlier and rose to 17th on U.S. charts. "Please Please Me," the track for which the album was named, was #1 on most charts.

To capitalize on the popularity of those singles, the decision was made to release an album.

Albums were not always released in those days, but, when they were, it was typical in England for an album to include 14 songs. The two hits, with their B–side tracks, made four songs. The Beatles needed 10 more.

So, on Feb. 11, 1963, the Beatles recorded the rest of what would become the Please Please Ne album, which was released less than six weeks later.

The Beatles recorded all 10 songs in three three–hour sessions in London. Well, actually they recorded 11 songs, but one of the tracks, "Hold Me Tight," was not included. It was re–recorded later and wound up on the "With the Beatles" album a few months later.

"Twist and Shout" was the last one recorded because John Lennon had been sick, and producer George Martin was concerned that Lennon's voice might be ruined if they tried to record it first.

To everyone's surprise, the song was recorded in a single take. A second take was attempted, but, as Martin had feared, Lennon's voice was shot.

The first take was remarkable, though. Still is, for that matter.

In fact, if you listen to the Please Please Me album carefully, you can hear Lennon coughing in the background. Reportedly, he had been drinking milk and taking cough drops to soothe his throat, and it worked well enough for him to get through the other songs, but, after his vocal contribution to "Twist and Shout," he said his throat felt like "sandpaper," and it was weeks before his throat returned to normal.

Evil Lives

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Rod Serling: Where will he go next, this phantom from another time, this resurrected ghost of a previous nightmare — Chicago? Los Angeles? Miami? Florida; Vincennes, Indiana; Syracuse, New York? Anyplace, everyplace, where there's hate, where there's prejudice, where there's bigotry. He's alive. He's alive so long as these evils exist. Remember that when he comes to your town. Remember it when you hear his voice speaking out through others. Remember it when you hear a name called, a minority attacked, any blind, unreasoning assault on a people or any human being. He's alive because through these things we keep him alive.

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Most of the episodes in the original Twilight Zone series were half an hour long.

But the episodes of the 1962–63 season were an hour long. There were only 18 of them (it's a long story); all the episodes in the other four seasons were half an hour in length.

For the most part, I didn't think much of the hour– long episodes. That was really too much for the type of show Twilight Zone was — most of the time.

An exception to that rule was the episode that aired 50 years ago tonight, "He's Alive."

Dennis Hopper played a wannabe fascist, trying to win popular support but failing. He was visited by someone who was always in the shadows but who offered seemingly knowledgeable advice on how to build a political movement.

And Hopper's character followed the advice, apparently never realizing the identity of the source.

But the shadowy figure told the story of the rise of Adolf Hitler. And he told it with authority — for the shadowy figure was Adolf Hitler.

He told Hopper all the things he needed to do to consolidate his base and his power. He knew those things would work because they had already worked for him.

Ultimately, though, Hopper was fatally wounded, and the shadowy figured slinked off, presumably in search of a new protege to mold.

The message was that, no matter how much one may want to imagine otherwise, prejudice and hate will always be with us.

That wasn't an uplifting message, but it is one that is always worth repeating.

Because there are always those naive souls who, like Hopper's character, think hostile movements end because leaders die.

A Defining Moment

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I heard it said once that the Kennedy assassination was the most photographed murder in American history.

I have no reason to believe that is anything but true. The Kennedy motorcade was photographed by countless people as it made its way through downtown Dallas — by members of the press and folks along the motorcade route.

And it seems to me the Kennedy assassination is remembered not as a single event but more as an ongoing series of events that included the shooting of the alleged assassin and Kennedy's state funeral.

For Americans who were old enough to remember that time, the images probably blur together. I was not old enough to understand what was happening, and I didn't know who Kennedy was — my family did not have a TV in those days so we spent the next four days in the neighbor's house watching theirs.

(I have often tried to convince myself that I remember things from that time, but I really must be thinking of film clips I have seen so many times over the years, and I have persuaded myself that I remember. But I know that I was too young to remember or comprehend very much.

(What I do remember is playing with the neighbors' son's toys. If there is one overriding memory in my brain from that time, it is that I always believed he had the coolest and the latest toys. His family always seemed to be on the cutting edge. They were the first people I ever knew who drove a Mustang!)

Mention the Kennedy assassination to people, and some will tell you that the image that comes to mind is the sequence from the famous Zapruder fim of the presidential car creeping through Dealey Plaza as the shots rang out.

Others will talk about the famous photograph that was taken of Lee Harvey Oswald as Jack Ruby fired a single shot into his midsection.

And still others will tell you that the image of John F. Kennedy Jr. saluting at his father's funeral is the one that has remained with them all these years.

It is an iconic image, to be sure, and one that defined the life and career of photographer Stan Stearns, who died yesterday at the age of 76.

His image of John–John's salute — on his third birthday — was a poignant reminder of all that had been lost.

It is a reminder now of how much time has past. Nearly every prominent person in it — including John–John — is gone now.

Even the servicemen in the picture must be in their 70s, possibly 80s, if they are still living.

That photo is Stearns' legacy to future generations, a continuing link to a time and to a people that have receded into the mists of history.

A Super Alternative

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If you aren't particularly interested in the Super Bowl, I have an alternative for you.

At 7 p.m. (Central) tomorrow, you can see what is arguably one of the most influential foreign films ever — Federico Fellini's comedy/drama "8½" — in Turner Classic Movies' "31 Days of Oscar."

Perhaps the first question I am asked whenever the subject of this film comes up is, "What does the title mean?"

And the answer is, it is a reference to Fellini's previous work. Prior to this movie, he made six feature–length movies and two short films, and he combined efforts with another director on another feature.

I haven't seen all of Fellini's films, but I know that "8½" is regarded as one of his best. It frequently pops up on lists of the best films of all time.

In "8½," Fellini tells the story of a director (Marcello Mastroianni) struggling with "director's block." Mastroianni's dreams and flashbacks weave a surreal narrative with the reality of his life.

For those with more than a passing interest in foreign films, there are other familiar names in the cast besides Mastroianni — Claudia Cardinale, Anouk Aimée.

Actually, next Sunday might have been the more appropriate time to show this film. That happens to be the anniversary of its initial release in Italy in 1963.

But TCM has a lineup planned for Valentine's Day — some pretty good choices, too — and, the more I think about it, the more I realize that the relevance of showing "8½" on that day probably wouldn't be apparent to most viewers.

If you've seen Bob Fosse's "All That Jazz" or Woody Allen's "Stardust Memories," you've seen "8½"'s film legacy. And folks like Tim Burton, David Lynch, Martin Scorsese and others were strongly influenced by his work as well.

I guess, for lack of a better word, they were the imitators. Now see the original.