My best friend (David Klecker of Baton Rogue, LA) is my best friend primarily because of our shared sense of humor. We met in our senior year of high school and it’s been one big laugh fest for the both of us since then. My sense of humor is kind of odd—at once both intellectual and sophomoric. I can’t tell you how many things just make be burst out loud laughing that many people wouldn’t find remotely funny.
So I’m going to give my readers a test to see if any share a similar sense of humor. I’ve watched quite a few episodes of the Brady Bunch, and during my childhood and adolescence was a big fan (my best friend & I even met Barry Williams when he came and spoke at Penn State, Altoona, where Dave was attending). So years ago, I bought Barry Williams’s book Growing up Brady, and there was quite a bit written about the Brady’s Patriarch, Robert Reed (he was still alive and in the closet when the book was written). Reed, in fact, wrote the Foreward to the book.
Reed comes off as a very intelligent, intellectual, neurotic, old-fashion conservative. He was a Shakespearean actor, educated at Northwestern University and transferred to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London. The Brady Bunch Book describes him as “a self-proclaimed conservative (his idea of marriage in 1963 was ‘to have a little wife to make that 5:00 A.M. coffee, do the dishes, and wash my laundry’)….”
As we all know, he turned out to be gay…a gay conservative.
Anyway what amuses me most about Reed was the fact that he was driven nuts by the Brady Bunch scripts and his having to act under such scripts. Instead of just enjoying his money and rolling his eyes (like 99% of the other actors in his circumstance would do), he decided to fight producer Sherwood Schwartz tooth and nail over this silly show. And he would write these long memos, these long polemics, very well written, complete with references to Shakespeare…. These memos read like he was fighting over something of utmost import, like the “nature” of the “political and social good.” These memos almost read as if they were written by Allan Bloom (another gay conservative).
Anyway, his memos amuse me beyond belief. So, I found this goldmine of a memo online, and I am reproducing it to see if any of you find it as funny as I.
Robert Reed's Orignal Memo Regarding Episode 116
To Sherwood Schwartz et al.
Notes: Robert Reed
There is a fundamental difference in theatre between:
They require not only a difference in terms of construction, but also in presentation and, most explicitly, styles of acting. Their dramatis peronsae are noninterchangable. For example, Hamlet, archtypical of the dramatic character, could not be written into Midsummer Night's Dream and still retain his identity. Ophelia could not play a scene with Titania; Richard II could not be found in Twelfth Night. In other words, a character indigenous to one style of the theatre cannot function in any of the other styles. Obviously, the precept holds true for any period. Andy Hardy could not suddenly appear in Citizen Kane, or even closer in style, Andy Hardy could not appear in a Laurel and Hardy film. Andy Hardy is a "comedic" character, Laurel and Hardy are of the purest slapstick. The boundaries are rigid, and within the confines of one theatric piece the style must remain constant.
Why? It is a long since proven theorem in the theatre that an audience will adjust its suspension of belief to the degree that the opening of the presentation leads them. When a curtain rises on two French maids in a farce set discussing the peccadilloes of their master, the audience is now set for an evening of theatre in a certain style, and are prepared to accept having excluded certain levels of reality. And that is the price difference in the styles of theatre, both for the actor and the writer--the degree of reality inherent. Pure drama and comedy are closest to core realism, slapstick and fantasy the farthest removed. It is also part of that theorem that one cannot change styles midstream. How often do we read damning critical reviews of, let's say, a drama in which a character has "hammed" or in stricter terms become melodramatic. How often have we criticized the "mumble and scratch" approach to Shakespearean melodrama, because ultra-realism is out of place when another style is required. And yet, any of these attacks could draw plaudits when played in the appropriate genre.
Television falls under exactly the same principle. What the networks in their oversimplification call "sitcoms" actually are quite diverse styles except where bastardized by careless writing or performing. For instance:
The Paul Lynde Show....Farce
I dream of Jeannie....Fantasy
And the same rules hold just as true. Imagine a scene in M*A*S*H in which Arthur Hill appears playing his "Owen Marshall" role, or Archie Bunker suddenly landing on "Gilligan's Island" , or Dom Deluise and his mother in " Mannix." Of course, any of these actors could play in any of the series in different roles predicated on the appropriate style of acting. But the maxim implicit in all this is: when the first-act curtain rises on a comedy, the second act curtain has to rise on the same thing, with the actors playing in commensurate styles.
If it isn't already clear, not only does the audience accept a certain level of belief, but so must the actor in order to function at all. His consciousness opens like an iris to allow the proper amount of reality into his acting subtext. And all of the actors in the same piece must deal with the same level, or the audience will not know to whom to adjust and will often empathize with the character with the most credibility--total reality eliciting the most complete empathic response. Example: We are in the operating room in M*A*S*H, with the usual pan shot across a myriad of operating tables filled with surgical teams at work. The leads are sweating away at their work, and at the same time engaged in banter with the head nurse. Suddenly, the doors fly open and Batman appears! Now the scene cannot go on. The M*A*S*H characters, dealing with their own level of quasi-comic reality, having subtext pertinent to the scene, cannot accept as real in their own terms this other character. Oh yes, they could make fast adjustments. He is a deranged member of some battle-fatigued platoon and somehow came upon a Batman suit. But the Batman character cannot then play his intended character true to his own series. Even if it were possible to mix both styles, it would have to be dealt with by the characters, not just abruptly accepted. Meanwhile, the audience will stick with that level of reality to which they have been introduced, and unless the added character quickly adjusts, will reject him.
The most generic problem to date in “The Brady Bunch” has been this almost constant scripted inner transposition of styles.
1. A pie-throwing sequence tacked unceremoniously onto the end of a weak script.
2. The youngest daughter in a matter of a few unexplained hours managing to look and dance like Shirley Temple.
3. The middle boy happening to run into a look-alike in the halls of his school, with so exact a resemblance he fools his parents [Rowe: what that’s never happened to you?].
And the list goes on.
Once again, we are infused with the slapstick. The oldest boy’s hair turns bright orange in a twinkling of the writer’s eye, having been doused with a non-FDA-approved hair tonic. (Why any boy of Bobby’s age, or any age, would be investing in something as outmoded and unidentifiable as “hair tonic” remains to be explained. As any kid on the show could tell the writer, the old hair-tonic routine is right out of “Our Gang.” Let’s face it, we’re long since past the “little dab’ll do ya” era.)
Without belaboring the inequities of the script, which are varied and numerous, the major point to all this is: Once an actor has geared himself to play a given style with its prescribed level of belief, he cannot react to or accept within the same confines of the piece, a different style.
When the kid’s hair turns red, it is Batman in the operating room.
I can’t play it.