TV

[May 8, 1969] Cooked in the Chrysalis (The Monkees TV special: 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee)

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by Lorelei Marcus

I recently watched and reviewed the new Monkees movie, Head—a depressing and existential capper to both the TV show and The Monkees band itself.  I ended the article questioning whether the members of The Monkees would be able to weather the deliberate self-sabotage of their band, or be doomed to obscurity by disappointed fans.  While I appreciated Head for what it was, reception has been mixed and, in the main, less than positive.  It seemed the end of The Monkees would be a quiet, tragic one.

Until April 14 of this year.  Scheduled opposite the Oscars, NBC broadcast a TV special entitled 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee.  While half the country was dazzled by movie stars and award ceremonies, I watched the last hurrah of Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd.  It was an unusual finale, and not far removed from Head stylistically and, perhaps, in intent.  But in contrast to the grim movie, I thought I saw a glimmer of hope.

The special starts strong with the surreal introduction of a pair of musical brainwashers: ebullient Brian Auger (he introduced "Drimble Wedge and the Vegetation" in the movie Bedazzled) and the enigmatic Julie Driscoll—the front-folk for the popular British band, The Trinity.  The Monkees are summoned in on Star Trek-ish transporters and then trapped in giant tubes, hypnotized by a strange machine until they have lost all identity and free will, rejecting their own names for "Monkees No. 1-4".  This and their subsequent (though not immediately following) musical number, "Tinman", wherein they play wind-up versions of themselves, make clear their still strong feelings of being manufactured and forced into the band-idol role.

But unlike Head, the TV special offered glimpses of what The Monkees could be if given their freedom.

Even trapped with the tubes, The Monkees are given license to dream their most desired fantasy (essentially, what songs each might sing if they had complete license), and we view these dreams in the first four vignettes of the special.  Micky sings a soulful duet of "I'm a Believer" with Julie Driscoll.  He is at home on the stage, comfortable with being a vocal performer.

Peter sings a soft, mystical ballad with plenty of Indian influence.  The artistry of both the lyrics and the music emphasize his skill as a storyteller and musician.  They also echo his role in the pivotal Eye of the Storm scene in Head.

Mike's act involves a warring duet…with himself.  There is both humor and commentary as the stereotypical Texas country boy Mike and the slick, suit-wearing, city boy version of Mike compete for dominance in the song.

Finally, Davy stars in the most fantastical and theater-like number where he sings and dances in an oversized room with several female partners dressed like fairy-tale-inspired dolls.  He also demonstrates his prowess as a performer, and he seems the most entwined and comfortable with his (manufactured?) Monkees persona.

These acts are perhaps the best part of the special, with each Monkee getting to express his own personality and talents.  However, it does not last, and from there, the show begins to lose its way.

First, we get a random and slightly out of place modern dance piece performed against a volcanic/lava-lampy/biological matte background, that seems to be a depiction of evolution and creation.  This is in service to a motif introduced by Auger as Charles Darwin, describing the evolution of music. 

Then, we get a musical skit where the Monkees are dressed as actual monkees.  It might also be an homage to the first act of the movie 2001, the music is only passable, and a bit too similar to the next skit.

Here, the Monkees reach their ultimate form as a manufactured rock band in a full blown '50s nostalgia concert, poking fun at the success of idols like Elvis and The Beatles.  There are some impressive guest stars, including Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Little Richard, but as with the prior two segments, the scene goes on for much too long, losing meaning with every new dancer and musical guest brought on. 

As the concert reaches its climax, the film literally burns apart, and we are left with Auger and Driscoll declaring (in their native accents, as opposed to the weird German of Auger and the…alien harpy of Driscoll) that they're tired of their brainwashing role.  All they want is total freedom.  They warn, however, that such freedom could result in total chaos.

At first, their caution seems unfounded as we cut to Davy singing a normal and pleasant song atop a set of scaffolding.  Then, in the ensuing silence after he finishes, the camera pans to the cluttered ground floor, reminiscent of a theater storage room.  Peter arrives, and without a word, sits and plays a masterful Baroque fugue on an electric piano.  His performance is a poignant moment, and it feels like a long-deserved recognition of his immense musical talent…also a kind of goodbye, for the papers have since announced that Tork left the band after this special.

Then, just as casually and quietly, Micky sits at his drumset and Mike picks up his guitar.  They take a moment to tune, and then they begin to play a new song: "Listen to the Band."  For a little while, everything feels right again.  The band is together, the music is good.  They appear to be where they want to be.

The mood elevates as suddenly a whole orchestra joins in, and a new singer takes over for Mike. There is excitement in the dancing and flashing colors and swelling music—it's all a bit reminiscent of the final recording of The Beatles "All You Need is Love" as seen on year-before-last's satellite broadcast of Our World.  But then confusion sets in as the Monkees disappear from view in the massive crowd, and the music itself devolves into a cacophony of blended, formless sounds.  This also goes on for far longer than is comfortable, until the iconic Monkee's gorilla himself closes the book on the special, its cover titled, "The Beginning of the End."

Overall, I didn't enjoy this special as much as Head.  It felt much less thought-out and clever, lacking a cohesive narrative.  To a degree, I think this was intentional.  Time and again, both The Monkees and their music gets lost, drowned out by other musicians and strange editing.  In a specific sense, it is a direct metaphor for what happened to The Monkees.  In a general sense, it symbolizes the fear of being lost in the tide of change and innovation.  Or perhaps it represents simply being overwhelmed by the pressures of modern sociery.  Either way, it didn't make for the best viewing experience.

Still, I see a future where The Monkees do pull through.  Each of them has immense talent and an ambition to succeed in some aspect of show business.  In the beginning of the special, we see what they can do, and even if it's drowned out by the end, that doesn't mean they can't resurface.  In fact, as their band crumbles apart, disappearing may be the best path for a while, until they've thoroughly shaken off their former legacy and started fresh.

It's bittersweet having to say goodbye, and I wish it could have been done more elegantly, but I doubt this is the last we'll see of Micky, Peter, Davy or Mike.  It'll just be when they do come back, they'll have created something completely new.


"Listen to the band…"

33 1/3 Revolutions per Monkee was a paving stone in the path toward that innovation, and while it wasn't fully successful, I can see the potential within it for future success.

Three stars.




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[May 6, 1969] Touched by an Angel: Teorema (Theorem)

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by Brian Collins

Italian director Pier Paolo Pasolini is quite the character: a provocateur, author, leftist intellectual, and filmmaker. Despite his atheism and devotion to communism, his film The Gospel According to St. Matthew was nominated for multiple Oscars a few years ago, and indeed it's a lovely picture. Now we have Teorema, or Theorem in English, which premiered at the Venice Film Festival late last year to good reception. This is not, at first glance, a "genre" film, although it does have subtle supernatural elements, and like Pasolini's telling of the Jesus narrative it is deeply religiously concerned. It is also a political allegory, and the prudish might take issue with its erotic charge and depictions of homosexuality.

English poster for Teorema.

The film starts in a way that doesn't seem to connect with the proceeding plot, but at first glance it does at least make the film's nature as political allegory explicit. We have a documentary-like scene of a union leader being interviewed about something very strange happening recently: a factory owner has given said factory to his workers, seemingly out of a crisis of conscience. We're immediately met with some heady questions, such as: "Is it possible for the bourgeoisie to be transformed in the name of resolving class conflict? Is it even possible for the bourgeoisie to redeem itself, or are such redemptive acts merely the response to a crisis?" We also get a montage of a desert, near a volcano, which likewise seems unrelated to the plot at first.

Terence Stamp as the visitor.

We then cut to such an upper-class family, a husband (Massimo Girotti) and wife (Silvana Mangano) with their grown children, a son (Andrés José Cruz Soublette) and daughter (Anne Wiazemsky), plus a middle-aged servant (Laura Betti) who lives with the family. (These characters technically have names, but their names are not as nearly as important as the roles they play, so I'll be calling them by the latter.) The family receives a message one day that someone will be arriving soon—maybe for a party at the house that's been planned, but we're not told. We're also not told the name of this person, a handsome visitor played by the young British actor Terence Stamp. The visitor comes and hangs out at the party, but then, for no reason and without anyone objecting, stays with the family for days after the party has ended.

Silvana Mangano as the mother, with a shirtless Stamp.

Teorema is a film heavy on ideas and atmosphere, but rather light on dialogue. Viewers might get antsy at the general slowness of it, with the plot on its surface being very simple, and it's common for there to be no spoken dialogue for several minutes at a time. This is just as well. Those who are familiar with Italian productions know that it's customary in that country's film industry to shoot without sound, and then loop dialogue, music, and sound effects in editing. Non-Italian actors speak their preferred languages on-set and then are later dubbed over in Italian. Stamp only has a handful of lines or so, but each time it's clear that Stamp is not the person talking. Similarly Wiazemsky, a French actress, is not the person speaking her lines, and it seems the filmmakers couldn't be bothered to try syncing the dub actress's line reads with Wiazemsky's mouth movements. It's pretty rough dub work.

Father, daughter, and the visitor on the lawn.

