‘healthy satire of the media,’ Al?”
“. . . and— what?”
“We got the top of the book, Al.”
“Wait a minute . . .”
“We got it, Al.”
“Wait a minute, Max, I’m thinking, for Christ’s sake . . . ‘healthy satire of the media’. . . It’s an angle, it’s an angle. Jones might buy it . . . Jones at the FCC . . . if I could get to him first. . . he’s stupid enough to buy it. Okay, it’s an angle, Max—that’s all I can say right now . . . it’s an angle.”
The critics for the most part, after lambasting the first couple of shows as “terrific boners,” sat tight for a while, just to see which way the wind was going to blow, so to speak—then, with the rating at skyrocket level, they began to suggest that the show might be worth a peek.
“An off-beat sleeper,” one of them said, “don’t miss it.”
“New comedy,” said a second, “a sophisticated take-off on the sentimental.”
And another: “Here’s humor at its highest.”
Almost all agreed in the end that it was healthy satire.
After interfering with six or seven shows, Grand grew restive.
“I’m pulling out,” he said to himself, “it may have been good money after bad all along.”
It was just as well perhaps, because at the point when the producer and sponsor became aware of what was responsible for their vast audience, they began consciously trying to choose and shape each drama towards that moment of anomaly which had made the show famous. And somehow this seemed to spoil it. At any rate it very soon degenerated—back to the same old tripe. And of course it was soon back to the old rating as well—which, as in the early, pre-Grand days, was all right, but nothing, really, to be too proud of.
X
“W OULD YOU LIKE to know why I remember that young Laird K. Russell so vividly, Agnes?” Esther was asking.
Ginger Horton sniffed to show unqualified disinterest and murmured something to her sleeping Bitsy.
“Esther, you can’t be serious,” said Agnes, turning to the others with a brilliant smile. “More tea, anyone?”
“I most certainly would like to know,” said Grand, actually coming forward a little on his chair.
“Well,” said Esther, “it was because he looked like my father.”
“Esther, really!” cried Agnes.
“I mean our father, of course,” Esther amended. “Yes, Agnes, he looked just like the photographs of Poppa as a young man. It struck me then, but I didn’t realize it at the time. So perhaps it’s not Laird K. Russell I’m remembering, you see, even now, but those photographs. You didn’t know him, of course, Guy—he was a truly remarkable man.”
“Young Russell do you mean, or Poppa?” asked Guy.
“Why Poppa, of course—surely you don’t know Laird K. Russell?”
“Esther, in the name of heaven!” cried Agnes. “He’s probably dead by now! How can you go on so about the man? Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t trying quite deliberately to upset me. . . .”
Speaking of upsets though, Grand upset the equilibrium of a rather smart Madison Avenue advertising agency, Jonathan Reynolds, Ltd., by secretly buying it— en passant, so to speak—and putting in as president a pygmy.
At that time it was rare for a man of this skin-pigmentation or stature (much the less both) to hold down a top-power post in one of these swank agencies, and these two handicaps would have been difficult to overcome—though perhaps could have been overcome in due time had the chap shown a reasonable amount of savoir-faire and general ability, or the promise of developing it. In this case, however, Grand had apparently paid the man to behave in an eccentric manner—to scurry about the offices like a squirrel and to chatter raucously in his native tongue. It was more than a nuisance.
An account executive, for example, might be entertaining an extremely important client in his own office, a little tête-à-tête of the very first seriousness—perhaps with an emissary of one of the
“. . . and— what?”
“We got the top of the book, Al.”
“Wait a minute . . .”
“We got it, Al.”
“Wait a minute, Max, I’m thinking, for Christ’s sake . . . ‘healthy satire of the media’. . . It’s an angle, it’s an angle. Jones might buy it . . . Jones at the FCC . . . if I could get to him first. . . he’s stupid enough to buy it. Okay, it’s an angle, Max—that’s all I can say right now . . . it’s an angle.”
The critics for the most part, after lambasting the first couple of shows as “terrific boners,” sat tight for a while, just to see which way the wind was going to blow, so to speak—then, with the rating at skyrocket level, they began to suggest that the show might be worth a peek.
“An off-beat sleeper,” one of them said, “don’t miss it.”
“New comedy,” said a second, “a sophisticated take-off on the sentimental.”
And another: “Here’s humor at its highest.”
Almost all agreed in the end that it was healthy satire.
After interfering with six or seven shows, Grand grew restive.
“I’m pulling out,” he said to himself, “it may have been good money after bad all along.”
It was just as well perhaps, because at the point when the producer and sponsor became aware of what was responsible for their vast audience, they began consciously trying to choose and shape each drama towards that moment of anomaly which had made the show famous. And somehow this seemed to spoil it. At any rate it very soon degenerated—back to the same old tripe. And of course it was soon back to the old rating as well—which, as in the early, pre-Grand days, was all right, but nothing, really, to be too proud of.
X
“W OULD YOU LIKE to know why I remember that young Laird K. Russell so vividly, Agnes?” Esther was asking.
Ginger Horton sniffed to show unqualified disinterest and murmured something to her sleeping Bitsy.
“Esther, you can’t be serious,” said Agnes, turning to the others with a brilliant smile. “More tea, anyone?”
“I most certainly would like to know,” said Grand, actually coming forward a little on his chair.
“Well,” said Esther, “it was because he looked like my father.”
“Esther, really!” cried Agnes.
“I mean our father, of course,” Esther amended. “Yes, Agnes, he looked just like the photographs of Poppa as a young man. It struck me then, but I didn’t realize it at the time. So perhaps it’s not Laird K. Russell I’m remembering, you see, even now, but those photographs. You didn’t know him, of course, Guy—he was a truly remarkable man.”
“Young Russell do you mean, or Poppa?” asked Guy.
“Why Poppa, of course—surely you don’t know Laird K. Russell?”
“Esther, in the name of heaven!” cried Agnes. “He’s probably dead by now! How can you go on so about the man? Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t trying quite deliberately to upset me. . . .”
Speaking of upsets though, Grand upset the equilibrium of a rather smart Madison Avenue advertising agency, Jonathan Reynolds, Ltd., by secretly buying it— en passant, so to speak—and putting in as president a pygmy.
At that time it was rare for a man of this skin-pigmentation or stature (much the less both) to hold down a top-power post in one of these swank agencies, and these two handicaps would have been difficult to overcome—though perhaps could have been overcome in due time had the chap shown a reasonable amount of savoir-faire and general ability, or the promise of developing it. In this case, however, Grand had apparently paid the man to behave in an eccentric manner—to scurry about the offices like a squirrel and to chatter raucously in his native tongue. It was more than a nuisance.
An account executive, for example, might be entertaining an extremely important client in his own office, a little tête-à-tête of the very first seriousness—perhaps with an emissary of one of the
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