The Glass Teat - essays of opinion on the subject of television

by Harlan Ellison

  And if it seems this is a gringo’s carping about a state of affairs that does not bother the Brazilian people, I offer the following excerpt from the Jornol Do Brasil of 23 July:

  “Instead of torturing the public with their foolish exuberance, Rio stations could have easily filled in the remaining time, while waiting for the heroic arrival of the 5rst man on the moon, with really interesting news such as that sent minute-by-minute over the teletype.

  “But ... it was necessary to give a little local color to the transmissions, and at the precise moment in which man was entering a new era, Rio TV viewers were informed that the presence of a man on the moon would not alter the tides, nor would it change women’s menstrual cycles. While everyone held his breath in expectation of the unequaled feat, the composers of Mangueira (a samba school were asked if they would agree to have a parade for the moon-men.”

  O Pasquim, in its July issue, related an even more incredible state-of-affairs during the moonshot. It seems that rather than having any intelligent and accredited commentators onscreen during the mission, the “keep the people uninformed” program was pursued by having an inept commentator named Hilton Gomes interview a “scientist” named Heron Domingues and a “philosopher” named Rubens Amaral, who opened their stint by shaking hands and taking credit for man’s arrival on Luna.

  (What follows is excerpted intact, translated from the Portuguese.)

  “I want to give you my heartiest congratulations for this magnificent feat,” Heron Domingues said smiling.

  “But this would have been impossible without your collaboration,” replied Rubens Amaral, with false modesty.

  “The fact is,” observed Heron, “that the public understands our efforts.”

  “And has been telephoning constantly,” interrupted Amaral, “in a show of solidarity for our work.”

  (If you, gentle reader, are shaking your head in righteous confusion, don’t feel like the Lone Ranger.)

  (Then followed a fifteen-point resume of all the asinine and inept and downright scientifically inaccurate remarks made by these three ding-dongs. I’ll only repeat a few here . . . they’re sufficient to boggle the mind.)

  (Remember: these are the two “experts” selected, presumably, from the cream of Brazilian intelligentsia, to inform the folk of what was going down. Or up.)

  “The temperature at the moment is 150 degrees centigrade—we don’t know if this is above or below zero.” (Domingues)

  “In the right leg of Armstrong’s spacesuit is a sample of Lunar soil, which is different from ours.” (Amaral)

  “The man won’t leave any footprints on the moon.” (Domingues.)

  “Armstrong is a cameraman, or shall we say, one of our television colleagues?” (Gomes)

  “We’ve just gone to the window to check, and the moon really is a long way off.” (Gomes and/or Amaral)

  “There exists two hypotheses about the Luna-5: one ridiculous and the other absurd.” (Domingues)

  “Really ... interesting.” (Amaral in a rare moment of lucidity.)

  “The respiration of the Americans is throbbing.” (Amaral, brilliantly translating NASA’s information that “the heartbeats had quickened.”)

  “Without the attention and kindness of our TV viewers, this great feat would have been impossible.” O Pasquim commented on this one: “It’s interesting to note that he didn’t reveal the exact way in which TV viewers helped. According to reliable sources, it was by means of prayers.”)

  At last report, Santos, Chaerinha, Gomes, Amaral and Domingues were being sought by an outraged and finally-uprisen Brazilian populace, to star in a new TV series called Biggest Asshole On The Moon. Paulistas and cariocas were placing bets in their respective cities to see which one of these estimable pawns of the establishment would make the loudest squeal as he was fired from a giant cannon at the moon. Which really is a long way off.

  * * * *

  40: 26 SEPTEMBER 69

  This week another shower of goodies. They ran the banned Smothers Brothers show on KTTV; I caught an even half-dozen of the new shows in debut performances; there were two important specials I want to gibber about—Woody Allen and The Battered Child—and it’ll probably all slop over to next week’s installment, but that’s what I’m into, so don’t wander too far.

  The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour that CBS censored into the relative oblivion of independent airing last April 6th was viewed on something over eighty stations nationally, Wednesday, September 10th.