The bad dubbing is occasionally distracting, but it's more than counterbalanced by the film's strong visual language, with Pasolini and cinematographer Giuseppe Ruzzolini working to oscillate between picturesque camera framings and frenzied movements that I have to think were achieved with a handheld camera. The at-times painterly camerawork helps heighten what must be the initial draw for many viewers, which is Stamp's physical beauty—a factor that also draws the members of the family, both the women and men, to him like moths like a flame. The servant is the first to fall under the visitor's spell, so affected is she that after seeing the visitor on the lawn one day she tries to commit suicide. Thankfully the visitor saves her, and not only that, but without any words exchanged between them he makes love to her. It doesn't take long for the mother to be the next "victim" of the visitor's charm, although the strange part of all this is that the visitor doesn't seem to have any ulterior motive for having sex with the people of the household one-by-one.

Anne Wiazemsky as the daughter, with Stamp's groin.

To call Teorema an erotic film, or "pornographic," or something like that, would be overselling it; but at the same time it does have an eroticism more often found in French and Italian productions as of late than here in the States. We even—dare I say it—at one point catch a glimpse of Stamp's… hot dog (and bun(s)). And yet despite having sex (offscreen) with people of both sexes, the visitor can't be easily categorized as heterosexual or homosexual, or even be said to have much sexual initiative. When he seduces the daughter, for instance, she literally takes him by the hand and guides him to her bedroom, after having taken pictures of him on the lawn. The strange paradox here, that the visitor is a seducer and yet also perfectly gentle with his partners, is that he retains a kind of nobility—even a purity. It's implied, and more or less confirmed later in the film, that the visitor is an angel that has taken on a human guise.

One of several pictures the daughter took of the visitor.

Up to about the halfway point, you could say the film is strange but not outright fantastic—that this is something even more unclassifiable: a somewhat erotic allegory that stands on the borderline between the real and the fantastic. But then, for no reason given, the visitor leaves. Clearly the family were expecting him to leave at some point, but the reality of the visitor finally leaving them (presumably forever) hits each of the household members like a truck. The daughter, perhaps being driven mad from keeping pictures of the visitor in a photo album, enters a catatonic state and is driven off to a mental hospital. The son gets out of this situation the best, having taken up painting as a hobby, his fate maybe aligning most with what Pasolini considers the best-case scenario for the bourgeoisie being transformed. The mother starts whoring herself out to young men who eerily resemble the visitor, yet she's unable to fill the hole the visitor had left in her life. The servant leaves the estate and returns to her native village, where she becomes a sort of prophet who can work miracles.

Andrés José Cruz Soublette as the son, who has turned to painting on glass.

Teorema is about 95 minutes long, and is split pretty close to evenly in half, between the visitor's stay and after he leaves. As such it doesn't have the three-act structure that we've come to expect from narrative filmmaking so much as two long acts, or maybe even six acts, with each half of the film having its own three-act narrative arc. Those who came to see Terence Stamp both will and will not be disappointed, since sadly he does leave halfway through the film, but he does make the most of what screentime he has, even with how few lines he is given. Once the visitor leaves, both the characters and the structure splinter, with the second half of the film being concerned with each of the members of the house trying to cope with the visitor's absence in different ways, with varying degrees of success. Curiously, the servant, the only one to come from a working-class background, is also the only one who seems to have been "blessed" by the visitor, resulting in the film's only overtly supernatural moments.

One of the mother's substitutes for the visitor.

When it comes to what little dialogue there is, most of it is taken up by a few extended monologues, one of which especially caught my attention. The father at one point takes a passage from the Book of Jeremiah, although it looks like Pasolini abridged it somewhat and reworded things for his own ends. Here is the passage from the King James translation, Jeremiah 20:7 to 20:10:

O LORD, thou hast deceived me, and I was deceived: thou art stronger than I, and hast prevailed: I am in derision daily, every one mocketh me.
For since I spake, I cried out, I cried violence and spoil; because the word of the LORD was made a reproach unto me, and a derision, daily.
Then I said, I will not make mention of him, nor speak any more in his name. But his word was in mine heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I was weary with forbearing, and I could not stay.
For I heard the defaming of many, fear on every side. Report, say they, and we will report it. All my familiars watched for my halting, saying, Peradventure he will be enticed, and we shall prevail against him, and we shall take our revenge on him.

And here is the father's monologue:

You have seduced me, O Lord, and I let myself be seduced. You have taken me by force, and you have prevailed. I have become an object of daily derision, and all mock me. Yes, I have heard the defaming of many, terror on every side. “Denounce him, and we will denounce him.” All my friends awaited my downfall. “Perhaps he will let himself be seduced. Then we shall prevail, and take our revenge upon him.”

There is a great deal that can be said about Pasolini's replacing "deceived" with "seduced," or the fact that the recontextualizing of the passage gives man's relationship with God a homoerotic implication. This is all an ambitious gambit for Pasolini, to combine the religious, political, and erotic, into a single concise narrative.

Laura Betti as the servant, levitating, the villagers watching in awe.

Speaking of the father, we finally learn about the context for the film's opening scenes, with the union leader and the desert. It turns out that the father is the factory owner who has given his property over to his workers, and also that he has humiliated himself in public by stripping naked in the middle of a train station. He sheds his material possessions about as far as humanly possible, and yet even as he wanders naked through the desert (how he got from the train station to the desert on foot is anyone's guess), it's clear that this relieving of wealth does not absolve the father, nor does it bring him happiness. The ending, strange as it is, is up to interpretation, but I have a feeling Pasolini believes it's impossible for the bourgeoisie to redeem itself.

Massimo Girotti as the father, naked in the desert, full of sound and fury.

I believe it was John W. Campbell who, many years ago now, said that if the stars appeared only once in a thousand years that men would surely go mad at the sight of them. (Of course I'm also referring to a certain beloved SF story, although I need not tell you its title.) Similarly, in Pasolini's film, the bourgeoisie are suddenly made aware of their own insignificance because of one divine and beautiful man. (I do not mean to say I find Terence Stamp attractive, although I do think it's fair to say, as an objective statement, that he is quite attractive. Yes.) It's a film about confronting the fantastic and turning to dust because you are unworthy of such a sight. It's a challenging film, maybe a bit too slow and structurally off-kilter, but I have to admit I also found it enticing.

Four stars.




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TV

[May 4, 1969] Navigating the Wasteland #3 (1966-69 in (good) television)

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photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Well, I've waited too long to do one of these!

In 1961, I got myself a television.  Not just any television—I went straight to a color set (an RCA), even as hardly anyone in the nation owned one.  Heck, we still had stations that weren't broadcasting in color yet.  I think NBC is the only one I can remember that touted its weekly day of color programming.

Anyway, I made up for lost time, watching a lot of (too much) television.  I quickly came to agree with then-FCC commissioner Newton Minow's assessment of visual broadcast.  He described it as "a vast wasteland."

Still, I found some worthy shows, and back in 1962, I put out a guide to the good shows on television at the time.  In 1965, I came out with a sequel.

Why haven't I published a TV guide since?  Well part of it is because we've given focus to individual shows.  For instance, our Star Trek coverage has been very thorough.  Janice wrote about The Green Hornet in 1967.  Last year, our UK friends watched The Prisoner, which made a big splash when it hit American shores last summer.  Also, Victoria Silverwolf covered the spy craze back in 1966, and that included a lot of TV shows, some of which are still on. 

Nevertheless, as we head into the rerun season this year, it's a good time to look back on what's sprouted in the wasteland since our last update.  After all, while some of the shows have since gone off the air, or are about to, you'll still get to catch them (often at more convenient times) in syndication.

Star Trek (1966-1969)

Obviously, this is the biggie.  Star Trek was (well, there's one more episode to be aired, so technically "is") the first real science fiction series on television.  Sure, there was kiddie fare before that, like Space Patrol (both the Corn Flakes-sponsored one and the puppet import from the UK) and Man in Space, not to mention (please don't mention) the profusion of Irwin Allen shows starting with Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea through Lost in Space to Time Tunnel and still going with Land of the Giants.

And yes, The Twilight Zone had SFnal episodes, and The Outer Limits was more explicitly sci-fi, but both shows were mostly inspired by the pulp era, the science fiction content primitive in the extreme.

Star Trek, for all its faults, derived from the science fiction of the '40s and '50s while spotlighting some of the social issues of today.  The Enterprise essentially flew out of the pages of classic Astounding—which makes sense; Gene Roddenberry said as much to one of our friends at the 1966 Worldcon.  We even had bonafide SF authors like Norman Spinrad, Robert Bloch, Jerome Bixby, Harlan Ellison, and Ted Sturgeon writing episodes…though the practice of soliciting pros quickly stopped when they began demanding too much money.  Luckily, many of Trek's best episodes were written by newcomers.  Indeed, one of the more gratifying things about the show has been that is has helped launch the careers of a number of women writers, Jean Lisette Aroeste and D.C. (Dorothy) Fontana being the names that immediately come to mind.

So even though the show is cruising toward a premature end of its five year mission, it is a must see when it inevitably gets rerun after this summer.

Mod Squad (1968-)

“One black, one white, one blonde”

If any show has heralded a sea change on the boob tube, it's Mod Squad.  Cop shows have been a dime a dozen for a long time.  Highway Patrol, 87th Precinct, Dragnet, Felony Squad, The F.B.I., Ironside, N.Y.P.D.—even Car 54, Where Are You? (admittedly, that one was a comedy).  Indeed, shows about the police are starting to rival Westerns in terms of airtime dominance.  Just this year, we got three of them: Hawaii Five-O, Adam 12, and the subject of this section.

