“Mazes and Monsters” (1982)

When compared to the panic over chatspeak and sending nudes via text messenger, a similar fear over teenagers pretending to fight dragons and cast protection spells only a few decades ago seems almost quaint. Nevertheless, it’s true–back in the early 80s parents fretted over Dungeons and Dragons, buying into a media hyped belief that players could get so deep into the game that they became delusional, with occasionally tragic consequences.

The alarm was triggered by the 1979 disappearance of 16 year-old James Dallas Egbert, who wandered into the steam tunnels near his college and disappeared. A private investigator hired to locate Egbert wove a gripping story about Egbert becoming so obsessed with an ongoing Dungeons and Dragons campaign that he lost touch with reality, and was perhaps lost forever inside the tunnels. It was a great story, and it was also 100% bullshit. James Egbert was just an ordinary, depressed kid who probably played Dungeons and Dragons so he wouldn’t have to think about how depressed he was for a little while. He went to the tunnels to try to commit suicide, and when that didn’t work he hid out at a friend’s house, and then ran away to work at an oil field, finally ending his own life in 1980.

It didn’t stop the media from capitalizing on Dungeons and Dragons as the next big thing parents should worry about, however, and it didn’t stop author Rona Jaffe from cranking out a “fictionalized” version of Egbert’s story, calling it Mazes and Monsters. It was then almost immediately adapted into a TV movie, starring Tom Hanks in his first feature starring role.

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“Mary” (1978)

Even if she hadn’t passed away earlier this year, I would not say anything bad about Mary Tyler Moore. A feminist pop culture icon, she played perhaps the mother of all hardworking single women who put up with the follies of men with humor, dignity, and spunk, no matter how much Lou Grant hated it. I get why, despite ending The Mary Tyler Moore Show on top, Moore felt she had to return to television barely a year later. She was 40 by then, and we know how Hollywood treated (and continues to treat) actresses that age and older–that’s when the “mom” roles start coming in. That’s when you stop getting considered for characters who get to be sexy, or whom someone may find physically appealing. That’s when you’re forgotten, pushed to the side, written out of the script in favor of someone younger, fresher, better.

Mary Tyler Moore couldn’t risk being forgotten, so after mere months of relaxing after seven years of starring on an award winning sitcom, she was back and trying something a little different–a variety show format. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while you’ll know there’s been a whole month dedicated to variety shows, a genre that peaked in the 1960s, and died a hard, ugly, unlamented death by the early 80s. Variety shows existed for one purpose–to prove that the star (or stars, if you were Donny and Marie Osmond) was multi-talented. They weren’t just actors, they were great singers! They could dance! They could do slapstick comedy! They could grimace their way through scripted banter with a guest star they never met until three minutes before taping began!

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“The Renegades” (1983)

I miss extended opening credit sequences. In most modern network shows, you get a cold open, followed by a title card, followed by the cast names running over the next scene. Though nothing would ever top the acid blotter for the eyes that was Lidsville‘s opening, credit sequences of the past were nearly two minutes long, introducing all the characters, and acting as a mini clips episode of sorts. Some, like Bosom Buddies and Knight Rider, even had voiceovers explaining the plot, for the benefit of anyone who would just decide to start watching the show somewhere in the middle of the third season.

One that far outlived the TV show it introduced was 1983’s The Renegades, a crime drama starring Patrick Swayze, in one of his first starring roles. It is glorious 80s cheese, more so when you realize that it was completely earnest. This was meant to be a hip new show made for the youth, competing with boring soap operas like Dallas and Falcon Crest. The generic synth rock, the dark, foggy alley, the simmering attitude of the young actors, all of it was meant to evoke the gritty, edgy look of a music video, which was probably more effort than required for a modern take on The Mod Squad, but goodness knows I appreciate it.

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“Working Girl” (1990)

It’s interesting to see a TV show or movie an actor appeared in early in their career, and they’ve already latched onto the character archetype that would later make them famous. Bosom Buddies was only the third screen appearance for Tom Hanks, yet he had already perfected the charming everyman role for which audiences would quickly come to love him, with very few deviations. Winona Ryder is still playing the edgy, misunderstood rebel, nearly thirty years after Beetlejuice. Nobody plays the cute, plucky, girl next door like Sandra Bullock, who has honed that role with the precision and attention to detail of Hattori Hanzo.

Because Bullock was (and remains) so effective at playing the regular gal who is just awkward and insecure enough that neither men or other women will feel threatened by her, she seemed to be a curious choice to play the role originated by Melanie Griffith, the 80s answer to Marilyn Monroe (blonde, baby voiced, overtly sexy), in the TV adaptation of Working Girl.  Nevertheless, she was (or rather, she was second choice, when The Facts of Life‘s Nancy McKeon, an even less suitable replacement for Melanie Griffith, turned the role down), to decidedly unspectacular results.

