ABC in the 1970s

 Just For Fun for Boomers.  I tried to compile a list of every show of note from ABC from the 1970-1980 seasons.  News, game shows, prime time, soaps, variety, Saturday morning, talk etc.  Some of the blips were left out.  Back when there were only three major networks, each channel had a certain style and feel.  ABC started out as number three and then with Fred Silverman at his brief helm, launched a juggernaut in the last half of the decade.  Enjoy the list!

An Asterix represents a series that premiered in the 1979-1980 season.

ABC Afterschool Special

ABC Evening News 

   (Harry Reasoner/Howard K. Smith/Barbara Walters)

ABC Monday Night Football

ABC Movie of the Week

ABC Weekend Special

ABC Wide World of Sports

ABC World News Tonight

Alias Smith and Jones

All My Children

Almost Anything Goes

AM America

American Bandstand

Angie

The Associates*

Baretta

Barbara Walters Specials

Barbary Coast

Barney Miller

Battle of the Network Stars

Battlestar Galactica

Benson*

The Better Sex

Bewitched

Bionic Woman

Brady Bunch

Brady Bunch Hour

Brady Kids (animated)

Bugs Bunny Show

The Bullwinkle Show (reruns)

Captain and Tenille

Carter Country

Challenge of the Superfriends

Courtship of Eddie’s Father

Curiosity Shop

Dan August

Dark Shadows

Dating Game

Delta House

Devlin

Dick Cavett Show

Don Ho Show

Donny and Marie

Eight is Enough

The FBI

Family

Family Feud

Fangface

Fantasy Island

Feather and Father Gang

Funky Phantom

Galactica: 1980*

General Hospital

Get Christie Love

Getting Together (Bobby Sherman)

Goober & Ghost Chasers

Good Morning, America

Happy Days

Hardy Boys Mysteries

Harry O

Hart to Hart*

Here Come the Doubledeckers

Holmes and Yoyo

Hong Kong Phooey

Hot L  Baltimore

How the West Was Won

The Immortal

Jabberjaw

Jackson Five (animated)

Johnny Cash Show

Julie Andrews Hour

Kid Power

Kolchak: Night Stalker

Korg: 70,000 BC

Kung Fu

Lancelot Link Secret Chimp

Laverne and Shirley

Lawrence Welk Show

Let’s Make a Deal

Lidsville

Longstreet

Lost Saucer

Love, American Style

The Love Boat

Marcus Welby, MD

Mod Squad

Monday Night Football

Mork and Mindy

Nancy Drew Mysteries

Nanny and the Professor

New Adventures of Gilligan

New Krofft Supershow

New Pink Panther Show

Newlywed Game

The Odd Couple

The Oddball Couple (animated)

Olympic Games (’72, ’76)

One Life to Live

Operation Petticoat

The Osmonds (animated)

Owen Marshall, Counselor at Law

Partridge Family

Password

Paul Lynde Show

The Persuaders

Plasticman Comedy/Adventure Show*

Reluctant Dragon and Mr. Toad

Rich Man Poor Man

Rhyme and Reason

Roadrunner Show 

The Rookies

Room 222

Roots

The Ropers

Ryan’s Hope

Salvage One

Saturday Superstar Movie’

Schoolhouse Rock

Scooby Doo/Dynomutt Hour

Scooby’s All Star Laff a Lympics

Scooby and Scrappy Doo*

Six Million Dollar Man

The Sixth Sense

The Smith Family

Smokey Bear Show

Soap

Split Second

Streets of San Francisco

Superfriends

SWAT

Swiss Family Robinson

Tabitha

Taxi

Temperature’s Rising

Tenspeed and Brownshoe*

That’s Incredible*

That’s My Mama

These are the Days

This is Tom Jones

Three’s Company

Time for Timer

Tom & Jerry/Grape Ape Show

Tony Randall Show

20/20

$10/20,000 Pyramid

Uncle Croc’s Block

Vegas

Welcome Back, Kotter

What’s Happening

When Things Were Rotten

Wide World of Sports

Yogi’s Gang

You Don’t Say

Review: "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood."

“ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD”

QT channels his inner Paddy for a giant middle finger to ….?

This beautiful film was made for boomer geeks like me.  Whether you relish the black and white epic TV of the post-Nov 22 years or the golden patina of the raw 1968 era of the mod revisionists, one will be satisfied.  If, like me, you are enamored of the ghosts of go-go booted waifs or are morbidly fascinated by the lurking evil of the encroaching decade of Watergate, your hunger will be sated.  This is a film by a retro geek for retro geeks.  But, unlike Tarantino’s unfocused slice of fandom in “Grindhouse” this epic has a fantastic (if unexpected) narrative arc and two main characters that hit every mark of the McKee ethos.  This film will be rewarded at awards season.   This film will not make a lot of money. 

“Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is clearly the film Tarantino was born to make.  His bag of tricks (never unwelcome) is present yet restrained.  This is a QT film.  But not the one you’d expect. 

Two things happened to this naïve filmgoer in 1994.  I was permanently scarred by the visceral carnage of Oliver Stone’s “Natural Born Killers.”  While anticipating the penultimate staging of my favorite form of satire, I was engulfed in an acid-trip bloodbath of cruelty and hypocritical mocking.  It didn’t help that two giggling middle school girls that snuck in joined me in the near empty theater.  Our own Quentin wrote the script for that one and it was not the film he intended.  Therefore, I dreaded the over-hyped masterpiece that he would give birth to four months later.  What vile and nauseating experience will this be….I must see it though.  And see it I did.  I saw “Pulp Fiction” a couple of times that year.  I celebrated its mash up of the literal and the absurd.  Nothing like it had I seen before.  (I had not seen “Reservoir Dogs” and loved “True Romance” before I knew the voice screaming behind it was not Tony Scott).  

As the Hollywood trust fund kids love to say, “CUT TO:”  twenty two years later and I meet QT at the Paramount during a near empty screening of “Mad Mad World”  As is the usual case, I didn’t tell him who I was—the mystery that I’m some studio big shot always amuses me—and he was gracious in his praise of this comedy.  His lack of knowledge regarding my low status allowed me to regale him of his talent creating CHARACTERS and VIVIDLY putting them on screen in much the same way, say, Blake Edwards, did.  He loved that and stopped talking.  It’s then that I departed to his quizzical glances.  I have always left Hollywood royalty I happen upon in that way. 

And that, dear friends, is what this film is about.  It’s about dreams and happenstance.  It’s about being at the right place at the wrong time or vice versa.  Literally.  It’s about Sliding Doors and all that mumbo jumbo. 

Tarantino didn’t make a version of Edward’s “S.O.B.” here.  There is not one bitter pill spit out here.  It’s all about love.  More than you think.  Make no mistake, when Brad Pitt’s stuntman ogles the ultimate Manson girl cross his path to the tune of “Mrs. Robinson,” you could end the film there.  And this trick of every musical cue being a fan boy’s wet dream, every driving shot (I kept expecting a process shot gag) being an incredible synthesis of musical bliss and trippy camerawork; of every wall, domestic and otherwise, lined with movie posters rather than pretentious artwork; and of an almost clinical adherence to appropriate background references, the geek is disappointed when “California Dreaming” arrives in a wan transition sequence, a capella and fleeting.  But that’s minor.

Paddy Chayefsky wrote the groundbreaking “Network” as a terrifying satire of media and its resultant zombiedom.  The only thing QT shares with this is a penchant for long studious takes.  Not ten minute monologues, as Paddy was wont to write, but set pieces here and there.  Little nuggets, short films if you will, that Tarantino has gleefully snuck in to all of his ultra-sensationalist fare before this.   No, Quentin mirrors Chayefsky’s lesser-known study in grotesqueness in “The Goddess,” a glorious slander on Marilyn Monroe and Her Tinseltown.  Paddy could not hide his love of movie town in this tragic takedown.  Similarly, whatever disdain QT has for Hollywood is hidden by his exuberance for the process, for the lifestyle, for the history.