  After all the foofaraw about how obscene it was, after CBS, martinet position about “defending American morality,” the show came as something of a letdown. Artistically, it was far from the best SmoBro product, and objectively, it was light-years away from their most controversial. The plain fact—horrifyingly obvious considered in the context of the total show—is that CBS was chickenshit frightened of Senator Pastore. There was nothing else on the show even remotely controversial. Oh sure, there was a pseudo-Nelson Eddy/Jeanette MacDonald duet between Tommy Smothers and Nancy Wilson, but it was in painfully good taste, and even accepting for an instant the shuck offered by CBS that their southern affiliates would have dropped the show for that duet, it would take someone who had been oblivious to the black/white things the southern stations have been showing, since I Spy, to believe it for a moment.

  No, what that banned segment shows us, showed all of the country, was that not only are the network potentates a gaggle of cringing, petrified, spineless twerps, they are ripe patsys for extortion and blackmail. Pastore is the blackmailer—a power-mad little Caesar with the Monkey Trial morality of a troglodyte—and CBS was his willing victim this time.

  And just what element of the SmoBro show was it that held CBS in such quivering thrall? Was it Tommy’s unclothed penis? Was it a full-face scene from Oh, Calcutta? Was it Kate Smith going down on a chacma baboon? Hell no, it was merely Dan Rowan mealy-mouthing whether or not to give the Fickle Finger of Fate Award to Senator John Pastore, that’s what it was.

  As blatant and mind-croggling an example of personal censorship as we have ever witnessed on network television. Whether Pastore actually saw the tape of the show and blew heavy about it, or CBS just pre-censored itself, the crime was revolting, as gutless, as unethical as even the dimmest, dumbest viewer could desire. CBS saying the show was censored for “moral” reasons is about as valid as Lester Maddox refusing to integrate on grounds of “states’ rights.” It is another example of the moral corruption of our politicians, not of our television personalities.

  Now that we’ve seen it—not just a few TV critics and newspapermen, none of whom, incidentally, had the balls to speak up since April 6th, but all of us—what will CBS do? Knowing we know them for what they are. Knowing their pat little up-the-line obfuscations won’t play any more. Knowing we have proof they don’t give a damn about serving the public interest. Knowing we understand the contempt they have for us, the ease with which they’ll sell us out. What are they going to do, those fatcat heroes, those shadow entrepreneurs, those lizard-blood killers of every truth, every hope, every dream? Do we get mad, CBS? Do we want to kill? Oh, babies, you’ll never know. You’ll never suspect, but let me tell you bow deep it runs, what you’re building, where it’s going to go, till the day they come after you at your tower in CBS Television City. Like this:

  I had an uncle who fought in WWII. He was attached to an English, commando unit in Europe. One time when he was sick with a fever, years later, I was tending him, and he thought he was going to die, and he told me the worst thing he’d ever done. It was bitter cold, one winter during the war, and his unit came crawling through the night, and they found a German battalion bivouacked in a forest. It was so numbing cold, the men had doubled up together, sleeping hugging each other in sleeping bags to keep from freezing to death. My uncle, and his unit, crawled in, moved among them, and carefully cut the throats of one man per sleeping bag. Not both of them ... only one. To leave all those poor fuckers to wake up the next mornin
g hugging corpses with an extra mouth. It was a terrible thing; my uncle couldn’t live with it; it killed him, butchered his soul.

  That’s how deep the hate runs, CBS. Keep fucking around.

  * * * *

  Look, CBS, I’m talking to you like a Dutch Uncle. You see, what’s happening is that we’re building a psychopathic society. Everybody lies, everybody sells out, everybody stinks of hate. We’re all being driven mad as mudflys, CBS. The hatreds are running deep, core-deep. How much longer do you think we can tolerate our guardians of the public trust, dudes like you, who corrupt and bastardize that trust? How much longer can we be expected to see you contributing to the creation of that mad world, without taking the lynch rope in our hands? The rope, or the razor. Mme. DeFarge lives in all of us, CBS, and you’re summoning her forth. By your corrupt acts we see that only corruption pays off. By your dishonesty we see that only dishonesty—or the razor—offer hope of cessation to this madness, one way or the other.