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“The Best of Times” (1981)

Failed TV shows are a special kind of disaster, even more so than feature films. They’re special because it takes a lot more work to launch a TV show, even one that’s a dud from the start. As your Kevin Smiths and your Robert Rodriguezes once proved, it’s possible to get a movie made almost entirely through private, personal funding. But a TV show, first you have to pitch it, and then you have to get the funds to produce it, and then you have to get the time slot to air it, and then you have to find sponsors to sponsor it. There are a lot of points in time before a TV show even makes it to broadcast when someone can just pull the plug and scrap the whole thing–here’s a whole list of godawful sounding shows that had several episodes in the can but never made it to prime time.

And yet, we’ve still ended up with garbage like Homeboys In Outer SpaceCop Rock, Shasta McNasty, Cavemen, Work It, Mulaney, and Sean Saves the World. That’s not to mention massive one and done turds like the Animal House ripoff Co-Ed Fever, which barely made it past its “special preview” before getting canned. Or Quarterlife, the “based on a MySpace webseries” about 25 year-olds experiencing existential crises. Or Turn-On, the racier version of Laugh-In that was so lousy it was canceled while the premiere episode was still airing.

Sure, none of them beat Heil Honey, I’m Home, the UK sitcom based upon the hilarious premise of Adolf Hitler being a suburban husband and father, but they’re pretty mortifying all the same, and all of them beg the following questions: who thought of this? What were they thinking? Why didn’t anyone stop them?

The Best of Times elicits these questions, and so many more. Not to be confused with the Styx song or the Robin Williams movie of the same name, it aired on ABC once in 1981 and then was never mentioned again, like a bad date or an upsetting dream. This is unfortunate, because this program is so baffling it needs to be watched by millions, and deciphered like ancient runic text. I watched it one and a half times, and I still can’t find a single clue as to what anyone involved in it thought they were doing, or why they were doing it. Even the internet can’t seem to agree on what it was–Wikipedia describes it as a 48 minute long pilot (which is what I watched), while IMDB lists it as a 95 minute long TV movie. I can’t figure out who the audience was supposed to be for this. I can’t figure out if it’s making fun of or praising its characters. The pacing doesn’t make sense, the plot development is non-existent, the dialogue is written to sound like jokes, and yet it’s not funny. It resembles something you’d see after midnight on Adult Swim, and yet, I’m pretty sure it was completely earnest.

At least we know the “Who thought of this?” can be answered. That would be George Schlatter, who’s produced pretty much every variety show ever made, but is probably best known for producing Laugh-In (and the above mentioned Turn-On). The Best of Times is just one of ten TV shows Schlatter was involved in during a two year period, so it’s entirely possible the extent of his participation in it was signing the check to get it made. Three writers are credited for the script, and it would appear that all of them wrote entirely different scripts, then tore them up and pieced them back together as a single episode, like one of William S. Burroughs’s cut-up projects.

The Best of Times was a sitcom, but it also broke the fourth wall. Yet, it was a sketch comedy show as well, with the occasional song and dance number. The stars of the show were presented as real, ordinary teenagers who were not at all professional actors, but played by professional actors using their own names. Every once in a while, the comedy would stop dead in its tracks so that these everyday, completely regular kids could speak to the camera about serious things that typical teens worry about, like growing up, loneliness, war, and dating.

And who was the lead character in this group of “typical” teens? This guy:


Even at just 17, Crispin Glover already had that same jittery, unnerving energy he still brings to adult roles today, and there’s nothing typical about him. It’s weirder seeing him play a suburban twerp whining about having to clean his room than a guy training rats to kill people in the remake ofWillard. A sentient ball of tics and quirks, he’s incapable of playing “normal.”

And speaking of incapable of playing “normal,” who was the lead character’s best friend? THIS GUY:


For the two or three of you who might not be aware of it by now, Nicolas Coppola is the birth name of Nicolas Cage. Here he’s just a decade away from banging broads in church confessionals in Zandalee, yet somehow his appearance in a wacky teen comedy show is more jarring.

In addition to just regular dudes and not aliens wearing human skin Crispin and Nick, there’s also Jill (Jill Schoelen), the cute girl next door, Julie (Julie Piekarski), the blonde cheerleader, Kevin (Kevin Cortes), the dorky wannabe ladies’ man, Lisa (Lisa Hope Ross), the kinda chubby girl who’s often seen eating (in one scene she goes cross-eyed in ecstasy while drinking a Slurpee), David (David Rambo), the nerdy guy, and finally Janet (Janet Robin), an aspiring rock star whom Crispin claims is fourteen but looks a decade older. Typical of most “average teens” on television, they’re all very white and very middle class, and their most pressing issue is who they’re going to take to the big dance next week.