Dicaprio and Pitt have never been more human.  It’s been difficult for this reviewer to elevate either of these actors to more than a method pretty boy, always seeming much more youthful looking than the gravitas required of the parts they were gifted with.  Here, however, they do embody their characters:  Leonardo’s has-been western actor from the heartland and Brad’s tainted anti-hero of a stuntman.  Truth be told, as I watched Damian Lewis do a throwaway scene as Steve McQueen, I ventured into wish fulfillment of two actors with a few more miles on them, age-wise.  But it is what it is.

And Tarantino's deification of Sharon Tate did no favors to Margo Robbie as the doomed actress.  It’s as if she is a vessel for the aforementioned hot pant fetish.  That is more than made up for Margaret Qualley’s complete embodiment of the “hippie chick.”  Her “Pussycat” has all the ingredients:  sauciness, boldness, naiveté, and sexiness.  Her crunchy rawness was a clear antidote to the almost sterile version of Tate provided here.

So QT is not providing a “fuck you” to us geeks.  That’s evident in the “Mannix” clips, the “Land of the Giant” references, and the “Candy” billboard.  He’s not shooting the middle finger to Hollywood—if nothing, it’s a love letter.  A gentle one at that.  And that is where the jab may be.  Gentleness. 

The slender escape from moral turpitude and utter revulsion I expected from “Pulp Fiction” in 1994 led to an almost apologist acceptance of ultra-violence in the service of story, character and excellent filmmaking.  Whereas the QT brand has been copied innumerous times, never to the same effect (the love of QT overtakes the love of cinema, get it?), there is only one Quentin.  He will give his fans a taste of what they came from, but only a taste.  And, without giving away any spoilers, he will leave them wanting.  For this geek, it was a thrill ride, a full glass of wine to sip.  I will rewatch it for sure.  The audience that Tarantino created in 1994 will not return.

I walked out of the theater needing to discuss this with someone.  And another aging boomer was discoursing on the history of the Manson murders with his companion.  I felt compelled to join in just to interject my immediate thoughts.  As I was immediately rejecting his statements as coming from a yahoo based on the fact that he didn’t know Pitt from Dicaprio, my whole take on the film changed.  He mentioned one throwaway line at the very end that I missed while I was commiserating with my disappointment.  Yes, a disappointment that was borne of expectations of an audience member and NOT a film lover.  And that throwaway line that I missed, made it a whole different film.  That is filmmaking.

On Dave and Charlie: 1969-1974

I've been wanting to explore these five years for a long time.  I found the impetus with the deaths of Charles Manson and  David Cassidy.  Other than long hair, these two have nothing in common.  However, they both represent a certain part of the cultural zeitgeist after 1969.  I want to examine, from the perspective of a preteen, my naive sense memories from those time.

My folks were older--Greatest Generation.  My peers usually had grandparents their age.  So I sort of self-educated on television and media.  Keep in mind, the Vietnam debacle was in full swing and Nixon came into power.  The culture wars that were going on at the time were as vociferous (and as dangerous) as now...witness the 1968 Chicago Dem Convention.  1968 also saw two devastating assassinations with MLK and RFK.  Of course, I wasn't cognizant of all the politics at the time.  I was watching Hanna Barbera cartoons on Saturday morning and listening to Disney records.  I am fascinated to this day, though, by the history of this period and find books to read on it as if I'm making up for being alive during turbulent times and not having a clue.

That goes for Manson as well.  I had no clue about him or his satanic crimes until I sort of half-watched a miniseries, Helter Skelter, based on Bugliosi's best selling retelling.  It was horrific...as were many of the made-for-television films and recreations at the time.  (They were much more graphic in the seventies than you would think.)  And in no way am I minimizing his reign of terror.  I am simply recollecting how it affected my perception of counterculture at the time.

That "counterculture" was experienced through interaction with relations who were, I would imagine--to simplify--hippies.  Although far removed from the sex and drugs and music, there was a tangential "contact high" if you will.  Many of my peers--slightly younger--had parents that fit this profile.  Many didn't.  They may have had late Greatest Generation parents--possibly Korean War veterans, Eisenhower era Father Knows Best types that were struggling with mod sideburns.  Witness the neocons at the time: Cheney and Bush (google images).  Many of the boomers were restricted from anything reeking of anti-establishment (in sort of post-bloom by now).  I do recall at school and day camps seeing compatriots being picked up by bead-wearing, fully bearded dads.  And, as sheltered as I was, I couldn't avoid the contact with mini-reprobates that would gladly regale with me with words I didn't know and bodily functions I found foreign.  I can't even imagine what they say now and don't want to.