  I’m sorry I yelled at you, CBS. No ... no, I’m not; not really. Perhaps I should have spoken softly, to win your mind, to convince you of the sincerity and immediacy of what the people are saying. Perhaps this time I should have spoken softly; I’m sorry. But tell me, CBS, at what point do all the soft voices stop and you begin to hear the terrible snick-snick of Mme. DeFarge’s needles?

  * * * *

  Now, if the typesetter left a two-line space between that last line and this one, indicating I want to change the subject, we can go on to what I hope (if I live long enough) will be an annual feature of this snake pit:

  * * * *

  ELLISON’S MINUTE CAPSULE REVIEWS OF NEW SHOWS!!!

  The Bill Cosby Show: Missed it the first week, but caught it last Sunday. Seemed awfully situation-comedy to me, but funny. Cosby learned well from Culp, and brought the best of his standup stuff with him. I’m sorta disappointed to see it played so White (Cosby might as easily be Jim Nabors for all the difference in tone), with all that great specialized background Cosby has, but I’m willing to wait a few weeks and see if Cos can’t work in a tot more soul.

  The Bold Ones: The New Doctors on Sunday the 14th didn’t show me much: John Saxon could have phoned in his part, E.G. Marshall wasn’t onscreen enough to get his teeth into it, David Hartman tried his best but he lacks a certain charisma, and for the better part of the hour all we had to contend with was Pat Hingle doing something that resembled, in thespic terms, an Amerindian rain dance. The script was a slightly slicker version of Ben Casey or The Doctors and, in all, it seemed as though I was watching TV 1963 again. On the 20th, NBC fired the second stage of their rocket with The New Lawyers and things perked up. James Farentino and Joe Campanella (aided as minimally as possible by Burl Ives) did their turn in a script that started out to say something important about the disregard of some police for the constitutional rights of those they arrest... and went rapidly downhill into banality and cop-out a la Universal Studios’ determined effort never to produce an honest drama. Steve Ihnat played well, as usual, and that, coupled with the verve of Campanella and Farentino, gave me some hope that perhaps this tripartite series might not be a total dud. Actually, I’m waiting to see Leslie Nielsen and Hari Rhodes in the law enforcement third of the project. Hari is a friend, see, and he knows I’ll expect him to start pushing for some heavy scripts. Because if he doesn’t, he knows he’ll get the same shit from me that I get from him every time they run The Oscar.

  My World—And Welcome To It: Don’t miss it. A nice piece of work with William Windom playing James Thurber. Animation, shtick, good acting, genuine comedy, a real addition to the scrawny roster of worthwhile viewing. If only they’d scrap that bloody laugh track!

  The Debbie Reynolds Show: As many points as I have to give Miss Reynolds for quitting the show when NBC crossed her and ran a cancerstick ad, I cannot tell a lie. I managed to watch that awful first show for four minutes and twenty seconds (by my Accutron) before I fled shrieking. One can only wonder if Miss Reynolds caught the show herself. One remembers the Tammy Grimes Graf Zeppelin of some years ago. It was too bad Tammy didn’t hate cigarettes.

  The Courtship of Eddie’s Father: is also fine. Producer Jimmy Komack, despite his stated reluctance to even take a visible part in the proceedings (many months ago), steals any part of the show in which he appears. What he doesn’t grab, this kid, Eddie, played by Brandon Cruz, manages to cop. And so my award for bravest man in the world goes to Bill Bixby, who plays the “lead.” Any man who’ll toss himself onto a screen with leggy, foxy chicks, a tiny Japanese lady, Jimmy Komack and a kid actor, has got to be the most secure, bravest actor in town.

  Bracken’s World: Oh, this one, friends, I gotta do an entire column on. Suffice it to say that a man who wrote a movie as shitty as The Oscar is the only one in a position to comment on Bracken’s World. I know it’s going to be tough sitting through it, gang, but I recommend that you not miss it. It has the evil fascination of rotting orchids. And smells about the same. More of this cesspool at a later date. I’m going to let them expose their running sores and pustules a while longer before I lance them proper.