But whereas the only distinguishing characteristic of the first one is its location (beautiful Hawai'i), and the second one is as bad as a patrol cop show from the makers of Dragnet and starring that program's worst guest actor could be, Mod Squad is Something Else.

Mod Squad is the story of three young adults, all with minor criminal rap sheets, all who decide to become undercover cops rather than do time.  They quickly form a bond with each other and with their Captain, Adam Greer.  Over the course of the season, they have busted narcotics rings, carjackers, helped nab corrupt cops, and otherwise proven their value to the force.

The difference?  Heart.  Mod Squad is oozing heart, with genuine chemistry amongst all the four leads.  The cops in the other shows tend to be portrayed as benevolent(?) automatons.  Pete, Julie, and Linc (and Adam) are human beings—compelling, vulnerable, admirable.

Beyond that, there's been a quantum leap in production.  Everything in Mod Squad is on location, with mobile cameras and lots of action.  Car chases, foot races, you name it.  The show bursts with energy.  Its lineage traces from the hip globetrotting of I, Spy and the philosophical earthiness and camaraderie of Route 66, and oft times, it surpasses both shows.

Watch it.  Dig it.  This one's going to be around a while, I predict.

The Monkees (1966-1968)

Debuting at the same time as Star Trek and on the same network, The Monkees flamed out more quickly.  No surprise—comedy is hard to maintain, especially the kind of frenetic, innovative stuff you saw on that show.  Beyond that, when you make a show about four charismatic musicians, you run the risk of said musicians actually having talent and wanting to do their own thing.  No matter what the papers or the sneering cognoscenti say, The Monkees are all pretty talented people.  After all, Peter Tork is an accomplished guitarist and folk singer, Mike Nesmith has penned a dozen hit songs (and not just for himself), and Micky and Davy are both decent performers as well as skilled actors.

It's no surprise that the show went off the rails, and then The Monkees demolished it entirely with their deconstructive movie, Head (not to mention their freak-out of a TV special: 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee).

But if you get a chance to catch the show in rerun, it's worth it.  It's genuinely funny, the musical interludes feature complete songs (get your tape deck ready!), the songs are excellent, and the foursome has magical chemistry.  When they are a foursome—for some reason, Mike was on vacation for about a fifth of the episodes…

Laugh-In (1968-)

Speaking of successful comedy, it's hard to miss NBC's smashiest of smashes, the psychedelic, wild ride that is Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In.  We've covered the show previously, so I won't go into too much detail.  I will note that the program has evolved in the two years it's been on the air.  This year, we got several new performers: Dave Madden, whose shtick is tossing confetti to signify he's having dirty thoughts; Chelsea Brown…The Black One (I hope they broaden her role next year); Alan Souse…The Homosexual (I hope they broaden his role next year).

It is impossible to understate the influence the show has had on pop culture.  From "Here Come the Judge" to "Sock it To Me" to "Very Interesting", Laugh-In-isms are everywhere.  On the last Bob Hope special, we counted three or four clear references to the show.  Arte Johnson is doing Mustang commercials—in his Nazi persona (at least he's not shilling for Volkswagen).  Half the cast guest starred (as themselves) on I Dream of Jeannie.  Every week, you can see at least one of the team on some variety/talk show or another. 

It is a very funny show, and hosts Dick and Dan have a natural rapport.  Beyond that, the cast manage to come up with unique musical numbers every week, which is amazing.  The women performers, in particular, are amazingly talented.

There are some warning signs: since Nixon got elected, perhaps with Laugh-In's help—Tricky Dick had a cameo earlier this year: "Sock it to me?" he exclaimed stiltedly—the show has tacked rightward in its commentary.  In the last episode, the Reverend Billy Graham was the special guest, making rather unfunny jokes, and ending the show with a straightfaced endorsement of John 3:16.  I'm not sure if Arte Johnson (in full Wehrmacht regalia) agreeing with the sentiment was intended to be ironic or not.

On the other hand, at least the show isn't as sexist as it used to be.  The worst of that last season was when they had Cher Bono as a guest, and the musical number was about grasping wives.  If anyone's the grasping wife in the Bono clan, it's Sonny.

Anyway, I don't need to tell you to watch it.  You probably already are.  Let's hope next season is even better.

Hollywood Palace (1964-)

When I was a very young, Vaudeville was king.  Live song and dance—forget this radio and television jazz.  Well, ABC's Hollywood Palace, put on in the building of the same name owned by none other than Bing Crosby, is the closest you'll get to the old Vaudeville days.  Comedy, acrobatics, singing, magic…the works.  All live (but taped).

Every week, there's a different host (Bing always claims the first and last nights for himself).  Sometimes they're terrific, like the times Sammy Davis Jr. gets the job; sometimes we get Burl Ives.  I'd say the show is pitched mainly at folks of my generation, maybe a touch older.  The jokes, the guests, most were big a decade or two ago.  That said, the Palace keeps things hip with acts like the Supremes and Gladys Knight.  It's definitely not Lawrence Welk (for my parents), nor is it American Bandstand (for my kids).

Lorelei and I have been regular watchers of the show ever since we heard Tony Randall hosted it once.  We're grateful it's had such longevity.

The Carol Burnett Show (1968-)

If you took Laugh-In and Hollywood Palace and shmushed them together, you'd get The Carol Burnett Show.  Less frenetic than Laugh-In, but hipper than the Palace, it's a bit like if the latter show had just one host the whole time.  Carol starts out each show with a question an answer segment that feels genuine and unrehearsed.  The musical acts are a mix of looped and live performances.  The skits range from domestic comedy to fractured fairy tales, utilizing the supporting cast of the prissy Harvey Korman, the hunky Lyle Waggoner, the adorable Vicki Lawrence (who usually plays Carol's sister; I'm amazed they aren't related), and whomever is guest this week.

It's a terrific show, and Carol is an excellent host.  If I have any complaint, it's that the family skits play a little too hard into the marital discord bit.  Also, as much as I love Ms. Burnett, eventually you can get too much of a good thing—week after week, skit after skit.

Still, definitely in the upper tiers of television!

That's Life (1968-1969)

Remember how I marveled that Laugh-In manages to produce a new musical number or two each week?  Well That's Life tried to make a romantic sitcom that was a complete, hour-long musical on the same schedule!

Robert E. Morse (How to Succeed at Business Without Really Trying) and E.J. Peaker starred in a whirlwind tour of courtship, marriage, and family as they sang and danced through their lives.  Each episode had a coterie of special guests (of course, our favorite was Tony Randall), and the whole thing was funny and fast-paced.

Well, you knew it couldn't last.  After one season, it's gone.  And having only gone on one season, it's likely we'll never see it in syndication.  ¡Qué lastima!

Wild Kingdom (1963-)

One show that shows no sign of quitting is Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.  Hosted by the Director Emeritus of the St. Louis Zoo, Marlin Perkins, this is quite simply the coolest nature program to be found.  We get a new half-season at the beginning of every year.  Marlin opens up each episode with a bit of in-studio discussion, often partnering with one of his fellow rangers (usually Jim, but occasionally Stan Brock, the South African mountain) and W.K., the chimpanzee.

Then it's off to the field: either a prerecorded feature narrated by someone else, or footage from a real safari that Marlin has gone on.  Usually the latter involves tracking an endangered animal or rescuing some creature for scientific study.  Marlin is no joke—at age 60+, you can still find him netting lions or sleep-darting elephants.  Of course, Marlin doesn't hold a candle to Stan wrestling hippopotami or saving drowned calves.

I'm sure some of the editing is artfully done for drama, but it's still a great show, emphasizing the importance of preserving the natural abundance to be found in the Wild Kingdom.

Since this article is running long, I shan't bother listing the shows not worth watching.  I won't even mention the C+ and B- television that I won't flip the idiot box off for, but which aren't worth seeking out.  With just the shows I've recommended, you'll have plenty to watch out for!

Until next time… stay tuned in.




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[May 2, 1969] The Lusty Month of May: Beltane and Feraferia

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[And now a word from our California religion correspondent.  As Paganism becomes ever more popular, at least in the Golden State, and as nature resists and provides refuge in an increasingly mechanized (science fiction made fact) world, it's a good time to see what our druids have been up to this holiday season…]


by Erica Frank

In the Pagan world, the year is marked by 8 holidays, called sabbats: the druidic solstices and equinoxes, and the four traditional Celtic holidays on the cross-quarter days: the first of February, May, August, and November.

May 1st is Beltane, marking the beginning of summer, halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Beltane marks the shift from virgin-maiden goddess to bride-to-be of the Green Man, the Horned God of the woods and fields.

An image from the movie "Camelot" showing several maids and young men adorned with flowers, lounging around outside and having a picnic in the grass.
It's May: When all the world is brimming with fun…Wholesome or "un." (From Camelot, 1967.)