Television, however, shed me of my innocence.  I mean "'being woke."  As I have regaled exponentially in my previous writings, the sitcoms of Norman Lear and the Children's Television Workshop provided an education in diversity and non-inclusiveness.  In retrospect, the political correctness was not quite "correct" but it was nevertheless instructive in the right direction--a sentiment that somehow cannot be approached today amongst certain post-Boomer liberals.  LBJ's Great Society was in full swing and I am so happy to have actually gone to school in a fresh stew of cultures and colors. Even after our first African-American president, that feels in nearly full retreat now thanks to a neoliberalist agenda.

So when I think of the Manson chronicles, it's not a first-hand feeling of disgust and dread.  It's more a patchouli laced haze of psychedelia and brown-hued sixteen millimeter news grit.  Even kids shows--the Krofft menagerie--were borne of acid fever dreams. The Manson girls, in their blond beach babe fresh-faced appearance, inspire the lust I had for my college-age babysitters more than shock and awe nightmares.  I will never forget one of my sitters, in her hippie attire--probably could be my granddaughter nowadays--introducing me to music I had no idea about.  I was frightened by the poster of the Beatles on her wall.

That's where Keith Partridge comes in.  Boomers would agree that the Bradys were just too squeaky clean even in their dealings with scrupulous music agents.  However, their Friday night cohorts, the Partridges, were far more "cool."  David Cassidy's hair is what I wanted...so bad.  His poster was on the wall of all those babysitters.  He was the essence of  the "clean" hippie  persona.  I suppose even in my Pollyanna world, my dark id recognized the potential thrill of being a subversive so well represented by a wholesome traveling family band represented by a bumbling nice guy out of central casting. (He would never lay a hand on Shirley--that we know).

I never saw the cinema at the time.  Most of those early seventies classics were rebroadcast on the networks--edited with commercials.  But that was enough for me.  I still got that sleaziness.  That sort of New York pre-Times Square grime, that representation of urban decay that was now required viewing.  That led to, for me, the highlight of American cinema when directors and not studios were in control.  That was due to everyone watching All in the Family and The Waltons--a strange paradox of the times in and of itself.  When I watch films by Hal Ashby, Robert Altman, early Coppolla and Depalma, Sidney Lumet--I am transported to those times.  I wasn't a spectator or participant.  But I WAS there.

I can't speak to the music at the time.  Which was revolutionary.  I'll leave that to others.  In my cloistered existence anarchic music was represented by The Carpenters or BJ Thomas. Sometimes my dad would go crazy and bring home a 45 of Neil Diamond or Cheech and Chong (I'll never get over that one!)  And nothing will give you a flavor of the times more than Playboy Magazine.  Pubic hair was now shown--and the interviews were the best journalism of the time.  Highly intellectual discourse amongst a new sexual freedom--tinged with key party ethics and polyester.

Even after being educated on the Manson murders, it still somehow feels quaint by today's standards.  Perhaps that's because movies and television, even the most mainstream, is littered with mutilations, beheadings, impalements and disembowelments--graphically depicted--that would make Charlie himself squeamish.  That's not really a joke.  Have you watched FX lately?  And when I see David Cassidy, it reminds me of how a teen idol didn't have to cover themselves with tattoo, brag about 'being bad," experiment with the wildest drugs and express profanity in order to be considered a pop superstar.

Oh, well.   I got a hug from Maureen McCormick once.  That's enough for me.  Peace.

