season of the witch

It has been nearly six months since I did a blog post about television. Considering my daily participation in the activity of watching television holds such an important place in my life, let's remedy the situation right here and right now.

One of my favorite TV comedies was Bewitched. I remember watching and loving this show in its initial network run and still enjoying it in countless reruns throughout my teen years and later... right up to today. The show was conceived by screenwriter Sol Saks, lifting inspiration from the films I Married a Witch and Bell, Book and Candle. Saks had little to do with the series once production began. Those duties were shifted around a bit before chief director William Asher took over creative control for the show's eight seasons. Unable to settle on a deal with actress Tammy Grimes, Asher cast his wife Elizabeth Montgomery in the lead role as a real-life witch trying to live a life as a typical suburban housewife. Premiering in the Fall of 1964, Bewitched focused more on allegorical plotlines, substituting witchcraft for the tribulations of a mixed marriage. The "magic" actually took a back seat to standard "husband and wife" problems. The show was ABC's highest rated series and the second highest rated show across all three major networks, only bested by NBC's mighty Bonanza. By Season Three, head writer Danny Arnold and producer William Froug had left the production. William Asher became the default showrunner and took the comedy into a much more broad and slapstick direction, harkening back to what he learned as a sometimes director on I Love Lucy. 

Season Three opened with the switch to episodes filmed in color. For a long time, only these episodes where broadcast in syndication. It was believed that audiences wouldn't watch reruns in black & white (despite the perennial popularity of The Dick Van Dyke Show, The Andy Griffith Show and even I Love Lucy). Nevertheless, Bewitched was as popular a show in reruns and it was in the beginning of its first run.

Aside from its compelling and adorable star, the show was known for its mid-season replacement of co-star Dick York, who played the irascible "Darrin Stephens," beleaguered but loving husband to Montgomery's "Samantha." York had been injured on a 1959 movie set and was in constant pain for the rest of his life. After collapsing on-set in 1969, York was replaced midway through Season Six by actor Dick Sargent, coincidentally the original choice for the role at the show's conception. The show is much maligned for the switch and the decision is often cited as the downfall of the show. But that was not the only casting change on the series. There were many. The series featured two "Gladys Kravitz"s, two "Frank Stephens" (Darrin's father) and two "Louise Tate"s (Darrin's asshole boss Larry's wife). Many actors played multiple roles over the years, including Paul Lynde. Lynde was best remembered as Samantha's mischievous "Uncle Arthur." But the comedian appeared in an early episode as a driving instructor. Bernard Fox, who had a recurring role as the eccentric "Dr. Bombay," played a witch-hunting anthropologist in the second season. Veteran character actors Herb Voland, Edward Andrews, Larry D. Mann and Charles Lane appeared as various different prospective clients of McMann & Tate, Darrin's employer. And, of course, Elizabeth Montgomery took a shot herself, donning a brunette wig and flirty attitude as Samantha's sultry cousin "Serena" (credited playfully as "Pandora Spocks"). I have to admit, my little crush on Elizabeth Montgomery heightened when she played Serena. I think everyone's did.

In recent viewings of my beloved Bewitched, I noticed something that eluded me as a child, adolescent and even as a young (unaware) adult. Bewitched exhibited a pretty shitty view of women and marriage. There is an overall attitude of mistrust between husband and wife. Every female client of Darrin's makes some sort of overt sexual advancement on him, despite his protests of being happily married. Male clients brought home (on an unusually regular basis) for dinner, often make unwanted moves on Samantha once Darrin has exited the room to make drinks. Even her firm pleas of "NO!" are met with chuckles and even more grabby attempts to violate Samantha's personal space. Endora, Samantha's overbearing mother, is constantly filling her daughter's mind with notions of an unfaithful Darrin (or "Derwood" as she often calls him). Larry Tate leers at female clients and secretaries and every other woman who shows up, while Serena makes suggestive small talk with Larry right in front of his wife (whether it be Irene Vernon or Kasey Rogers). Nobody trusts anyone. Everyone lies to cover up a misunderstanding that could otherwise be easily explained in a loving trusting relationship. I suppose in the 60s and 70s, infidelity and adultery was good fodder for sitcoms. The home audience seemed to respond favorably, as Bewitched ranked among the top shows on television for most of its entire run.

