Mondo Librium

Mondo Librium

Prime Time

by Richard C. Walls

It was a puzzle. Hill Street Blues was exactly the type of show I knew I should like—the advance reviews were uniformly ecstatic, the ads dripped sincerity—and it wasn’t just some effete gesture by a major network made to appease esoteric culture buffs. This show promised Meaningfulness and Human Situations done with Humor and Grittiness. It was precisely the sort of show that should have appealed to someone like myself, someone who constantly derides television (while constantly watching it) and its viewers (mindless'assholes, all of’em). The snob appeal alone was terrific. And as I watched the opening episodes 1 could see that it was all there as promised. The production values were high, the ensemble chemistry chemmed admirably, the writing was literate. And I knew too that when the show was cancelled (for it would be, of course) then, like all the other disgruntled critics, I’d use its memory to beat television a little bit harder, to enhance my already festering cynicism—“Just look at what happened with Hill Street Blues—quality programming doesn’t stand a chance on the networks—people get the television they deserve—it seems as tho almost everybody in this country is either stupid or insane or both—blah, blah, blah.”

And yet. And yet despite being cognizant of all that 1 didn’t like the show. I didn’t like it a lot. In fact, as time went on I came to hate it. I was puzzled. I could tell it was good but it wasn’t working for me at all—the humor left me cold, the stabs at social realism irritated me, the high production values seemed pushy, and the scientifically balanced cast chemistry seemed trivial.

What was going on?

☆ ☆ ☆

Two years ago I’d written a column about a certain Meat Mendell (not his real name—not anybody’s real name). I disguised the character somewhat out of respect for the real Mendell’s privacy and quoted several of what I considered insightful observations that he’d laid on me while we watched that year’s Acadamy Awards show. I thought it’d be amusing to satirize Mendell’s hermetic life style and generally (but delightfully, Mendell, delightfully) eccentric behavior. For some reason, he objected to my gentle whimsy, particularly the part where I had him crushing his cat under his TV and then urinating on the whole mess. I assured him that no one would recognize him and that no one cared but, like many an eccentric, Mendell has a highly developed sense of principle. He was offended and so I had mostly avoided him these past two years.

But he was the only person I’d ever met who seemed to understand television and could talk about it with clarity and intelligence. He seemed the only one who might be able to help me with my Hill Street dilemma...

☆ ☆ ☆

Mendell’s greeting was less than encouraging. “Are you still writing that godawful column for that shitty rag?”

I assured him that I was.

“Really,” he said, “I don’t understand why anyone would print that rambling drool. And you know you could do better than that. You ought to be ashamed.”

“Yeah... well;. .1 dunno..

“You’re pathetic. Walls, you know that? I used to have hopes for you, man. You were bright, witty, and had something to say.. .and now you just churn out this obscure garbage that nobody reads...

“...duh...”

“You’re despicable.. .burnt out...” He sighed and mumbled something about the sad fate of “our generation.” Relaxed now, the venom spent, he glanced around the room in his familiar abstracted manner, then looked back at me and shrugged. “This is unusual weather for April, don’t you think?”

“Yes! Yes, very unusual...” Now I could ask him what I wanted to know.

☆ ☆ ☆

I posited my puzzle—why was this well done, well intentioned show such a turn off?

“I know what you mean,” he said. “I don’t like it either. Maybe there’s hope for you yet. I think it’s simple really—you don’t like the show because it’s so damn good. You resent its manipulative mixture of moods and you’re bored by its classy production values. It’sd.'o.a., man, the show’s a stiff and as phoney in its way as the Dukes OfHazzard.. .cute hoodlums and wise cops...gimme a break... ”

“But it’s not all cute and wise,” I said. “They show a variety of types including crooked cops and repulsive criminals...”

“Maybe,” he said, “but it’s still a scientific mixture. It’s bland.”

“I dunno,” I persisted. “I still feel thatl’m missing something. All the critics love it.. .they couldn’t all be idiots...”

“Why not? But don’t think along those lines or you’ll just become more cynical and useless than you already are...

“Listen,” he went on in his most avuncular tone, “It’s all right to dislike the show.. .you should have more confidence in your opinion... even if it is a minority one... if you’re suspicious of the status quo standards of value there’s always a good chance that you’re on the right track.. .and remember, no matter how bizarre you may think your point of view is, there’s always someone who sees things in a weirder light. So relax and try believing in yourself a little.”

“Gosh,” I said.

☆ ☆ ☆

As my visit wore on, Mendell became even more expansive. “I’ll tell you what’s worth watching lately,” he said, “what the two best shows on TV right now are—”

“Lemme guess,” I said. “Leave It To Beaver is one, right?”

“Screw Leave it To Beaver. The two best shows on TV right now are Auction Movie and Wok With Yan. Can you digit?”.

“Uh...”

“Auction Movie is choice.. .this goes beyond inept into a whole new art form. It’s the visual equivalent of an endless solo by some third-rate avant garde sax player. The host has negative charisma and the movies are incoherent poverty row aberrations. It’s not easy to watch but it’s good for you... indulging in such undiluted badness clears the mind, purifies the soul, and brings.you closer to the existential core of things. You come out the other side of the experience a better human being.

“ Wok With Yan is a little less progressive. It’s your basic ethnic joke filtered thru several shades of surrealism. A Chinese cooking show.. .wok cooking. It’s dumb and unpretentious and doesn’t mean anything. Watching Yan do the feeble-minded but lovable number for a studio audience of appreciative Canadians—”

“Canadians!”

“All right, don’t get hot... anyway, these are the types of shows you should be writing about...”

“I dunno.. .those are local shows and

CREEM’s a nation-wide gig. ”

“Specifically, they’re local, but every city has its own equivalent.. .these shows are where the action is, so to speak.. .watching that alleged ‘quality’ shit is just going to make you depressed and confused... trust your instincts.. .and get into Auction Movie... ”

☆ ☆ ☆

I left the encounter renewed and refreshed. Everything Mendell said made perfect sense. Hill Street Blues was a stiff. The best things on TV were the benighted little local shows that nobody took seriously. Bad was good, and horrible was better... nothing meant much anymore and things that didn’t mean anything meant more than things that did...

Of course, he could be wrong...