It is celebrated with bonfires on May Eve, also called Walpurgisnacht, with processions and feasting and drinking to mark the hope of abundance in the coming summer and joy in life and community. Often, the High Priestess will read the Charge of the Goddess, which includes:

…as a sign that ye be really free, ye shall be naked in your rites; and ye shall dance, sing, feast, make music and love, all in Her praise. For Hers is the ecstasy of the spirit, and Hers also is joy on earth; for Her law is love unto all beings. Keep pure your highest ideal; strive ever towards it; let naught stop you or turn you aside.

After the night celebrations, the next day, people gather around the May-pole adorned with ribbons and weave through each other in a dance that covers the pole with bright strips of fabric and flowers, symbolizing…

Well. We'll leave that as "it's symbolic of, um, the season," because this is a family publication. Suffice to say Beltane celebrations have plenty of dancing and merriment and fertility rituals. Some of those are very informal–as the Charge of the Goddess also says, "all acts of love and pleasure are Her rituals." And of course, there are plenty of Pagans who are always ready for a ritual.

Black-and-white line art drawing: Stylized text of the Kore Incantation and picture of the May goddess
Kore Incantation: O Holy Maiden of the kindling quick of merging myst and amazing echo: The innocent bounty of the trees bares your faerie flesh of wildness wonder magic mirth and love… your beauty seals our bridal with all life. The dance of your green pulse unfolds all bodies from Earth's fragrant form. EVOE KORE — F.C.A. 1968 Ostara–Beltane, from Korythalia Vol 1 no 2

Feraferia—a modern Pagan church
Feraferia is one of the first, perhaps the actual first, Pagan groups to incorporate as a legal church. They received their nonprofit status a couple of years ago, in 1967, and are growing strong. Their home is in the San Gabriel mountains in California; they host celebrations and welcome gentle visitors to share in their spirituality.

Their name is taken from the words "feral" and feria, Latin for "festival" – loosely, "wild celebration," or perhaps "untamed jubilee"; they seek to re-create the Eleusinian Mysteries by connecting with the primal erotic energies of nature.

They draw on both anthropological research and spiritual insight to build their practices and philosophies, combining history and mysticism into art and religion. Feraferia is "a faery faith"—drawing on the lore and legends of the Fay as symbols of how to live in harmony with nature, rather than attempting to control or dominate it.

Their Beltane holiday is the day the Lord Sun and Lady Moon become engaged, to be wed at the summer solstice in June. They mark it as the beginning of the divine courtship, and welcome the visible signs of lust and sensuality in nature: The unfolding of flowers awaiting pollination and the randy play of wild bucks are signs that humans, too, should be setting aside their winter solitude and seeking companionship and mates.

Picture of the maiden goddess Kore, with golden hair and wheat in the background behind her.

Kore (pronounced kor-ee), the Greek "Merrie Maiden" goddess of innocence and joy — Art by Fred Adams, one of the founders of Feraferia.

Aside from their 9 holy days (they have a "Repose" in mid-November in addition to the 8 traditional sabbats), they encourage daily meditations and prayers, and use both active and quiet communions to connect with the spirit of the Goddess and the sacred land.

They build henges in their land, rings of stone or sculpture, "fairy rings" that are aligned with the compass and the turn of the seasons, and tying the practitioner to the land with small gifts and offerings.

Daily Worship Practices
Fred Adams has published a "Daily Ceremonial Enactments" script for meditation and worship, involving the Kore Incantation and calls to the Fay in the four directions and the four elements: Sylphs of the air, Salamanders of fire; Gnomes of the earth; Undines of water.

It begins with: PART I: Facing the altar, perform the sign of the Phytala by outlining a large Phytala with your hands in the air in front of you. Hum as you gesture, and muse on the various meanings.

Line drawing of the Phytala, a symbol combining a tree, wreath of flowers, and leaves; it looks a bit like a person standing with arms outstretched over their head. Also, a short musical score of the Kore chant: Evoe Kore, Evoe Kouros, Awiya
The Phytala, "the symbol of Feraferia. It embodies the tree of life, the Moon and Sun, a wreath of flowers, and specifically the young, budding branches of a fruit tree."

There are also weekly rituals, beginning on Saturday (well, Friday night). Each day invokes a different deity and is appropriate for different kinds of work or meditations. Friday, dedicated to Kronos-Zeus, is "the Day for constructing and Blessing Faerie charms of Wilderness."

Consider what it would feel like, to begin every Friday with this incantation:

Kronos-Zeus! I (we) dedicate this day to thee and to thine own land-sky-love-body of taiga, cone forests, all conifers, high cliffs and palisades, talus, rugged pioneer nature communities, all seres (ecological successions), weather formations. (Muse on these nature realms or archetypal landscapes.)

Blessed be thy faerie realms. They will grow in wildness and love even as they suffuse my (our) presence with joy and wilderness wisdom. Grant all wildlings in these realms thrive, find fulfillment and continual rebirth.

I (we) bestow my (our) genius and love upon these realms and all their wildlings.

May the wildrealms of Kronos-Zeus, bright emperor of night, bestow upon me (us) their genius for: Duration and endurance, ruggedness, wisdom, strength, self reliance, forcefulness, steadiness, continuity patience, elegance, dignity, magnitude, prophecy, order, appropriateness, accumulation, opportunity, will, attainment of goals.

Evoe Kore! Evoe Kouros! Awiiiyaaa!

I'll certainly be looking at the rest of their practices. I don't know if I have the time to set aside for lengthy daily meditations—and I live in a city apartment; I don't have access to a yard with trees and a stone circle—but I could make a small shrine in my room, and try to connect to the natural world a bit more than I do.




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Magazine/Anthology, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Serial, TV

[April 30, 1969] Eulogies (May 1969 Analog)

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photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Goodnight, Percy

If you're anything like me, Peyton Place is something that happened to other people.  After all, last season, the first primetime soap opera was scheduled opposite Laugh In, and before that, the 9:30 PM slot in the midst of ABC's insipid Tuesday-night line-up.

But now I feel a little bad that the groundbreaking show is being taken off the air.  Based on the 1956 book of the same name by Grace Metalious, the Massachusetts-set serial was salacious for the time, involving as it did a lot of S-E-X, divorce, blackmail, murder, and more.  Jack Paar called it "Television's first situation orgy."  Johnny Carson quipped that it was "the first TV series delivered in a plain wrapper."


Stars Diana Hyland (standing), Pat Morrow (in can), and Tippy Walker

At one point a few years ago, some 60 million folks tuned in each week for the fun.  But nowadays, when the local theater is going blue/stag, and Candy is a mainstream hit ("Is Candy faithful?  Only to the book!"), Peyton Place all seems a bit staid.  They tried to mix things up by bringing in more teen storylines and also integrating the cast by hiring Percy Rodrigues (Star Trek's Commodore Stone) as the local doctor.


with Ryan O'Neal

Still, you can't beat Dick and Dan, and the series plummetted in the ratings (really—what were they thinking, scheduling it across from Rowan and Martin?) After 514 episodes, the show is going off the air.  Which, of course, just means we'll see it endlessly in morning reruns opposite the regular soaps—and you can bet we'll get a revival sometime in the future.  In the meantime…


"Goodnight, Lucy.  Goodnight, Marshall Dillon.  And goodnight to all you kooks on Peyton Place."

Goodnight, Johnny


by Kelly Freas

ABC at least knew when to pull the plug on its sinking stone.  Analog editor John Campbell, while he did some brilliant work in the '30s and '40s, seems content to stuff his magazine with the dullest dreck that science fiction has to offer.  The latest issue is Exhibit 1 for the prosecution:

Dragon's Teeth, by M. R. Anver


by Kelly Freas

A peace conference on a neutral asteroid promises to end a brutal war between humanity and the alien Cadosians.  But a faction of extraterrestrials has plans to distrupt the summit by introducing a deadly virus.  The question is how they'll smuggle it in…or in whom?

This is a competently put together adventure/mystery—no more, and no less.  As such, it's a fine first effort from Mr. Anver, but nothing to write home about.

Three stars.

The Chemistry of a Coral Reef, by Theodore L. Thomas

Science writer and fictioneer Ted Thomas offers up a long piece on coral reefs and how they're made.  For an article on stuff that takes place in our oceans, it's awfully dry.  Well, at least I know now what they're made of: calcium carbonate.  Good for all those fish with indigestion, I guess.

Two stars.

Operation M. I., by R. Hamblen


by Leo Summers

Three weeks of hyperspace are crushingly dull, and the intergalactic service is worried about the morale of their solo couriers, who have to endure the period without diversion.  Apparently, books and booze aren't enough.

So the ship's computer on the latest FTL ship is programmed to act like a nagging mother-in-law so each pilot is more irritated than bored.

Terrible piece.  One star.

Persistence, by Joseph P. Martino


by Kelly Freas

This is a sequel to the story Secret Weapon.  The Terrans have now got a leg up on their war with the Arcani, now destroying 3-4x as many vessels as they are losing.  However, this proportion is still below what the Big Brains in military intelligence expected.  Our hero, Commander William Marshall, is certain that the aliens have developed Faster Than Light ("C+") communications and are using them to thwart our patrols.

The story is devoted to the reverse engineering of a captured Arcani corvette, tediously going through each electronic gizmo to see how it is wired and what it is wired to.  Eventually, the existence (or lack) of a C+ radio will be proven.

