Resurrection Hooterville

Resurrection Hooterville

THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES (Syndicated)

PETTICOAT JUNCTION (Syndicated)

A year or so ago in these pages, John “Fitzgerald” Kordosh gamely confronted the enigma of Green Acres, correctly pointing out its superior contribution to the nothing world of television. But little did he know that his trailblazing illumination of seedlife and pigsqueal zooting would lead to an examination of the other two sides of the hickster triumvirate, The Beverly Hillbillies and Petticoat Junction. Well, maybe he knew. What he didn’t know was that somebody else would beat him to the Green Stamps. Nyah-Nyah— nurse my earlobe, sucker!

The whole circle jerky began with the Hillbillies. Premiering on CBS in 1962, Jed and his dillardly crew held the * 1 spot in the ratings for the first two years on the air, halting the brain function of as many as 60 million satisfied viewers a week:

Being no dummy (yet), producer/creator Paul Henning shuttled Cousin Pearl (Bea Benadaret) into her own spinoff series as Kate Bradley in Petticoat Junction, followed shortly by its illegitimate piglet, Green Acres.

Both were hits, and Henning was ready to spin off Arnold the hog and Jethro’s brain into their own programs when CBS cancelled all three shows during the ’70-’71 season in order to deliver the urban audience that national advertisers grovelled for. Today, dropping a show with the numbers of the Big Three would be viewed as criminal stupidity, punishable by repeated exposure to an inquisitive Kitty Carlisle.

What was so great about these bravely unsophisticated jowl dramas? It wasn’tjust the imaginative gag-writing or the talented, loosey-goosey casts. At the core of each show was the beatific grace of deadpan, HeeHaw:ke dumbness, an honest silliness that will never be seen again, now that comedy has an IQ.

You don’t see dreambag casts with the interaction of the goony ’billies. The true star of the show was Granny (Irene Ryan), a deeply disturbed mass-murderer of possums who alternated between an intuitive hatred of the 60’s and the emotional devastation of the dreaded “Granny’s Complaint.” The old gal stole almost every show, picked up a bunch of Emmy awards and thqn conveniently died around syndication time. Irene goodnight!

Jed Clampett (Buddy Ebsen) was a man for the 80’s if ever there was one. Describing his own state of mind as “twixt grass and hay,” Jed was a motiveless model for the slobbed-out set. This is the man who said, “I’m so tired I couldn’t yell suey if the pigs had me down"; the genius who once casually observed “These are city folk—you might as well try and milk a chicken as try to figure them out.” Yes, this is the poet who described a fellow snoozer as “the kind of guy that, when he goes downhill, he picks up speed.” Chef! Chef!

Some of his most inspired mugging in the history of history occured in one of their Crazy Beatnik episodes, an annual event on both shows. A very daddeo hepcat crashes his car into the front of the Clampett mansion. Granny and the kids (Jethro and Elly May) are so knocked out by his hoopster lingo that they decide to become beats themselves. The four of them make the scene at a local cool preserve, where Granny inadvertently starts a new dance craze when she demonstrates how todig'taters.

Mr. Drysdale—theClampett's banker/straight man—dismisses them as “a bunch of coffeehouse rejects,” a phrase that could just as easily be applied to today’s Polygram artist roster. But the everunfazed Jed, unable or unwilling to communicate in poopster jive, sums it up with a sly, “looks like I dropped my hook in a fished-out creek. ” Or, as Mrs. Drysdale would say, “those dreadful hillbillies are at it again!’'

Petticoat Junction, on the other hand, featured a mostly reprehensible cast, particularly Kate’s three inbred daughters— Bobby Jo, Billie Jo and Betty Jo— all graduates of the school of underwater method acting. While the show did have its moments (Fve counted six so far), the stories usually revolved around the dim witted^atte mpts of local boys to secrete something in the girls’ root cellars. Oh yeah, and the time Bobby Jo read a book, became a feminist and cried out, “Uncle Joe, you’re denying me my destiny!”

The vile music of lactating accordians and sex-change harmonicas played an unfortunately influential role in Hooterville. If it wasn’t somebody feeling-up the piano at the Shady Rest hotel, it was the horrible background tweeting that was born when Flatt and Scruggs first orchestrated one of Elly May’s critter rubbing orgies. I mean it, I was so glad when Lester Flatt died! You’re next, Scruggo!

Speaking of disgusting animals, let’s not forget that Petticoat was the bun warmer that launched pooch kingpin Benji into his career of drooling and begging. Although he oftenjiad better lines than the three sister uglies, he was-so revoltingly cute that disgruntled cast members once tried to chain his snoot to the railroad tracks so that the Cannonball would crunch his woofer for good. What a way to love your dog!

The show gradually reverted to ’coon drivel, particularly after Bea Benadaret inconsiderately died in 1968 and was replaced by—doom da doom doom—June Lockhart.

I’m sure there’s a cryptically stained petticoat reserved for her in the hierarchy of nellydom. She deserved to be Lost In Space.

Since the Hillbillies aired for nine big seasons and Petticoat for seven, they’ll probably remain in syndication until the year 2525 at least. But will they ever be appreciated as the trash icons of crapola they represent?

I think not. As poet/historian Granny once sagely pointed out, “You can’t tell nothin’ from weenies.” Truer words, etc.

Rick Johnson