August 27, 2004
On Milburn, and Jethro...
I don't watch much television. I keep it on, usually, as white noise, but only on blather. A History Channel 8 hour miniseries on battleships. An A&E expose on whether Kaiser Wilhelm II was syphylitic. A biopic on Charlie Starkweather.
That's about it. I catch a bit of Fox News in the a.m., but only to give me the opportunity to spew my coffee when they say "Fair and Balanced". Don't get me wrong: I'm glad there is a Fox News, to counterbalance the Winston Smith shit I'm spoon fed from a hundred other media outlets, but please respect my intelligence here.
Which leads me to my point: I haven't watched a sitcom or drama in years, because I was a diaper-shitter in the early-sixties (and will be again in about 2030, no doubt). I disdain the term "classic", however let me say a few words: Barney Fife. Milburn Drysdale. Granny Clampett. Gomez Addams. Jethro Bodine. Thurston Howell III (Moxie's dad). Jane Hathaway.
What do these characters have in common, other than the fact they were totally fucking insane? Character development, and magic.
In a way a post-ironic industry could never accomplish now, the character actors who embodied these people wrought amazing work. In their manic, over-the-top portrayals they evoked, from thin vapour, some incredible icons. I don't care if you like the characters, or care for the shows. That is not my point. I don't watch Nick at Nite (is that still around? I have no idea). I just mean the serendipitous confluence of talent and writing that allowed this sort of madness to flourish.
Now, I understand there were shit bombs in the sixties. This was NOT the Golden Age of Television (remember The Mothers In Law, with Kay Ballard and Eve Arden? How about It's About Time, with Imogene Coca? Lord, there was certainly shit to watch).
I just mean there was a certain freedom to allow some magnificent character actors to flourish. The writers had it dicked. One could milk "Double-naught spy" for several episodes without fear of staleness, for instance. There was no money-grubbing antic Milburn Drysdale was incapable of, for another. But, ultimately, it was about freedom. The freedom for an Irene Ryan to be a fucking animal with a jug o' shine cradled in her arms. The freedom for a Don Knotts to engender the term flopsweat while fumbling for a solitary bullet.
I am savagely pissed when Hollywood tries to trade off these quite fortunate wormholes in entertainment history, and ejaculates infertile spume like that Hillbillies movie, or the inevitable Gilligan feature length (starring Jim Carrey as the dysplasic bitch Gilligan to Ving Rhames' gripless but horny Skipper, no doubt).
Anyhoo. Not meant to be a generational thang, here. I just find certain entertainment models catch my eye, others don't.