Once again, the story is dull as dirt, and worse, poorly edited.  There's an art to writing successive paragraphs using different words.  Martino will repeat set phrases several times in a row, the sign of an unfiltered brain-to-typewriter stream of consciousness.

Also, women of the future still remain in the 1950's, socially.

Two stars.

The Five Way Secret Agent (Part 2 of 2), by Mack Reynolds


by Kelly Freas

As we saw last month, Rex Bader, last of the private dicks in the People's Capitalism of America's late 20th Century, had been tapped by no fewer than five organizations to spy on each other as Bader went off to Eastern Europe and make contacts.  This passage explains it all:

He stared at the screen in disbelief.

This whole thing was developing into a farce. Roget wanted him to make an ultra-hush-hush trip into the Soviet Complex to contact his equal numbers with the eventual aim of creating a world government based on the international corporations.

Sophia Anastasis, of International Diversified industries, thought such a world government would upset the status quo to the detriment of what was once called the Mafia, and wanted all details.

John Coolidge and his group [the successor to the FBI] were afraid such changes would upset the governmental bureaucracy and the military machine and wanted to prevent it from happening. 

Colonel Simonov felt the same from the Soviet viewpoint, and wanted to maintain the status quo.

Dave Zimmerman was all in favor of world government but wanted the Meritocracy which would run it to be elected from the bottom up in each corporation, rather than being appointed.

And every damned one of them thought that their part of the operation was a secret.

Once Bader gets to Czechslovakia and Romania, the book reads like typical Reynolds: historical parallels (none after 1969, of course), tourism (we learn about the national drinks of the Warsaw Pact), and mildly droll high jinks.  It seems that Bader's cover is blown wherever he goes, suggesting a traitor somewhere in the works among his five employers.

There could have been a good mystery here, but it's all thrown in too little, too late.  Moreover, it's clear that this two-part serial is really just the first half of a longer book.

As a result, the whole is lesser than the sum of its parts.  I give this segment three stars, and three stars for the book as a whole (so far).

Initial Contact, by Perry A. Chapdelaine


by Kelly Freas

The Eridanians are coming!  Responding from signals broadcast by Project Ozma, an alien ship has been dispatched from Epsilon Eridani.  After twelve years at near light speed, the vessel is about to arrive—and the press is filled with concerns of an impending alien takeover. 

It all stems from a mistranslation of their latest message, suggesting their intent is conquest rather than coexistence.  In the meantime, there is a lot of Keystone Copping as the head of the Ozma IX project tries to tamp down on the paranoia.


by Kelly Freas

The best part of the story is the "universal message" broadcast by the Eridanians, hatched up by author Chapdelaine.  He explains it in the story—see if you can figure it out yourself.

But in the end, the story is rather pointless and forgettable.  Two stars.

Goodnight May

Doing the math, I find that April (postmarked May on the magazines) was a dreadful month for short science fiction.  Not a single magazine topped 3 stars, and Analog came in at a dismal 2.3.  For posterity, the rest were New Worlds (2.7), Venture (2.7), Amazing (2), Galaxy (3), and IF (3), and Fantasy and Science Fiction (2.7)

Even more disheartening: you could take all the 4-star works (nothing hit 5 stars this month) and barely fill a Galaxy-sized thick digest.  Women wrote 20% of all the new pieces published in April, which sounds impressive until you realize that six of the works were short poems in New Worlds, all by Libby Houston.

I am already hearing rumblings about Galaxy and IF's editor Fred Pohl getting the heave-ho, and Amazing's editorial musical chairs is legendary.  ABC dumped Peyton Place—is it time for someone to cancel John Campbell?




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Movies, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[April 28, 1969] Cinemascope: Witchmaker, Witchmaker, Make Me A Witch: "The Witchmaker" (a movie) and "The Body Stealers" (a flick)

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by Fiona Moore

The folk-horror movement shows signs of becoming a craze, and now the Americans are in on the game. The Witchmaker is a movie that makes a virtue of its low budget, though it’s let down by some low-level misogyny and a surprising degree of prudishness.

Poster for The WitchmakerPoster for The Witchmaker

The story involves a professor who studies psychic phenomena (Alvy Moore) and, since psychic powers are apparently vulnerable to interference by things like radio and electricity, takes a research team including himself, a reporter, his research assistant and a few students out to the backwoods of Louisiana. Their aim is to test the abilities of Anastasia, or “Tasha” (Thordis Brandt), a pretty blonde with witches in her ancestry, and apparently genuine psychic powers. They are also undeterred by the fact that someone in the area has been killing young women and draining them of their blood, which would seem a good reason to postpone the trip, but never mind. This turns out to be the work of Luther the Berserk (John Lodge), acolyte of a two-hundred-year-old witch (Helene Winston and Warrene Ott—she rejuvenates at one point in the film, hence the change in actress). Upon learning about the research team and Tasha’s powers, they resolve to add Tasha to the coven and sacrifice the rest of the researchers. The story ends with a twist which, while not unpredictable, was still fairly satisfying.

Luther the Berserk, aptly named
The aptly named Luther The Berserk

While the twist has caused a lot of early reviewers to compare the film to Rosemary’s Baby, I think a better comparator is actually The Devil Rides Out, given that we have a pair of older men who genuinely believe in psychic phenomena, attempting to rescue a vulnerable young person from a suspiciously international coven (the only non-White person in the story is one of the witches). Which also marks an interesting culture shift of recent years: a decade ago, this would have been a story of Science Versus Superstition, where older male authority figures would expose the “real” answer behind the witchcraft. Now, however, everyone’s a believer and witches are very real. I think people today are taking a more critical view of science and a more positive view of folk culture, and whether or not that’s a good or bad thing remains to be seen.

The main sticking point is an unexpected one. The film apparently wants to imitate British and European horror movies not just in terms of folk culture themes and making the most of a small budget, but in terms of prurient and gratuitous nudity and kinkiness. However, it also seems to be afraid of upsetting the censors too much, so we get scenes like a naked blonde running through the woods with her hands firmly clamped over her breasts so you can’t see the nipples, or the world’s tamest orgy with all whippings and rogerings taking place off-camera. There’s also a little bit of sexism in that the women in the movie are fairly obviously divided between Maggie (Shelby Grant), the Good Girl, who is “plain”, intelligent, and conservatively dressed, and Sharon (Robyn Millan) and Tasha, the Bad Girls, who frolic around in unsuitable nightwear and swimming costumes (in a swamp, in February?) and who both get stalked and punished for their sexual forwardness.

A naked blonde running while covering her breastsNo tits please, we're Americans

In any case, I would say that this isn’t an instant classic like Witchfinder General or The Devil Rides Out, nor is it a schlocky piece aimed only at titillation and diversion. What it is, is an interesting take on folk horror from an American perspective, and worth spending a couple of shillings on. Three and a half stars.

Elsewhere in cinema, the latest offering from Tigon is, despite the presence of Hilary Dwyer as the leading lady, definitely no Witchfinder General. The Body Stealers is a tedious alien-invasion story with an unlikeable protagonist that might have made a reasonable episode of an ITC adventure series if it were half its length.

Poster for The Body StealersPoster for The Body Stealers

The story begins with the mysterious disappearance of eleven paratroopers while skydiving. All of them have had training for space flight, a mysterious electrical discharge happens before each disappearance, and yet it isn’t until more than halfway through the movie that someone even suggests aliens might be responsible. One paratrooper turns up but with his biology changed so that he’s not human, and a mysterious blonde named Lorna (Lorna Wilde) is wandering the local beaches late at night and distracting the chief investigator, Bob Megan (Patrick Allen)—- but she also doesn’t seem to be human. After far too much time we eventually get an explanation by a very long expository speech, which I won’t reveal too much about except to say that if you’ve seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers you’ll have worked out what was going on much earlier. Lorna takes off in the Dalek spaceship from Daleks' Invasion Earth 2150 AD (no, really), and the whole thing is a waste of everyone’s time.

Patrick Allen in knitwearBob Megan: rugged, sexy and a knitwear aficionado

This is the sort of story that, a decade earlier, might have been helmed by a Quatermass-figure scientist, but, times having changed, we now get a rugged James Bond type who chases literally anything in a skirt and uses harassment as a means of courtship, and for some reason this succeeds rather than getting him slapped and told off. There are a few witty lines in it (for instance, when Megan is asked what he wants, and he says: “A room at the Hilton”. “Try something smaller.” “Okay, a smaller room at the Hilton”). George Sanders has a rather delightful turn as a general and the cast are generally solid.

Alien spaceship from Daleks Invasion Earth, reused in The Body StealersRecognise this? You should

Unfortunately, as well as the story being slow and drawn-out, the characterisation is rather difficult to believe, and motivations are opaque or contradictory. There is, for instance, a surprising amount of resistance to the logical suggestion of grounding all parachute drops until they have a decent idea of what’s happening, and the ending requires the perpetrators of the kidnappings to do a 180 degree reversal of strategy for no good plot or character reason. One secondary character (played by Neil Connery, brother of the more famous Sean) dies offscreen and no one, not even his supposed best friend, seems inclined to pursue the matter. I could have forgiven at least some of this if the movie was any fun, but it wasn’t.

One star because I am fine with schlock but not boredom.