NOTHING IN COMMON: A RETROSPECT

Thirty years old, this is an eighties film that I have written on succinctly many times in the past.  I revisit it yearly as it is extremely reflective of my relationship with my father.  I saw it in theaters during a time when I actually worked in advertising with him, as the characters also both work in sales.  Hotshot Tom Hanks plays the smart ass son taking on giants in the agency world while Jackie Gleason embodies the old-school foot soldier, peddling kid’s clothing with imprinted pens (which was actually my Dad’s business—promotional items).  While the plot of this tale is not my tale, the intricate depiction of the dynamics—father, son and mother (an exquisite Eva Marie Saint)—can be frighteningly spot on.  The director was Garry Marshall. 

That being said, I wish to dissect this film.  Each time I watch it, I look past the “eighties” feel and soundtrack and see—despite the two hour running length—a piece of acting and structural excellence.  Consider this a dissertation on why “Nothing in Common” is arguably one of the finest films of the era. 

THE SCREENPLAY: 
Rick Podell and Michael Preminger worked in advertising.  The crackling dialogue and group antics of Hanks and his creative team accurately depict the intricacies of the corporate ad game.  Much as “Mad Men” bared all to the process in

the sixties, “NIC” does so for the modern yet pre-irony world of advertising.  The screenplay has many moving parts (and characters) and the interplay between the various story lines and characters is flawless in it’s editorial pace.  The balance among Hank’s conquering an airline client’s irascible CEO; bedding the CEO’s daughter and endangering a life long love relationship; and, finally, the main through line regarding his aging  parent’s separation and subsequent illness can seem daunting.  Yet with finely timed scenes and allowing all the characters to sit for awhile then reappear in Hank’s world allows the viewer time patience to take in his plights and triumphs.

Another interesting facet of the screenplay is the fact that no stone is left unturned.  We are never left hanging regarding any action the character’s take.  We are never given an opportunity to mock a character for one-dimensionality.  After Hanks takes off to be with his ailing father, his uptight boss (more about him below) has the decency to ask about the father and make a shift to business without losing the humanity.  Every crazy situation that occurs, no matter how broad the comedy, has it’s consequences.  If not delved into, the consequences are at least dealt with.

THE ACTING: 
It would be debated among many that with was Hank’s launching pad to his Oscar path.  Yet a year before “Big” he performs  a mercurial feat in his shifting from fast-talking smarminess to complete helpless bewilderment (over his parent’s situation). The extreme adjustments in temperament are not inconsistencies in acting but a near-perfect reflection of our bipolar natures. 

The dark demeanor around his parents and the subsequent rapprochement full of tenderness and recaptured love are nothing short of brilliant.   Hank’s quicksilver wisecracking in the opening scene can seem forced at first glance but actually proves his ability to stay in character and in the scene.  This is a gift of his that ushered in his stellar career.  It still shows in his roles when not squelched by over-earnestness. 

Gleason not winning a supporting actor Oscar much less being nominated in his final performance (shortly before he passed) is a crime.  His shifts rival Hank’s in their raw beauty.  The pain he shows as he loses his accounts (and job), loses his life partner, encounters diabetes and the subsequent life-threatening surgery, and fights his own humanity is heartrending considering the physical pain Gleason was going through during the shoot.  Director Garry Marshall allows him to show his legendary humor in moments—not going overboard—and gives us the sight of Gleason breaking down after a confrontation with the estranged Saint.  Speaking of Saint, her combination of naivete and wisdom, her

neglected wife veering into unsightly drunkenness and shrill pain encompass a most brave performance by yet another cinema legend (“On the Waterfront,” “Exodus”) 

 The supporting players provide ample support. Hector Elizondo (a Marshall staple) gives a textured performance in as Hank’s agency boss.  What could have been a quick throwaway role

(also a Marshall touch with this fine actor—see “Pretty Woman”) turns into a tour de force.  Marshall (or rather the screenplay) gives him ample opportunity to balance a comically self-aware egomaniac with a wise and fair-minded human being.  See his couch conversation with Hanks after Hanks nearly sabotages the account, consoling him rather than providing angry bluster…yet keeping sight of the company’s interests.  Sexy Sela Ward’s embodiment of the “ball-busting” client can seem rather trite yet upon closer inspection her struggles in the sexist

industry read through her face.  See her compassion for Hanks immediately after firing him.  Amazing.  Barry Corbin as the sociopathic father, head of the airlines is the most humorously stereotypical of the characters.  It’s a fine performance and the frivolous nature of his stubborn power does actually make the point of what these guys are up against.  And, finally, Bess Armstrong as the true love, “the only girlfriend you’re parents MET” IS the penultimate “girl next door”..”the one who got away” in her frustrating tolerance of David’s whining, her understanding of his travails, and her mutual deep life-long love. 

