What I am about to discuss is specifically for Rich Lane, but more of you may find it interesting.
The other day I came across something which gives validation to the expression "the Golden Age of Television". As someone who grew up as the medium did, I will be the first to declare that, for every instance of genuinely classic television from the '50's, there were ten instances of lame attempts and some outright drek. But when a gem appeared, it was satisfying in a way that seems to elude most modern television efforts.
There are a host of sites which make available programmes of old television series for viewing. One of the more notable ones is TV4U (www.tv4u.us). Notable because it primarily features the more little-known or unavailable series and shows. Some of them are deservedly obscure, but others are good shows which just foundered in the vagaries of television popularity. Still others are episodes of popular programmes which, for one reason or another, have not been available to the general public since their original airings.
With regard to that last category, one of the rare finds on TV4U is a few episodes from the never re-run or reproduced fourth (1956-7) season of Make Room for Daddy. That was a significant season for a couple of reasons. First, it was the season when the title officially changed to The Danny Thomas Show. Second, it marked the first format change; lead actress Jean Hagen, who portrayed Danny Williams' wife, Margaret, had departed the show. She was written out by having her character die between seasons, leaving Danny a widower. He would only be single for that one season. That year's episodes concluded with Danny meeting Kathy O'Hara, a young widow (played by Marjorie Lord), and they fall in love. (The fifth season opens with them having married and returning from their honeymoon, as Miss Lord joined the cast for the remainder of the show's eleven-year run.)
Fans of Make Room for Daddy/The Danny Thomas Show can find Jean Hagen-as-Margaret episodes for viewing and a whole heap of Marjorie Lord-as-Kathy ones, too. But that fourth season is elusive. So, when I found a couple from that season on TV4U, I had to watch them, and in doing so, I found one of those gems. In the episode titled "The Schoolteacher", first airing on 07 January 1957.
I will tell you now, the plot is nothing that cannot be predicted by a savvy television veteran. But it also happens to be one of those plots that I am a sucker for. However, it is the final scene which makes it stand out as a truly remarkable effort and an example of a moral that, for some reason, older television did so well and later television does so ham-fistedly.
To set the stage for that final scene, the plot develops like this:
Danny Williams (Danny Thomas) learns that his son, Rusty (Rusty Hamer), is scheduled to perform, along with the rest of his class, in singing "the Whiffenpoof Song" at a school assembly. Danny is dismayed, however, when he discovers that Rusty's fifth-grade teacher is requiring that his son and the other students sing in a classic manner. (He's also dismayed that Rusty sings like a dog whose tail is being stepped upon, but that's another matter.) As a nightclub entertainer, Danny feels that singing should include, and reflect, emotion and passion.
Danny heads down to the school and confronts the teacher, Miss Andrews (Monica Lewis). Miss Andrews insists that rote paying-attention-to-the-notes singing is the best way for the students, at their age, to be comfortable singing in public and enjoy it. She further gets on Danny's bad side by insisting that nightclub singing is more showmanship than talent and "anyone with half a voice and enough nerve" can do it.
Williams challenges Miss Andrews to put her money where her mouth is: to come down to the club where he is headlining and sing a number. After all, insists Danny, she has half a voice and certainly enough nerve. The teacher initially demures, but when Danny goads her, suggesting that she "preaches but doesn't practise," she takes him up on it.
That evening, an obviously unsettled Miss Andrews arrives at the club. Seeing her nervousness, Danny is sympathetic and withdraws his challenge. Until, in casual conversation, Miss Andrews repeats her opinion of nightclub singing. Re-stung, Danny takes the stage and shames her into joining him. After some pointed barbs, Danny turns the stage over to her. He assures her that the band can play any song she chooses. ("Their catalogue dates back to 1846.") Miss Andrews is clearly reluctant.
"Don't be nervous, my dear, there's nothing to it. Just get a pained expression on your face and droop your nose over the microphone," he snipes, throwing her words back at her.
It won't come as a surprise, I know, that Miss Andrews gives the band leader the name of the number, and then she knocks out a fantastic rendition of "You Make Me Feel So Young". (One of the best I've ever heard, as a matter of fact.) Danny is dumbfounded, but has enough class to leap to the stage, applauding heartily and genuinely. The look and brush-off that the lady gives him is, by itself, worth sitting through the episode.
That brings us to the last scene which is so memorable---and which I think Rich will find most rewarding.
The next day, Danny shows up at Miss Andrews' classroom after school hours. He is contrite and admits the teacher showed him up but good. But she has a confession to make: she put herself through teaching school by performing in nightclubs. Danny takes it in good humour. He also has what he thinks is great news for her. He has arranged for her to be the opening act for Jerry Lewis' new show in Chicago. Miss Andrews turns it down---she is a schoolteacher.
Danny is so stunned that she is rejecting such an opportunity that he gets indignant.
"Why do you want to waste your time in a classroom?" he spouts.
"Waste my time?" she replies.
"But you could be a star. Somebody important."
"Mr. Williams, I am important."
"Cooped up in a little school, you're important? Who knows you?"
"Twenty-eight children know me---including your son! And next year, twenty-eight more children will know me. And the next year, twenty-eight more. And believe me, Mr. Williams, it is more important to me to be known by the few hundred children I will have taught than by the thousands I might have entertained!"
"Look, alright, so I'm not minimising the importance of this job, but----"
"Job? Mr. Williams, this is more than a job. It's a profession. A career. Honestly, I don't understand people like you. I don't understand parents. You entrust the dearest possession you have---your own child---to a teacher. And you charge that teacher with the greatest responsibility a person can have in this world---the preparation of a child, your child, for a fruitful, happy life as an adult. And you have no real respect for teachers. You make fun of them, you abuse them, you intimidate them, and you underpay them. Well, be thankful, Mr. Williams, that it is a profession and that we who practise it have pride in it---because otherwise your children would be in real trouble.
"And now, if you'll excuse me," she concludes, "I'll get back to my 'unimportant, little job!'"
This scene so wonderfully exemplified what I have been saying for decades: that there is something perversely wrong-ended in the values of our society. We think nothing of people who receive millions for catching a ball or hitting a ball or throwing a ball through a hoop. Or for telling a joke or singing a song on stage.
Yet, the people in occupations that are truly integral to the foundation of our society---teachers, firemen, policemen, paramedics, and so forth---we pay much lower salaries, and grudgingly at that. So many citizens have no problem paying upwards of a hundred dollars attending a professional sports event; yet, they scream and yell if their municipal taxes are raised the same amount to increase the salaries of their teachers and cops and firemen.
Scenes like the one with Danny and Miss Andrews remind us of what's truly important---and that's good, because we need reminding.
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