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Magazine/Anthology, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Serial

[April 26, 1969] Downbeat (May 1969 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Impending collapse

The end may be near for the nascent would-be-state of Biafra.  For two years, the Nigerian breakaway has seen its land systematically (re)taken, and the eight million Biafrans, mostly Ibo people, have been crammed into ever small regions under Biafran control—just 3,000 out of an original 29,000 square miles.

Starvation rages, killing more than gunfire.  Yet the Biafrans remain unbowed, converting diesel generators to run on crude petroleum, keeping churches open (at night, anyway), and getting food via threatened air strips.

But on the 22nd, the capital and last Biafran city, Umuahia, fell to Nigerian forces.  Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu, President of Biafra, has vowed he will continue the struggle in guerrilla fashion.  Only Gabon, Haiti, Ivory Coast, Tanzania, and Zambia have recognized the secessionist state, although tacit assistance has been provided by such diverse states as France, Spain, Portugal, Norway, and Czechoslovakia. 

At this point, it's hard to imagine the Biafran experiment succeeding.  But surely there must be more that we can do apart from watch helplessly.  I wish I knew what it was.  Support the Red Cross, I suppose.

Impending mediocrity

I don't have a great segue from that bummer of a news item.  All I have is the lastest issue of Fantasy and Science Fiction.  While it's not entirely unworthy (the opening serial is pretty good), the rest offers little respite from the bleakness of the real world:


by Jack Gaughan

Operation Changeling (Part 1 of 2), by Poul Anderson

Back in the '50s, Poul had a great series that took place on a parallel Earth.  Its history was not dissimilar to ours, but wizardry replaces technology in many regards.  It's a bit like Garrett's Lord D'Arcy series, but a touch sillier.  The stars of the series are a magical duo comprising a werewolf and a magic-using dragoon Captain.  In the latest story (a decade ago!) the two had gotten married.  In the latest installment, Ginny and Steve are the proud parents of a beautiful little girl.

Unfortunately, Valeria Victrix has been born into a difficult time.  Adherents of St. John, whose outwardly clement brand of Christianity hides disturbing cultist elements, are waging a war against authority and the military-industrial complex—including the defense contractor that employs Steve.  The Johnnites are essentially stand-ins for the current peace movements, albeit more sinister.

The conflict with the less-than-civil resisters recedes in importance, however, when on her third birthday, Valeria is abducted by no less than the demonic forces of Hell.  It is now up to Steve and Ginny to rescue their little girl before she is incurably corrupted…and to determine if the Johnnites are at all responsible!

Anderson has three main modes: crunchy, compelling science fiction; crunchy, dull-as-dirt science fiction; and lightish fantasy.  This short novel, despite the dark subject matter, promises to be the most fun romp since Three Hearts and Three Lions.

Four stars so far.

The Beast of Mouryessa, by William C. Abeel

A French sculptor is commissioned to create a replica of an obscene, demonic figure, unearthed recently in the Avignon region.  The original stone creature has a history of causing catastrophe to those who behold it, but the lovely matron who wants the copy seems unperturbed.  Of course, the sculptor has all sorts of ill feelings and second thoughts, but he does nothing about them.  In the end, he is possessed by the spirit of the thing, and awful stuff ensues.

Aside from all the sex and frequent references to the statue's enormous dong, this story is pretty old hat.  Lovecraft did this kind of thing better.

Two stars.


by Gahan Wilson

London Melancholy, by M. John Harrison

A host of eerie mutants roam post-apocalyptic London in this absolutely impenetrable, unreadably purple piece.

One star.

For the Sake of Grace, by Suzette Haden Elgin

Thousands of years from now, Earth and its solar colonies have organized into a patriarchal, caste-based system.  The Kadilh ban-Harihn has much cause for joy: four sons who have all passed the stringent test to become 4th degree members of the Poet caste.  But he also has a hidden pain; his sister was one of the rare women to dare entry into the coveted ranks of the Poets.  Her fate for failing was that of all women who fail—eternal solitary confinement.

'Unfair!' you cry?  Well, at least it keeps women from trying such a foolhardy endeavor.  Which is why it hits the Kadilh all the harder when he learns his youngest child, his only daughter, also has decided to try to be a Poet, a task of which she is most certainly incapable…

This is a scathing piece, a refreshing attack on sexism.  I'd give it higher marks if it had included even one poem, given the theme, but I still quite liked it.

Four stars.

The Power of Progression, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor explains why our current rate of population growth cannot go on—even if we manage to get off planet, that just means the universe will be clogged with humanity within the millennium. 

I appreciate the doomsaying sentiment, but there comes a point when exponents become specious, a masturbatory effort in mathematics.

Three stars.

Copstate, by Ron Goulart

I used to like the tales of Ben Jolson, lead agent of the shapechanging Chameleon Corps, but they've gotten pretty tired of late.  This last entry is the least.  Ben is tapped to infiltrate a tightly controlled security state to retrieve a revolutionary polemic.

Goulart is capable of writing funny, light, riproaring stuff, but this one is just a bust.

Two stars.

The Flower Kid Cashes In, by George Malko

Item two in the cavalcade of anti-utopian incomprehensibility.  Per a conversation I recently had with David and Kris:

Me: Can anyone explain the last story in this month's F&SF to me?
David: Not really.  Aging hippie survives after the Bomb falls and sort of commits suicide by staying true to his priniciples?  I think it was too concerned with being literary to mean something or be about anything.
Kris: I am not even sure if it is trying to be literary so much as "with it".  But either way it seems very hollow.

Your guess is as good as mine.  At least it's short.  Two stars.

The Body Count

Comparing the lastest F&SF to the Biafran tragedy is probably beyond the realm of good taste.  I'll just note that 2.7 stars is an inauspicious sign.  However, given that the first few issues of the year were significantly better, I don't think this lapse foretells a permanent downturn.

At least some things are salvageable.  See you next month.




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Magazine/Anthology, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Serial

[April 24, 1969] The Strange New Normal New Worlds, May 1969

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by Mark Yon

Scenes from England

Hello again!

With this issue of New Worlds, number 190, we now seem to be getting back to a regular monthly schedule and the new style seems to be bedding itself down into a regular format – although this being New Worlds I suspect that they would hate any hint of things becoming routine.

Quick recap, then. Recently Charles Platt and Michael Moorcock stepped away from full-time editorial duties, leaving the magazine in the capable hands of Langdon-Jones. His first issue last month was a corker, with the first publication of a Harlan Ellison story in Britain (although to be fair I had read some of his other work published in the American magazines beforehand.) As a result, the new mantra seems to be that New Worlds even though under new management will continue to publish cutting edge, controversial material that defies borders and descriptions.

Each issue seems to continue a confounding mixture of good, bad and weird prose, not to mention poetry. Its appeal to me seems to be that I never quite know what I’m going to get next, although with the poetry I have a fairly good (or is that bad?) idea.

Anyway, on to this month’s issue. 

A picture of a head in black, with a blue background. The head is facing towards the reader in the middle with the two images either side facing outwards.Cover by Gabi Nasemann

We’re back to the odd pictures of people’s faces on the cover this month.

Lead-In by The Publishers

As is usual, information is given on the contributors. This month, Harvey Jacobs, Brian Aldiss, poet Libby Houston, science editor Dr. Christopher Evans, his secretary Jackie Wilson and a photo of author Marek Obtuowicz without any further detail.

The Moment of Eclipse by Brian W Aldiss

A black and white photo of a woman’s head but split horizontally across the eyeline to create a mirror image above.Photo by Gabi Nasemann

The Lead In tells us that Brian’s latest offering was inspired by Thomas Hardy’s Poem Inspired by a Lunar Eclipse written in 1902.

This however is a more contemporary work, about a modern film maker and his pursuit of Christiania, a woman he has met, despite the fact that she is married and with a son. So, a story of lust, combined with Aldiss’s quirky humour and his love of global places that we have read before – not to mention a parasitical worm that will frighten any devotees of Frank Herbert’s Dune!

I liked this generally – mainly because it shows Aldiss’s precise and illustrative prose without so much of the oddness exhibited in his recent Charteris stories. 3 out of 5.

The Negotiators by Harvey Jacobs

A black and white drawing of soldiers being bombed by aeroplanes.Image by Mal Dean

This story is set in Vietnam as a dialogue between two negotiators hoping to cease the conflict there. Whilst the two characters grow closer, the war continues. A story that through vivid imagery and prose, at times sexual, basically suggests that war is bad, but that love may bring peace, or at least agreement. 4 out of 5.

Article: The Responsive Environment by Charles Platt

Platt interviews Keith Albarn, an architectural artist who makes furniture and buildings that adapt and can be rebuilt to individual needs. These range from a funfair in Margate to theatre design, educational toys, and a fun palace in Girvan, Scotland.

A plan, with a key of the Girvan Fun Palace, designed by Albarn.A map of the Girvan Fun Palace, Image by Unknown

3 out of 5.