Witness, the whip smart confrontation in her bedroom and the touching and simple finale by the lake.  The featured extras don’t fare as well.  Gleason’s co-workers and clients are played with uneasiness, delivering bad line readings.  Hanks and his team however, propelled by many Chicago Second City actors, provides an almost improvisational tone—representative of Hank’s sitcom breakthrough in “Bosom Buddies,” another ad agency setting.

THE HONESTY:

Through his seventies sitcom career (Odd Couple, Happy Days etc), Garry Marshall imprinted on me in more sensory level than as a purveyor of quality humor.  His television output was more borscht belt than his counterparts at Lear and MTM.  And, honestly, his films…even the most successful…seemed manipulative and trite to me.  See “Beaches,and “Pretty Woman” He seemed to become a brand for large scale casts in dopey romantic pablum.  However, I have to wonder how much he allowed a seasoned cast of actors and comedians to hold sway with naturalness.  Did this incredible script overcome any directorial blemishes?  His old-school history surely allowed him to communicate with Gleason, but was Jackie the one pulling in the broadness to provide a melancholic swan song?  I have to wonder how much sway Marshall did have in two musical montages which clearly take the film in a horrific direction albeit common for the time.  Watching Hanks and Ward get horny watching two horses stud is painful and embarrassing.  And the lip-reading during an encounter with Hanks, Ward and Armstrong tells the story but is way too long and obvious in it’s motivation. Judge for yourself:

The comedy does work though.  When the drunk actress on the commercial set destroys the shoot, the hilarious reaction by Hanks is not a throwaway gag but a result of sleepless days and frustration.  The scene blends into a thoughtful conversation with the director, a childhood friend.  Quick and easy.  Move on.

It must be a combination of script and acting that allows the aforementioned honesty to come through.  As Hanks nonplussed jokes about  his father’s illness, Saint is allowed to reproach him rather than let it slide by.  Corbin’s maniac knows he’s a maniac when he grins at his prey.  When Saint gets a puppy from Hanks, she exclaims “Someone to love!” leading him to pivot and exit in exasperation.  When he has to listen to his

parent’s deeply personal issues, the look in his eyes is allowed to sit:  bewilderment, shock and impatience.  The aforementioned hospital room scene with Gleason and Saint reeks of authenticity in it’s turn from tenderness to raw anger.  You can see the prick points of ego and

hypocrisy as Hanks and Armstrong battle over their respective career devotions. Even her lover is given a few choice lines so as not to be disavowed as a character: “My life’s work is bullshit?” to which Hanks is able to throw back to her.  That is excellent screenwriting. 

As the pressure mounts on Hanks, who is completely exhausted, Corbin insists he misses his father's surgery to attend a NY presentation.  His ultimatum involves a countdown.

 Watch Hanks as he slow burns to explosive: "Don't you EVER fucking touch me again."  It's completely believable and the audience is with him.  As he recovers, he can continue with the wisecracks with Ward but the fun is gone.  It's all resignation and sincerity. See for yourself:

As for nonrealistic happy endings, the parents don't get back together.  That would have been wrong.  Hanks does learn to appreciate the right woman.  And the account is saved.  It's all plausible and leaves no saccharine aftertaste.

As an ancillary note, this is a CHICAGO film.  The city is represented so well…the lakefronts, the pubs, the tenements.  Add to that, the local players and you  have a true feel for mid-America.  As Hanks pitches his agency: “New York is New York, LA we don’t know what they are…but we are Chicago.”  Never since Bob Newhart walked to work form his riverfront condos to the Medical Arts building have we felt so at home here. 

If you have had the patience to read this whole review, give the movie a shot (or a re-shot).  Not sure if my appreciation lies in repeated viewings and the resultant  familiarity  but I do believe there is some credence to spending two hours in this universe.