‘Your Show of Shows’ a Classic Reminder of Television’s Potential

A Sid Caesar and Imogene Coco signed photo from Your Show of Shows went to auction in February 2003.

By Jim O’Neal

In the fall of 1949, inside a room on the 23rd floor of NBC’s Manhattan headquarters, an ensemble of comedy writers were preparing to give Americans a reason to stay home on Saturday nights, glued to their 10-inch televisions. Soon, their efforts would spread fear down Broadway, just as Hollywood was beginning to worry about the effects of television on box-office receipts.

But this seemed different. The sophisticated, rowdy and mainly 20-something staff was about to use the relatively new medium of television to create stay-at-home laughter that surpassed everything that came before. From its premiere on Feb. 25, 1950, the manic energy of Your Show of Shows, starring Sid Caesar, Imogene Coca, Carl Reiner and Howard Morris, turned Saturday nights into a showcase for pure comedic genius.

Aside from launching legendary careers for Woody Allen, Mel Brooks and Larry Gelbart, the 90-minute revue provided a beacon of hope and direction to a medium that needed both.

It had started when NBC’s television programming chief, Pat Weaver, pitched Your Show of Shows in 1949 to Max Liebman, a veteran producer. Since television’s debut in 1946, networks attracted advertisers by allowing sponsors to buy entire timeslots and produce their own shows. A prime example was the Texaco Star Theater featuring Milton Berle.

Weaver had an entirely different concept. His network would air its own shows and sell “spots” of airtime to multiple companies. Liebman had been the first to pair Caesar and Coca when he directed a sponsor-driven program, the Admiral Broadway Revue, and he agreed to produce this new NBC-owned show. He quickly decided to reunite Caesar and Coca and then form the writing team around them.

A dream team as it turned out. Sid Caesar described it best: “This writing staff was pure magic. We were all a little bit crazy, but it somehow produced terrific material.” All that talent converged in the smoke-filled “writers’ room.” It was where the 21-year-old Mel Brooks would punctuate his chronic lateness by screaming, “Lindy has landed!” – much to the open anger of the demanding Sid Caesar.

Lucille Kallen, the lone female writer, is quoted as saying the team literally lived Your Show of Shows, working seven days a week, 39 weeks a year from that office … and loving every minute.

In what would later be known as television’s Golden Age, the incomparable staff created a gallery of memorable sketches, brought to life by Caesar, Coca, Carl Reiner and Howard Morris. There were movie parodies like From Here to Obscurity, Mel Brooks’ 2000 Year Old Man, and the extraordinary chemistry between Coca and Caesar, displayed in the saga of Doris and Charlie Hickenlooper’s floundering marriage. And, of course, Caesar’s portrayal of the “Professor.”

The show was so popular that Broadway movie and theater owners, after experiencing a dramatic box-office decline, pleaded with NBC executives to move the TV show to midweek. Even critics loved it. The notoriously harsh Larry Wolters of the Chicago Tribune wrote, “Sid Caesar doesn’t steal jokes, he doesn’t borrow ideas or material. A gag is as useless to him as a fresh situation to Milton Berle.” Alfred Hitchcock said, “The young Mr. Caesar best approaches the great Chaplin of the early years.”

What effect did the show, running over five years, have on television? Consider this: When it debuted in 1950, there were 4 million sets in American households. When the final curtain fell on the Hickenloopers and company, over half of the nation’s 48 million homes had a television.

Coincidence? Perhaps, but it’s also a reminder of what television at its very best could be … before the “vast wasteland” encroached.

Intelligent Collector blogger JIM O’NEAL is an avid collector and history buff. He is president and CEO of Frito-Lay International [retired] and earlier served as chair and CEO of PepsiCo Restaurants International [KFC Pizza Hut and Taco Bell].

‘M*A*S*H’ Showed Us How Far Intelligent TV Can Go

Rick Meyerowitz’s original M*A*S*H art for a 1974 cover of TV Guide sold for $657 at a June 2008 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

By 1983, the population of the United States had increased to 232 million … and virtually everyone was watching television on a regular basis. On Feb. 23, over 50 percent of them (best estimate is 125 million) tuned in that night to the last episode of one of their all-time favorite shows, M*A*S*H.

For weeks, newspapers had run contests asking readers to suggest how the show should end. “M*A*S*H Bashes” were held in every major city and people donned old army fatigues to watch the show, primarily in bars. Seventy-one percent of viewers watching television that night helped “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen” become the most-watched show in history. (No. 2 is Cheers for its finale “One For The Road.”)

We were saying farewell, not just to beloved television characters, but to an era and anti-war spirit that the show had captured so brilliantly.

M*A*S*H, which ran for 11 years (1972-83), with 251 episodes that snagged nearly 100 Emmy nominations, is still broadcast in reruns and is considered one of network television’s finest efforts. It was based on Richard Hooker’s 1968 bestselling novel Mash: A Novel About Three Army Doctors and the 1970 feature film directed by Robert Altman. (Note: Some nitpickers claim it was really based on the failed film M*A*S*H Goes to Maine, which itself was based on Hooker’s 1972 book sequel.)

The story of a fictional Mobile Army Surgical Hospital near the front lines of the Korean War (technically a U.N. “police action”), the TV show was filled with the high jinks typical of the book and movie, yet it established its own tone of prickly intelligence, wit and sardonic warmth. In tackling the darker aspects of war, the show perfectly echoed a conscience-stricken America, deeply troubled by Vietnam. In reality, and with an exquisite touch of irony, the book’s author was a surgeon from Maine who served in a MASH unit in Korea and actually hated the show for its anti-war message!

M*A*S*H creator, comedy writer Larry Gelbart, put the wise-cracking, womanizing, yet humane Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce (Alan Alda) at the center of the action. Sharing Hawkeye’s flea-bitten tent were fellow surgeons “Trapper” John McIntyre and Frank Burns, who was having an affair with Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan, the strong-willed head nurse. A favorite was Max Klinger, a cross-dresser who would try anything to get home. The cast changed over time, and finally even Gelbart left, exhausted from battles with network sensors.

The last episode, “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen,” which ran 2½ hours, was a remarkable culmination of everything the series represented: good, funny television drama that probed the ugly underside of war – in that last case, the savagery of peace in the closing days of Korea.

“What happened on the bus?” psychiatrist Sidney Freedman keeps asking Hawkeye, who in the final episode’s opening is in a mental institution.

Slowly, we learn that on July 4, after a day at the beach, the unit’s bus stopped to pick up refugees and wounded G.I.’s who told them to drive the bus into the bushes to hide from an enemy patrol. Hawkeye keeps hissing at a refugee woman, to keep her rooster on her lap quiet. The woman complies and eventually the repressed memory emerges … the woman has smothered her own child.

Hawkeye shakily returns to the 4077th and on the night of the armistice, one of the worst rounds of casualties is brought in. “Does this look like peace to you?” Margaret asks. Then over the PA system comes a litany of the war’s damage, ending with “2 million killed and 100,000 Korean orphans.” As the unit is broken down, each character gropes toward civilian life.

As Hawkeye lifts off in a helicopter, he sees down below on the deserted 4077, spelled out in stones, a message from his friend B.J. Hunnicutt: GOODBYE.

This last episode, considered the best in television history, was more than a goodbye. It was an example of how far serious and intelligent television can go, and a reminder that it very rarely does.

Intelligent Collector blogger JIM O’NEAL is an avid collector and history buff. He is president and CEO of Frito-Lay International [retired] and earlier served as chair and CEO of PepsiCo Restaurants International [KFC Pizza Hut and Taco Bell].