A Cure for Cancer (Part 3 of 4) by Michael Moorcock
IMAGE: A drawing of tilt-wing turboprop aeroplane taking off into the air above a clifftop. On the cliff we have a rabbit and a North American Indian on horseback shaking their fists at the rising aeroplane. On the bottom right of the picture we have Bishop Beesley on a boat also shaking his fist at the plane.
Image by Mal Dean

More fractured escapades with Jerry Cornelius. Much of this part has Jerry travelling the world in search of the missing techno-wotsit. Really though this gives Moorcock a chance to show us the world, from his own street of Ladbroke Grove, London, to trendy Soho and the King’s Road, Chelsea before going on to other places such as Las Vegas and Sumatra.

Cornelius meets his brother Frank again (last seen in the March 1966 issue of New Worlds as part of The Final Programme novel) and sister Catherine, in suspended animation, but really the story appears to mainly be a minor point whilst we examine the setting of a free world in decline. Most of these places have been bombed, London has an air-strike whilst Jerry is in it, Americans are filling the world with ‘advisors’ whilst dealing with civil riots of its own on home territory.

Things begin to make more sense and there’s a feeling that we might be drawing things to a close, as Jerry and the missing machine that he is in search of may be either the cause of the world chaos or the person most effective in having to deal with it. 4 out of 5.

Poems by Libby Houston

IMAGE: A drawing of an hourglass on a checkered ground. There is fluid coming out of the bottom of the hourglass and a fly and a beetle sat on top of it.Image by Mal Dean

First thought: What must a young woman do to get published in New Worlds magazine? Write poetry, it seems, or be married to the magazine illustrator. (That is unfair, I know. New Worlds has championed women’s writing for years now, when they can get it.)

Six short poems here, and as such – they fill up space unremarkably. (Do bear in mind that I still find most poetry uninteresting, though.) At least they’re not written by the seemingly ubiquitous D. M. Thomas this month. 2 out of 5.

the hurt by Marek Obtuowicz

PHOTO: An image of a man’s face, distorted through glass.Photo by Gabi Nasemann

A new author. Sadly, this is one of those stories designed to try and shock without any real involvement on the part of the reader and filled with symbolism that seems meaningless.

Mostly dialogue based, it is a number of conversations between Peter and his sister, Pauline. Unsurprisingly, they discuss their lives in a depressingly bleak future, a world where sex seems meaningless and crying is forbidden. Perhaps even more unsurprisingly, Pauline is a brothel-owner and Peter and Pauline have an incestuous sexual relationship.

There’s something in there about emotional hurt being caused by events in the past, but I was too bored to look at it in detail. 2 out of 5.

The Dreams of the Computer by Dr. Christopher Evans and Jackie Wilson

IMAGE: A page of the story, as set out in computer code.

Written as if a computer programme, filled with lots of “Answer Yes or No” and “Go to” statements, Dr. Evans, with the help of his secretary, responds in kind to J. G. Ballard’s prose story, How Dr. Christopher Evans Landed on the Moon in issue 187 (February 1969) of New Worlds. I liked it. There’s a nice sense of absurd humour in it, but it loses some of its impact by being not as original as the Ballard version. I am also not sure it makes sense if you’ve not seen Ballard’s original piece. 3 out of 5.

A bumper crop of reviews this month, though most are not science fiction-related.

Book Reviews: Back in the U.S.S.R. by R. Glynn Jones

R. Glynn Jones reviews Art and Revolution, a book about the work of Russian sculptor Neivestny, whose opposition to Kruschev has made him a heroic and revolutionary symbol.

Book Reviews: Twilight Crucifixion of the Beastly Black Sheep by M. John Harrison

Harrison reviews The Spook Who Sat by the Door, a polemic book about a Black CIA officer which is “an incitement to riot”, Behold the Man by Michal Moorcock (which we reviewed here when it was a serial story), The Twilight of the Vilp by Paul Ableman, which is “weary, contrived and too long”, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K Dick, a novel which is “beautifully constructed yet disappointing”, and the wonderfully titled The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B, which is “moderately enjoyable”.

Book Reviews: Notes on the Management of a Spoiled Identity by Bob Marsden

Marsden reviews a book on the theory of game-play, a book on psychological theories and stratagems and a book on the discrepancy between what people think a person should be and what they really are. Nothing really of interest to me there. Moving on…

Book Reviews: From Alice with Malice by James Cawthorn

At last: Cawthorn reviews what we would broadly describe as fantasy and science fiction! Black Alice will be of interest here as it is written by two New Worlds regulars, Thomas M. Disch and John T. Sladek. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is well-received. So too a number of books by Michael Moorcock, including The Jewel in the Skull, The Ice Schooner and The Mad God’s Amulet. He then reviews a “disappointing” SF novel for younger readers, Undersea City by Frederik Pohl and Jack Williamson, and the “fairly entertaining” Twin Planets by Philip E. High. Lastly, and then rather oddly, Cawthorn reviews a book on rural uprisings in pre-Victorian England – who says New Worlds lacks diversity?

Book Reviews: Against the Juggernaut by John Clute

John Clute is a new reviewer here, although he has had fiction published in New Worlds before (A Man Must Die, November 1966.) Here he reviews a “simply godawful” book of poetry, Juggernaut by Barry McSweeney, a book by a new African writer who Clute describes as “an intelligent and urbane civil servant and diplomat, but a lame writer”, a novel about a group of Americans who translate the Oberammergau Passion Play into English and put it on in Texas as making the reviewer feel as if they had “just been forced to eat yesterday’s newspaper” and a detailed review on a book about the philosophy of Jean Paul Satre. They may not be books I would ever want to read myself, but at least the reviewer is entertaining.

Book Reviews: The Nondescript Heroes by Charles Platt

Platt reviews the autobiographical Gemini! by the recently-departed Apollo astronaut Virgil Grissom. He is disappointed by the book’s blandness and superficiality, eventually concluding that such an exciting and technological advancement is not served well by such pilots of limited expression.

An advertisement for New Worlds binders, showing the binder, both open and closed.

Summing up New Worlds

Well, if New Worlds is all about ‘cutting edge, controversial material that defies borders and descriptions’, then this issue isn’t it. In fact, it is a solid yet rather conventional issue – admittedly conventional for New Worlds. There’s no photos of naked ladies, relatively little sex (although there is some – this is New Worlds, after all!) and stories that now seem rather typical of the new style of New Worlds.

In short, it is pretty much what to expect from the magazine, which is not a bad thing, but rather unmemorable, as it is not as determined to startle as some previous editions have been.

The most memorable thing about the issue is the new reviewer John Clute, who seems to be here to stir things up a little, although I do find it amusing to see both recently-retired editors Platt and Moorcock appearing in issues writing fiction and articles. Still around and not forgotten.

Anyway, that’s it, until next time.




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Movies, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[April 22, 1969] Corpse or Cocoon? – (the Monkees movie Head)

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by Lorelei Marcus

"In this generation… Love is understanding, we gotta be free"

lyrics from 'for Pete's sake', performed by the Monkees, written by Joseph Richards and Peter Tork

The Beatles released an album called 'Rubber Soul' in America on December 6, 1965 and it heralded a new era. Practically overnight, the music, the fashion, and the youth all changed. Hemlines rose, hair grew out, psychedelia and rock started to merge, and like never before the teenagers of America became a visible force through their protests and love-ins and consumption.

Someone had the bright idea that this force could be profitable, and thus the Monkees were conceived: a fake band of four handsome, mop topped young men manufactured to sell Kellogg's cereal, concert tickets, and merchandise. They would star in a comedic TV show to create wider access and appeal, to turn them into a real happening deal, and it worked. Every week we tuned in to follow the exploits of the Monkees, narratively portrayed as deadbeat musicians trying to scrape by. It was fast-paced and fun, well executed and unique in that it featured intercut lip-synch segments with original songs by the Monkees. But the show really succeeded for the same reason it ultimately fell apart: the members of the Monkees are genuinely talented and driven musicians.

The legacy of the Monkees is great, with two seasons of the series, countless international live concerts, and several self-written albums. With such strong success, it was inevitable that the Monkees would eventually outgrow the narrow caricatures that first helped them to superstardom. Every member of the Monkees in some regard has raw talent in musicianship, composition, acting, and comedy. They each personally have the capacity to pursue new, innovative projects, and the ambition to do so. There is only one thing that restrains them from that independence: their own legacy.

Particularly in the eyes of the adoring fans, the Monkees are not brilliant creatives, but still silly poor musicians going on adventures to make a quick dollar. Particularly because of the manufactured nature of their origin, nobody expects anything more from them, and thus won't acknowledge what exists beyond the popular false image of the Monkees. Still, there will be, and has been, a transition from the Monkees to just Mickey, Davey, Mike, and Peter, and it is necessarily a destructive and torturous one. To be free and independent in image, they must destroy what they were, or else be confined by it forever.

Nothing makes this more evident than their new movie, Head, which not only hammers the theme of desire for freedom to its audience, but does its best to rend asunder everything that the Monkees used to be. The film is constructed as a series of vignettes which abstractly flow one into the other. Structure is given to the story by three disparate elements. First, the story is circular, with the Monkees literally ending in nearly the same place the movie begins, emphasizing the feeling of being trapped eternally.




Second, we as an audience are given glimpses at the beginning of the movie of everything that happens, artificially creating a sense of foresight, implicating the audience as complacent jailers as the Monkees continuously run in circles for our amusement.