  * * * *

  Yeah, just as I thought. No room to tell you how good and groovy Woody Allen was, or how uptight The Battered Child put me, or even about the ABC News Special on Ethics In Government, which was really chilling. But I’ll be here again next week, so maybe we can rap about them then.

  Oh ... yeah ... I almost forgot. For those of you who might have caught your charismatic commentator on John Barbour’s Sunday night show (KTTV, Channel 11) last week, who called to tell me they wished Mr. Barbour had spent more time with me and talked about something more important than Western movies, rest easily. Mr. Barbour and his producer have indicated they want me to return shortly, and I will take such an opportunity to say onscreen a few of the things I’ve been saying on your behalf in these columns.

  One never knows. I might attract a following, become a “TV personality,” talk about revolution and getting it all together ... and get shot in the head by a True American.

  Stay tuned. History may swallow all of us as we hone our razors.

  Is that the snick of needles I hear?

  * * * *

  41: 3 OCTOBER 69

  This is a special week for me. It’s the first anniversary of this column. The 42nd installment. [Through a fluke of rearrangement to maintain continuity, it is the 41st column in this book; but it was the 42nd I wrote. —HE] And what grinds me most is that it isn’t the 52nd. I missed ten weeks worth of columns; eight times my fault, twice the Freep’s. In this year, since Art Kunkin collared me at that party and said write something for us, a great many things have gone down. For me, for you, for television, for the country, and for the world.

  We’re on the moon now, but we’re still in Viet Nam. Julian Bond got elected, but so did Nixon. Kurt Vonnegut had a best-seller, but so did Jaqueline Susann. 60 Minutes and First Tuesday got some things said, but we lost the Smothers Brothers. Che turned out a dud, but Easy Rider came out of nowhere. Reddin left the law, but we got him on the tiny screen. There were plenty of protests, but very few riots.

  Don’t ask me if things got better this last year, because I don’t think so. I went down to the Valley, to a high school, to talk to some kids about . . . stuff, you know . . . what seems to be happening . . . trying to understand, and like that . . . and while I was inside the school, some other kids busted my car and swiped my tapes. What do you say? How pissed-off you get, how upset, how ironic? Very little of it makes any sense. The nits behind Operation Intercept actually think they’re going to kill off marijuana, when everybody with a grain of sense knows all they’re doing is setting up a Prohibition scene so grass becomes big enough business for the Cosa Nostra to add it to its roster of enterprises. How do you break through their fifty years of conditioning? How do you get them to tell a little truth, cop to the fact that everybody’s turning on, that maybe it’s not devil-weed, but only as good or bad as booze? The mil
itary spend our money, kill our friends, fuck up our country, and all in the name of keeping us safe from the wrong bogey man. We’ve gone so far into the bag of killing trust and honesty among one another that we’re like Cro-Magnons again. We have to approach one another with our hands outstretched, palms up. We have to show we’re weaponless. And still it doesn’t help. Why do we continue to hurt one another? Why do we persist in lying? And why do we stand by and let other men poison our world?

  So don’t ask me if the year has totaled out at profit or loss. I don’t know. The only thing I know is that I’ll be here this year, too, and I’ll keep trying to make some sense out of it. Entertainment is only part of what I’m into here, and I have to thank those of you who loved or hated what I did last year sufficiently to comment on it. And I ask this of you: keep me honest. Copping out gets easier and easier, the higher the stakes get.

  Now let’s get to work this week.

  * * * *

  ELLISON’S CAPSULE REVIEWS OF NEW SHOWS!!! (Part 2).

  To Rome with Love: returns John Forsythe to the ranks of situation comedy half-hours. He’s not a bachelor father in this incarnation, he’s a widowed father, with three little girls, one of whom, played by Joyce Menges, is the nicest looking chick to come on the tube since Anjanette Comer made it. But even Miss Menges’ sensual face isn’t enough to save this paucive little half hour from falling down the saccharine tube. There are so many poignant moments of Forsythe and his kids looking woebegone because “Mommy” is dead, one begins to suspect she croaked from familial diabetes. If this series were to fold tonight, it would have passed with no one’s having known it was there.