Ironically, Bewitched's demise was met at the hands of another TV comedy, one that addressed real-life problems like bigotry, racism and even sexuality. Once Bewitched was broadcast opposite the up-and-coming All in the Family, its fate was sealed. Bewitched was canceled at the end of its eighth season. (In reality, Elizabeth Montgomery wanted out after five seasons, hoping to ignite a film career based on her popularity. Instead, ABC threw a ton of money and other financial incentives her way in a proverbial "offer she couldn't refuse.")

In the wake of the #MeToo movement and women's rights in general, I find Bewitched difficult to watch now. The fashions and dialog notwithstanding, the show is dated. Very, very dated. Sure there are other shows that are just as dated, like Leave It to Beaver. But that show depicts a time of old fashioned family values, the benefits of a loyal friendship and morality. Bewitched evokes a time that we should really be embarrassed by — and I don't mean because of the wide neckties and overuse of the word "groovy."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's call this song exactly what it is

Four jobs ago, I used to ride the train every day to downtown Philadelphia. I'd see a lot of the same people at the train station (which is just a few feet from my suburban Philadelphia home). Of course, I didn't know any of these people. They were just commuters, like me, on their way to work. In my mind, I'd make up little stories about them to amuse myself while I waited for the train to arrive. I had a lot of time to let my imagination wander, as the train was rarely on time. 

There was one guy who I saw on an almost daily basis. I don't like to pass judgement on people (who am I kidding? yes I do!) whom I don't know. But, as human nature would have it, I formed an instant opinion about this guy from the moment I saw him... and I didn't like him. He always sported a smirk on his face and swung his large briefcase nervously as he expounded some long-winded explanation to a small group of similarly-dressed men in way-too-loud a voice.

The job to which I referred — the one that was the destination of my train ride — was working at a mid-sized law firm. While my position didn't require me to interact with lawyers regularly, I did have several encounters with attorneys over the course of the dozen years I worked there. Some of them — not all — were arrogant and nasty. The ones that fit into that category all exhibited the same hubris in their conversation, demands and actions. Sure, there were plenty of lawyers who were nice and personable, but still, there was this over-arching air of "I am better than you" that one could feel hanging heavy in the course of any verbal exchange — no matter how brief or lengthy. In my personal experience, I concluded that those who attended law school were convinced that the certificate they received upon graduation assured expertise in the field of law — as well as every other profession. Even ones in which their course of study did not cover. I don't remotely profess to know anything about the legalities of anything, but I have had attorneys point out all the things I was doing wrong in graphic design.

The guy at the train station, I discovered via a long-time friend and travelling companion, was a lawyer. I revealed my instant, though admittedly baseless, dislike of this guy to my friend. My friend vehemently dismissed my assessment of the guy, telling me, "No! You've got him all wrong! He's a sweetheart!" Granted, my friend is an eternal optimist, always seeing the sunny side of pretty much everything. She likes everyone. I can't understand how we've been friends for so long.

Sometime after my friend's reprimanding of me, I overheard the train station guy again. It was tough not to overhear him, as he spoke loudly. Very loudly. Way too loudly for the other person in his conversation. He spoke as though he was addressing the entire train station assembly. Perhaps he was. All he was missing was a podium. He spoke of how he was running for a position on the local school board and talked about all of the plans he had once elected. 

(Get ready for another opinion)

I have lived in my house for 35 years. I love this neighborhood, but there is a very elitist attitude among some of the more  — shall we say  — "affluent" citizens. Their houses are bigger than mine. Those big houses sit on more property than I own. And their "say" in local matters is more influential than mine. This little coterie likes to serve on committees and tell other people what to do. Makes 'em feel important and a contributor to "the greater good" — their own personal "greater good." The train station guy is one of those "I like to serve on committees" people. He won a spot on the school board and, subsequently, became the head of the school board of my district.

I don't take the train to that job anymore. As I mentioned, I have had three jobs since then, so I don't see the train station guy anymore. Until this week.