Finally, the essence of each vignette is the same. Every scene is a different scenario of the various Monkee members trying to escape a contrived, television-like setting, which ties all the disparate moments together as one long interconnected attempt to extricate the Monkees from TV itself.



Some of the imagery of imprisonment is very literal, with the Monkees trapped in a big black box, or stranded in the desert without the reprieve of a cool beverage (in itself a play at subliminal marketing), or stuck on the fake set of a Western where the only way to exit is to tear a hole in the backdrop.

There are also more disturbing metaphorical elements that speak to the feelings of being commodified by the very role of famous celebrity. At the end of the one and only concert film the Monkees do in the movie, their stage is swarmed by rabid, screaming fans. The Monkees are subtly replaced by mannequins of their likeness, which are promptly and ruthlessly torn apart by the mindless, grasping swarm of fans. The horror of the moment is compounded by the fact that the music video that precedes it is intercut with actual news footage of victims of the Vietnam War, overlaid with the screaming teenage girls of the concert.


All of this serves to send a complex message to the audience of the film: one that reveals the artificial, facile nature of the Monkee television image when contrasted with the atrocities of the real world, and also demonizes the audience/fans by portraying them as passive and active destructive forces in their pursuit of that very escapist television. This stimulates a call to action to emerge from the cocoon that commoditized Western television provides, and to use the incredible energy of the youth to tear down the fantasies we are complacently spoonfed; it tells us to see the real world, with all the horrors that it entails, and to make change, just as the Monkees want to.

The Monkees themselves are part of this struggle, drifting in and out of character over the course of the movie. Sometimes they are the Monkees of the show, mindlessly filling their roles and facing an artificial enemy who appears in various vignettes (played byTimothy Carey). Other times, reality leaks through as the actors confront aspects of the roles that are distasteful or untrue, such as Peter being disturbed by the idea of hitting a woman, or the Monkees being forced to laugh at a cripple, or even Davey seeing a giant eye behind the mirror—a representation of the audience watching the illusion unfold.

There is only one moment of true clarity and personality in the whole film, when Peter gives his soliloquy as the Monkees are trapped (again) in the black box. His speech, given in silence and with the rapt attention of the other Monkees and the audience, is a refrain on opening the mind to escape and emerge free. It is the one oasis of peace in the movie.


But it does not last, and soon the Monkees are arguing and retracing their steps through all the previous scenes and all their previous prisons, until they reach the grim finale.

The film ends with the Monkees being chased by all the faux villains they've encountered and being cornered atop a high bridge. Without hesitation, Mickey jumps over the side, and soon the other Monkees follow. For a moment, it seems that the only escape is death.




But the Monkees don't die when they hit the water. Instead they plunge into a dreamlike world, free to swim and explore, refracted by strange colors and camera filters, as if their image is finally morphing into something new. But then the dream ends, and it is revealed that the Monkees are actually swimming in a fish tank. They bang on the glass as they are driven away by the 'director', the true, larger-than-life villain of the story. The credits roll and the Monkees are sealed to their Sisyphus-like fate.

It is a bitter and dark ending that successfully taints the happy and carefree image of the Monkees. Yet the nihilism is also refreshing in that it's reflective of the larger helplessness felt by the youthful generation. The stresses of assassinations and poverty and politics and the war underlie the suppressive hopelessness that creates both the depression and the need for fantasy television in the first place. The young are trapped and stifled by their very society; they need a world of media to escape into that grants the illusion of freedom. But the Monkees refuse to be that escape anymore. They want to move on and tell their own stories. They will no longer coddle us and in turn be coddled, because they have a right to an independent identity, and in that vein, so do we. Whether we follow them or not, they will forge a path. The only question is whether, while on their new path, they will be able to emerge from the corpse of their former images. Or if we, in our inability to let go, will drag them back to the grave where the brand that they killed remains.

I think the first step, if you haven't already, is to go watch Head for yourself. It's a bit grim, but also funny and brilliant and an editing masterpiece. The seamless transitions from scene to scene give the viewer the impression of riding a carousel; it's unlike anything else I've seen. It's also a glimpse into the real sentiments of the members of the Monkees, so if you're a fan, it's worth it just for that. But beyond the great acting and the technical execution, I think the true value of the movie comes from how it successfully encapsulates the growing restlessness of our changing society in a way that many art films can't. It has the advantage of the metanarrative that the history of the Monkees' name provides, and thus a richer mode of expression than any one standalone piece. You may find that it changes how you see the world, or at the very least, triggers some unconventional thoughts.

For everything Head tries to do and succeeds at doing, I give it five stars.




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Science Fiction/Fantasy

[Apr. 20, 1969] Are Phoenixes Rising from ASFR's Ashes?

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by Alison Scott

Meanwhile in Australian Fandom

For three years we have been entertained and informed by the finest Australian fanzine of our age, the Australian Science Fiction Review (ASFR). Edited by John Bangsund, it started with a remit to explore Australian SF but of course it has cast its net far wider than that.

the words Australian Science Fiction Review 15, written in the shape of Australia (the 15 is Tasmania)
Cover, ASFR 15, John Bangsund

Bangsund prints articles by some of the most thoughtful and erudite writers from Australia and worldwide, and features fascinating letters from interesting correspondents on a range of subjects. The content, whether tending to the serious or fannish, sparkles; a testament to Bangsund’s close and careful editing. ASFR has been nominated for a Hugo in each of the last two years, and its influence is felt globally.

A Fanzine Editor is a Proud, Lonely and Impoverished Thing

Now, however, Bangsund is clearly finding the fanzine not merely a financial drain, but also a personal one. It has many subscribers and agents in several countries (including Ethel Lindsay for the UK, from whom I got these copies). In Issue 18, December 1968, he features an editorial explaining that the high cost and low level of feedback he receives on the fanzine is discouraging him from continuing. But the quality of material he publishes remains very high. That same issue features an essay by Australian author George Turner on the business of writing about science fiction that I think is well worth a read by anyone who is interested in criticism.

With a Little Help from his Friends

The latest issue, #19, dated March 1969, has been edited exceptionally by John Foyster, who writes, a little peevishly:

“Although I (John Foyster) am named as editor of this issue of ASFR, it should be noted that the issue has been partly edited by John Bangsund in that his policy prevented the publication of some material I should have liked to use. Further, the size of the issue has been limited to the extent that I cannot include some articles I felt were worthwhile (over and beyond the previously-mentioned censorship). But let's not get maudlin.”

This issue is still the largest for some while, and features a smaller typeface so as to cram in more material.

Will ASFR continue? It’s clear that Bangsund is unpersuaded of the value of publishing such a serious sf-focused fanzine as ASFR has become, and would prefer the freedom of a more general title. However, two of his associates appear to be picking up the mantle. These fanzines could not be more different from each other, but both show a link to ASFR beyond just being written by regular contributors to that fanzine.

Some Like it Sercon

The first, SF Commentary, comes from Bruce Gillespie. This is issue one, and apparently Gillespie’s first fanzine! He has clearly sprung fully formed from Bangsund’s rib. This fanzine is, to be fair, rather hard to read. I don’t think he has used the best typewriter, and there are no illustrations at all!. So it is quite a struggle to read the fascinating analysis of Kurt Vonnegut’s Sirens of Titan and Cat’s Cradle by Damien Broderick, or Gillespie’s own analysis of several recent novels by Philip K. Dick. It’s well worth it though.

SF Commentary, First Issue, 'Damien Broderick – Vonnegut', 'John Foyster – Decline of SF', 'George Turner – IQ and SF', 'Bruce Gillespie – Dick, 2001 Reviews'
Cover, SF Commentary 1, Bruce Gillespie

The first issue is over sixty pages in total (a letter column is promised next issue, and I am sure he will get good letters to put in it) and features a wealth of serious science-fiction criticism. This is explained in the acknowledgements; most of the articles here were originally planned for ASFR, but the reduced frequency of that fanzine has put them here instead. Gillespie is planning to publish nine times a year; quite an ambitious schedule. You would think he would have learnt from Bangsund’s example.

But what of Fannish Nonsense? We have a Rataplan for that!

Rataplan, meanwhile, comes from Leigh Edmonds, another of the ’ASFR gang’ – and this time there is a photo of Edmonds with the other people who work on ASFR.

a light-hearted photo of seven young men standing by a swing set
The 'ASFR gang' pictured in 1967 – (l-r) John Bangsund, Leigh Edmonds, Lee Hardin, John Foyster, Tony Thomas, Merv Binns and Paul J Stevens. Photographer believed to be Diane Bangsund.

This is a very much better-produced affair than SF Commentary. Leigh is not rash enough to commit to a publishing schedule but says “I intend to concern myself with fandom… If I can get quality and fannishness I will be happy.” But while the major article here is a consideration of fantasy films of the thirties, the items I enjoyed most were the satirical pieces poking fun at, in turn, Melbourne SF fandom, ASFR, and science fiction magazines. That last came via a John Foyster ‘editorial’ for ‘Stupefying Stories’, a magazine which feels like many we have all read.


Cover, Rataplan 1, John Bangsund

John Bangsund has already suggested that these two fanzines are the heirs to ASFR. They are both very different and you will need to seek them both out to be convinced, as I am, that Australian fanzine writing is in safe hands.




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55 years ago: Science Fact and Fiction