was precarious. The early experimental spirit of US TV was being rapidly eroded as big money entered the equation, and ratings became the only thing that mattered.
Kovacs was obliged to switch again, to ABC, for a series of specials and a quiz show, Take a Good Look. The quiz show featured his most expensive gag of all – as a used car salesman slaps a car on the bonnet, it falls through a hole in the ground, creating a bill of thousands of dollars for a thirty-second quickie. The specials were recorded with a dedicated crew in marathon all-weekend studio lock-ins. Alongside familiar routines, he created elaborate and rather elegant musical ballets of office equipment and other inanimate objects. His disdain for network top brass made itself felt in satirically amended end credits.(‘Associate Producer (That’s like STEALING money!)’)
These shows won Kovacs his only Emmy, for ‘outstanding achievement in electronic camerawork’. He died in a car accident shortly after recording the eighth, which was shown in tribute a fortnight later. Like the experimenters who followed him, Kovacs remained on the fringes of television, distrustful of its grandees and eager to undermine and mock them at every opportunity, finding door after door slammed in his face as a result. As a career model for fame-hungry comics, he was as lousy as they came. As a master craftsman, he was among the greatest.
THE PHILCO-GOODYEAR TELEVISION PLAYHOUSE: MARTY (1953)
NBC (Showcase)
TV drama mines the mundane.
I am just now becoming aware of this marvellous world of the ordinary. This is an age of savage introspection, and television is the dramatic medium through which to expose our new insights into ourselves.
Paddy Chayefsky, 1956
AS TELEVISION BEGAN COLONISING the lounges of urban America, Hollywood started to panic. Playing to their strengths, the big studios began turning out product that emphasised the things TV couldn’t provide: colour, star power, and most of all, size. The big screen was filled with big names in big adventures; pageants, epics and melodramas in which the safety of lives, societies, even the world hung in the balance. The challenge was made: fit that lot into your ten inches of bulbous glass.
Many programmes valiantly, if foolishly, tried to compete. Wiser heads moved in the opposite direction. Paddy Chayefsky, scion of a Russian Jewish family in the Bronx, was one of the first and best writers to size up what the small screen could and couldn’t show. A moderately successful playwright, he moved into television in 1952 when the US government lifted restrictions on new TV stations, causing audiences to rocket. As Chayefsky saw it, ‘television, the scorned stepchild of drama, may well be the basic theatre of our century.’25
TV imitations of cinema condemned themselves to a lazy, second rate status, the lack of resources perpetually showing them up. ‘You cannot handle comfortably more than four people on the screen at the same time,’ he wrote. ‘The efforts of enterprising directors to capture the effect of five thousand people by using ten actors are pathetic.’26 From his very first TV efforts, Chayefsky took a clear look at how life could convincingly be crammed into that tiny box.
It was during the rehearsals for The Reluctant Citizen, a play about an elderly Jewish immigrant, that Chayefsky found the scenario for his greatest TV work. Due to the cost of Manhattan real estate, NBC augmented their rehearsal studios at 30 Rock with any spare bit of space going in the city. Hotel ballrooms in daylight hours were a prime source. While mooching around one of these during a break, Chayefsky’s eye fell on a sign put up for a singles night: ‘Girls, please dance with the man who asks you. Remember, men have feelings too.’ This intimation of painful male shyness caught Chayefsky’s imagination, and he soon began writing ‘the most ordinary love story in the world.’27
Rod Steiger played the title role, a good-natured but reticent Italian-American butcher in the Bronx shamed by friends, family and customers for his enduring single status at thirty-six. (‘I’m a fat, ugly little guy and the girls don’t go for me, that’s all.’) One night he’s all but forced into going to a singles dance by his domineering mother. (‘Why don’t you go to the Waverley Ballroom? It’s loaded with tomatoes!’) The evening looks like being yet another slog of rejection and heartache, until a lairy guy offers him five bucks to take ‘a real dog’ off his hands. Marty is disgusted by the idea, but finds the girl in question, Clara. He asks her, genuinely, for a dance and they bond over their shared misfortunes. (‘You don’t get to be good-hearted by accident. You gotta be kicked around long enough and hard enough, then you get to be like a real … a professor of pain, you know?’)
The rough, natural dialogue with its repetitive, drowsy poetry was a revelation. The final scene, in which Marty finally plucks up courage to spurn his deadbeat pals, phone Clara and ask her out, was partly improvised by Steiger when the real dialogue slipped out of his head on the night. It fitted in seamlessly. His performance impressed director Elia Kazan enough to land him a part on On the Waterfront, and a star was born. Cinema may have had TV looking over its shoulder, but ‘movie star’ remained the top job.
‘The basic limitation of television is time,’ thought Chayefsky. ‘Television cannot take a thick, fully woven fabric of drama. It can only handle simple lines of movement and consequently smaller amounts of crisis.’28 That said, Marty packed a great deal into well under an hour. Its wonderfully minimal effects included an exterior shot of the ballroom made from cardboard and light bulbs. When Marty followed the distraught Clara out onto the ballroom fire escape and asked her to dance, the tender moment was undercut by some incidental laughter from elsewhere in the building. Marty was a basic affair, but basic didn’t mean simple.
Two years later Marty became the first TV drama to be remade for the big screen. With Ernest Borgnine in the lead, real Bronx locations and an expansion of the ‘cantankerous aunt’ subplot, it was a mighty success and took several Oscars, including Best Picture and Screenplay. Chayefsky had achieved that rarest of fames: the TV writer as household name. In a Nat Hiken comedy sketch, Phil Silvers played one half of a pretentious theatregoing couple who mistake the apartment of a dysfunctional, blue collar family for an off-off-Broadway venue. As they settle on the sofa, the nonplussed residents start squabbling at top volume. Silvers knowingly remarks to his wife, ‘obviously by Paddy Chayefsky’.
The TV networks moved their centres of production across country to Hollywood, and Chayefsky fell out of love with the medium he’d championed. The easy, trusting commissions he’d had in the early years gave way to the business-driven pseudo-science of corporation men, with whose ideas the writer was expected to compromise willingly. Many of Chayefsky’s pitches got no further than the pilot stage, including a 1965 sitcom version of Marty starring Tom Bosley.
Another grounded project was The Man Who Beat Ed Sullivan, about a hick Ohio entertainer whose marathon variety show becomes a national sensation. (Chayefsky didn’t help his case by insisting that the variety show within the play should actually be a full-on, three-hour spectacular in itself.) It wasn’t until 1974 that Chayefsky arranged his televisual disaffection into a film script about a suicidal newsreader, a power-crazed producer and a corporate conspiracy: his valedictory masterpiece, the cellar-dark satire Network. It was a damning testimony against the medium’s worst excesses by one of its pre-eminent craftsmen; television’s finest humane miniaturist denouncing its increasingly inhuman gigantism. Promoting the film, Chayefsky had three sad words for his alma mater: ‘Television? Forget it.’29
