I realize this is TV Time, but there's a big crossover between the worlds of classic television and movies, and in fact I often wish the intersection was even bigger. So all of you TV snobs who look down your noses at Hollywood films, be patient with me this time out because we’re gonna combine the two mediums. How many times have you watched a movie from the classic era of Hollywood--let's say the thirties and forties--and thought, 'Wow, I would have loved to have seen that performer in a television sitcom'? I know, we've all been there, right?
Some of the best-loved performers (and some of the scoundrels, too) of the early days of the tube debuted on the silver screen years earlier. Conversely, Hollywood icons like Henry Fonda and Jimmy Stewart eventually made their way to the airwaves, and if you dig deep enough, you'll find that even seemingly random names like Ray Bolger got their own shows. Right now, though, I am considering folks who were known primarily for their work in motion pictures who never starred in their own TV shows.
Why did many film actors never make the move to series television? Well, there were many reasons: They still had viable careers in motion pictures, there was the perception of television as an inferior medium if not an enemy, some of them were, well, deceased...For the purposes of discussion, throw out those factors, and let's imagine that the stars I mention here were willing and able to be in a fifties/early sixties sitcom in more or less the same persona they presented in films (So don't worry about the fact that an actor might resemble Burt Mustin by the time he could realistically have been on NBC television). Here's my list of programs that should have been:
Breakfast with the Beerys: Wallace Beery and Marie Dressler, a pairing featured in Depression-era pictures like Min and Bill, reunite to play a rough-edged married couple who squabble all the time yet become a loving, urbane hubby and wife when they host a popular television morning program.
Let's face it, the lumpy but lovable old lug would be ideal for the small screen--and Beery would be a good fit, too. I can see Wally making all kinds of nonsensical, stubborn arguments, most of them somehow involving a plug of chaw.
Dressler would anchor the show in her own irrepressible manner, scoring many of the best comebacks while Beery resorted to a frustrated 'Awwwwww!' Breakfast would also provide the opportunity for Beery to show his suave side, chatting up society dames and learning how to flip omelets on his morning program. Besides the constant tension between he and Dressler, there would always be the threat that he would bubble over in frustration at yet another quilting segment and rampage through the studio, tossing aside unwitting stagehands like they were so many Ted Healys. I’m talking about Berry’s character, of course. I think.
NOTE: This is not to be confused with Brunch with Beery, an actual morning program in which the actor would shamelessly mug before a live studio audience of rambunctious but adorable kids, occasionally threatening to swat them upside the head before softening and giving a hearty 'Awwwwww,' before throwing to a Tom and Jerry cartoon.
The George Raft Program: I envision a generic domestic comedy, with Papa Raft 'reacting' to the nuttiness of his family using his patented repertoire of takes. Frequent exchanges like this would occur:
'Daddy, I totaled the car!'
'You what?'
'George, dear, I need 00 to pay the repairman.'
'You what?'
'Daddy, I heard your friend in the pinstriped suit say you guys had to go make collections tonight. I gave him my scrapbook of stamps to get you started!
'You what?'
The best thing about these scenes: Each time, the director would cut to the same three-quarter profile close-up of George, each time with the same facial expression. There would be at least half a dozen such shots per episode.
Of course George would play a guy named 'George,' probably with a monosyllabic surname like 'Wood.' And of course any sitcom with George Raft would have a generic title. Raft's show doesn't even get the relatively festive designation of 'Show,' but rather 'Program.' Hey, Jack Benny made it work. Raft could have been almost as funny. In a way. Sort of.
Everything's Coming Up Rose's: In the 1920s, cynical, hard-boiled newspaperman Art Rose, played by Ned Sparks, finds himself forced to fill in as the advice columnist for his metropolitan daily. Hilarity ensues as the thorny Rose (sorry) grapples with questions of etiquette, courtship, and – don't ask me how, but it would make a killer shot for the montage in the credits – the Charleston.
This sort of thing has already been done, and it was even done on television in 1955's Dear Phoebe with Peter Lawford. I remind you, though, that Peter Lawford is no Ned Sparks. Besides, it's Ned Sparks in the Roaring Twenties! In fact, Ned Sparks in any environment could be a sitcom winner: Ned Sparks in the Wild West, Ned Sparks in the Crimean War, Ned Sparks in outer space...
Any of these concepts would work because when viewers looked into the face of Ned Sparks beaming into their living rooms, it would see not merely the visage of a distinctive character actor. No, as the apparently prosperous, exuberant postwar nation gazed at those sour features, it would be gazing into nothing less than the conflicted and wary soul of nothing less than America itself.
Or maybe it would just be really funny. Did I mention the show would also have a chimpanzee?
Immaculate Manor: Franklin Pangborn stars as the stuffy proprietor of a small hotel that promises the royal treatment for its guests. Throw in Nat Pendleton as the house detective, Guy Kibbee as the well-meaning chef, and Thelma Todd and Patsy Kelly as Pangborn's nieces who help him run the place, and you have a foolproof recipe for hijinks. Hey, while we're at it, we could give Hugh Herbert a recurring role as a stumbling guest who always brings trouble.
Fussy clerks, managers, etc. were long a staple of Hollywood comedies, but I don’t know if American television really utilized that stock character well. Just think of Pangborn as a sort of prehistoric, more personable Basil Fawlty (and Pangborn’s character would probably be called something like Claude Immaculate, just because that’s television for you), groaning in exasperation as events spun out of control each week. The hotel setting would permit fresh guest stars to add variety.
And since Pangborn's character would be a confirmed bachelor, the sponsor and the network would be pleased with the addition of a young, bland male co-star to serve as the straight man and love interest for the various guest starlets who made their way into the Manor.