It's graduation time and, as head of the local school district, the train station guy offered some words of inspiration to the high school graduating class of 2021. Clad in an honorary cap and gown, a pair of comically-large glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the train station guy delivered a speech in which he quoted — although misinterpreted — from a blog post by an acknowledged hero of his, Professor Heather Cox Richardson, a professor of American History at Boston College. The train station guy related anecdotes about abolitionist Frederick Douglass, saying that Douglass had a "pretty good position" relative to other black slaves.  He also said that his escape to freedom in 1838 was — and I quote — "ridiculously easy." The majority of the student body of the high school is African-American. Murmurs rumbled through the audience and graduates as the words echoed through the public address system. The train station guy is just another white guy in a long line of white guys who don't know when to shut up about things they don't know about. Oh... wait.... there isn't any subject they don't know about.

A very short time after his speech, an official announcement from the school board was released. It explained that the train station guy was stepping down from his position as school board head. It also related an apology for his insensitive expression and inappropriate use of the forum. The story made local, national and international news. A YouTube video of the commencement ceremony was edited and carried a newly-inserted disclaimer at the beginning.

I can't understand how the speech got as far as being actually spoken. Didn't the train station guy run it by a few close friends or family members or colleagues or anyone who isn't white before saying "Yeah, this sounds right. This is what I'll go with."? In all of the wisdom which he flaunted at the train station, couldn't he see the insensitive and hurtful nature of the words he deemed appropriate for a high school graduation speech? I suppose not.

But it looks like my first impression of him was spot on after all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't speak

I work on the 36th floor of the 15th tallest building in Philadelphia. At 41 floors high, it takes three separate elevator banks of six cars each to service the building efficiently. The elevators are clearly designated as to which floors they travel. Giant signs sporting two-foot numerals clearly mark each elevator alcove. The far left group will take passengers to the mezzanine, all the way up to the 18th floor. The center group will skip the lower floors and make its first stop at 19. The last set of elevators — the ones I take to my office each weekday morning — rocket up to the 30th floor where it begins its ascent to 41.

My building houses many different tenants — real estate developers, investment firms and some competing law firms. There are the occasional non-profits, but typical corporate entities occupy most of the floors. They receive very business-like visitors on a daily basis.

Earlier this week, I swiped my pass card at the front-desk security and headed towards the elevators. There were already a few people waiting. Soon we were joined by several more people, including one young lady with a briefcase who was sticking a self-adhesive "VISITOR" pass on her expensive-looking blazer. She was a "dressed for success" type in an impeccably coordinated ensemble and every hair in place. She waited patiently with the gathering crowd for an elevator to arrive.

Finally, a metallic DING announced the arrival of an elevator ready for the next load of passengers. Six or so of us filed in and dutifully pressed buttons for our various desired floors. The doors silently slid closed and we were off — whooshing past the lower floors. In my peripheral vision, I saw the young lady with the briefcase stare at the button panel. She squinted, raising and lowering her head, obviously in search of something that she was not finding. 

The car stopped at 30 and a man got out. Since its button was not pushed, the 31st floor was skipped, but two people exited when the car stopped at 32. The young lady with the briefcase turned and addressed the remaining passengers in the moving car.

"Um...," she began hesitantly, "don't all the elevators stop at all the floors?"

No one answered. Except, surprisingly, me.

"No, they don't. These," I pointed down, indicating the car we were in, "only stop at 30 through 41. Where are you going?"

She frowned and sort of stomped her high-heeled foot. "I'm going to 9." She kept on frowning.

"Well," I began my instruction, as the car paused briefly so several folks could disembark at 34, "you'll have to stay on until I get off at 36. Take the elevator all the way down to the lobby, get off and walk to the far grouping of elevators. They go to the lower floors." I smiled.

She grit her teeth and banged her briefcase against her thigh. "Ugh! You would think that someone at the front desk would have told me."

At this point, we were the only two people left in the elevator. She was fuming. I tried to show some sympathy to her frustration. "Yeah, they probably should have said something."

She was not through venting. As the doors opened at 36, the young lady with the briefcase, the tailored jacket and coiffed hair — a woman who I had seen for the first time just minutes before; a woman who didn't know me, didn't know my family, didn't know my background — just blurted out to a veritable stranger: "Those people at the desk are retarded." Then, she looked at me, lowered her voice and twisted her lips into a feeble smile. "Oh, excuse me," she said, "Have a nice day."

I stepped out of the elevator and the doors closed. I hope whoever she was visiting in the building was very clear with their instructions.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com