Get Off My Lawn: Crotchety old Mr. McAllister enjoys 3 things in life: His morning prune juice and shredded wheat combo, his lawn, and yelling at kids to get off his lawn. Underneath it all, though, the wheelchair-bound McAllister, played by Lionel Barrymore with just enough of a twinkle to let us in on the coot's true nature, has a heart of gold. He can't resist imparting life lessons to the neighborhood scamps while occasionally using his clever mind to solve their problems behind the scenes.
This series would be a giant leap forward for early television with its lead character who was both disabled and elderly. Unfortunately, it would also lose favor with later historians and audiences for its unsophisticated depiction of McAllister's caregiver/servant, played by Keye Luke, and for its old-fashioned portrayal of women, or at least the retrograde views Barrymore’s character would share with anyone within earshot.
In the mid 1950’s, though, viewers wouldn't analyze such things. They would instead chuckle at the latest machinations McAllister executed to make things right. In one famous episode, he would so deftly manipulate each individual homeowner on his block that when they all finally drove the suspected Communist sympathizer to sell his house, each one would think it were his idea.
NOTE: Due to Barrymore's suspect health, the producers would quietly keep Gale Gordon on retainer for the duration of the series.
Wheeler & Woolsey Time: I’m cheating because this would actually be an hour-long variety program with guests, music, and dancing, but the showcase segment of each episode would be a sitcom-length sketch featuring the comedy team, with Dorothy Lee, as different (but essentially identical) people in different settings.
I personally think that, as a rule, the Wheeler & Woolsey films are excellent and the later ones are atrocious. If we took the 1930’s version of the duo and somehow put them in a 1950’s variety show, which level of quality would we get?
I believe the answer is complicated. The show would be on the DuMont Network, and somehow most of the footage would vanish not long after it aired, leaving diehards to spread the word for years to come, insisting to anyone who would listen what a great 'lost' program Wheeler and Woolsey Time was. Oh, a fragment would turn up every now and then, and a grainy kinescope of a truncated episode or two might even make its way to the DVD dollar bin, but this would remain one of pop culture’s great mysteries. Collectors and historians would search for more footage, and somehow maybe the chase would be even more satisfying than watching the actual show.
But if we could unearth a complete run of Wheeler & Woolsey Time, would we get the stilted awkwardness of High Flyers? Or would we see some of the greatness evident in earlier films like Hold 'Em Jail?
As an optimist and a fan, I can only say, Whoa-oh!
I Buried Joan: This late 1950’s sitcom would tap into mainstream America's angst towards changing social mores and the rising threat of Communism while introducing regular zombies decades before The Walking Dead. Who better to star in the first ever zombie sitcom (assuming you don't count The George Raft Program) than the woman who so effortlessly combined old-school Hollywood glamour with the ability to look terrifying from certain angles? That's right, it's Joan Crawford!
In this one, the domineering Crawford's harried TV hubby--perhaps a young Dick York is too on the nose, but someone like that--is all too eager to give up on his wife when she is felled in a mysterious late night accident. Much to his chagrin, though, she soon comes back...as a zombie! On the bright side, her tongue, like the rest of her, has slowed considerably, but she still finds ways to cause York grief. I Buried Joan would pave the way for later fantasy-based sitcoms like The Munsters and The Addams Family while offering a key ingredient neither of those could replicate: unadulterated terror.
Two of a Kind: Wouldn't it be great to see Carole Lombard in a witty, elegant romantic detective comedy, sort of a sharper Mr. and Mrs. North? She could solve crimes, engage in banter, and just generally be glamorous. It could have been something like Moonlighting, only without the off-camera headlines, the ego trips, the shortened production schedules...OK, maybe it wouldn't have been much like Moonlighting at all, but we can agree that Ms. Lombard's presence alone would have classed up any small screen production.
It's not hard to imagine her establishing chemistry and finding an easy sort of sophistication with any male co-star this side of Pinky Lee. Maybe television wasn't producing a lot of material with that kind of light classic Hollywood touch back then, but it would have been nice to see the effort. Casting Lombard would be a good start.
O'Shaughnessy's: when you think of 'speed' on TV, you might think of Speed Racer, Felix and Oscar's card-addicted pal, or maybe a Very Special Episode of The White Shadow, but let me suggest something different.
I must confess that when I think of James Cagney in a sitcom, I think not of prime Jimmy, he of the grapefruit smashing and the Cohan singing and the “you-dirty-ratting.” Instead I flash-forward a few years to his wonderful, frenetic performance in Billy Wilder's One, Two, Three. Take that Cagney and put him in a saloon setting where lots of colorful sorts can interact with him, and you could have a crackling half-hour of comedy each week, one that would feel like about 75 minutes. You could even add Pat O'Brien as his brother/confidante and see if he could keep up. Just make the saloon big enough so that Cagney could roam around while spitting out the dialogue and tell the camera operators, as they used to say about Jackie Gleason on The Honeymooners, to “follow the money.'
It would have to be at least a week in between episodes, too, lest the audience collapse in exhaustion, let alone the star. Could Cagney sustain that kind of pace in the weekly grind of television? I wouldn’t bet against him. Of course if I did, I could probably get some action from that guy from The Odd Couple.
Who would write those dozens of lines per minute? It wouldn’t matter. In the pre-DVR days, nobody would really know what he was saying, but it would still be hilarious. It would all be worthwhile just to see the TV Guide description each week: 'O'Shaughnessy runs around and says a lot of stuff.'
Rick Brooks is the proprietor of Cultureshark, a blog in which he uses an often irreverent approach to express his reverence for the classics and the un-classics.