Sounds pretty cut and dry, and not at all incomprehensible, right?Haaaaaang on, we haven’t gotten to the musical numbers yet. In fact, let me just give a play by play of this shit collage.

2:12: After being bitched at by his off-screen mother and introducing his friends, Crispin, the ostensible host of this buffet of befuddlement, complains that white, suburban teenagers are “the faceless members of the society,” looked down upon by their elders, constantly harassed by the cops, and “everyone thinks you’re on dope!” And yet, he ends this gripe list with “Remember, these are the best of times!” IMPORTANT NOTE: only teenagers in TV shows and movies proclaim the teenage years to be the best time of your life.

3:25: Kevin, a pleasant looking, perfectly nice young guy rendered undateable because he wears glasses, makes one of several dozen attempts to ask someone to be his date at the big dance. He does it by phone, and if you guessed that this attempt ends with him not realizing he’s been hung up on and saying “Hello…hello?”, congratulations, you qualify for acceptance to our comedy writing correspondence course, please send a check or money order for $19.95 to Laff School, P.O. Box 4738, Hollywood, CA 90028.

4:26: Nick, already cranking up the Cageness to MAXIMUM and throwing air punches, extols the virtues of the Rocky movies to an unimpressed David, who asks “Don’t you ever watch Disney movies?” Surprisingly, the scene does not end with Nick beating David senseless with a weight bar.

4:56: Julie, while sitting at a makeup table with Jill and Lisa, talks about going on a driving date with a boy, and “before I knew it, we’d gone all the way…to San Diego.” The “beep beep beep beep boop” musical cue after that line helpfully lets the audience know that this is a “punchline.”

5:07: Now, if I was Kevin Costner in JFK, and this was my Zapruder film, here is the part I would become obsessed with, when everything goes haywire and nothing makes sense anymore. This is the moment where the show goes from Blandsville on the fast train to Kookootown. Crispin and the gang go to hang out at their local 7-11. Jackie Mason plays the gruff but mostly friendly store owner, Mr. O’Reilly, whose family evidently Americanized their name from O’Reillywitz when they came through Ellis Island. When Mr. O’Reilly grumbles about having to exchange hundreds of glass bottles the kids have brought in for dimes, they torment this decent, hardworking man by engaging in a musical number, dancing in the store aisles, beating on cans, and turning boxes and bottles into instruments. Because you can find anything on the internet, I managed to locate a gif from this scene, and it is profoundly unsettling:


It took me a little while to figure out that Nick is playing a comb; initially I thought, given the way he’s holding it and his patented Nicolas Cage Crazy Eyes, he was flicking a lighter, as if threatening to burn down the store (which would totally be a thing Nicolas Cage would do). Though this scene seems to be going out of its way to reinforce the stereotype that teenagers are the fucking worst, Mr. O’Reilly warms to their showmanship, even dancing a little bit himself. He finds them so charming that when Crispin tells him to put his purchase “on my tab” (NOTE: 7-11 has never operated on a tab system), he just stands there looking puzzled, rather than calling the police and reporting Crispin for shoplifting.

Are you exhausted by all this fun yet?!? Oh wait, there’s so much more.

8:23: Bringing the mood down a notch, Jill turns to the camera and talks about her fear of being lonely, particularly once she goes away to college. “It isn’t easy getting old,” proclaims this beautiful 16 year-old girl with her entire life ahead of her.

9:09: Because 14 year-old Janet apparently doesn’t have a home or parents who love her, she spends most of her time as a roadie, setting up equipment for an all-male band who has no issue letting adolescent girls do their heavy lifting for them. She works for them under the promise that eventually she’ll be able to play guitar in the band.

9:45: Nick counsels Kevin on how to pick up chicks. Already into The Game long before it became popular, Nick tells Kevin to stop looking like he’s happy all the time, and to aggressively interfere in women’s personal space. This scene goes on for more than three minutes. That doesn’t seem very long to you? Try holding your breath for three minutes and then get back to me.

12:50: Lisa, the kinda chubby girl, tells Jill and Julie that she’s trying a new diet, one in which she eats only bread and water. When Julie says it sounds like a prison diet, Lisa replies “That’s right, it’s by the lady accused of shooting the Scarsdale doctor!” Because if there’s one thing that makes for hip teen comedy, it’s references to real-life love affairs that end in murder.

13:40: Crispin complains about how hard it is for a teenager to get a job, leading into another musical number. This time, the gang works at a car wash while singing “9 to 5.” My fondest wish is that, should Nicolas Cage someday receive an Irving R. Thalberg Award, or the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the clip reel will feature him in this, wearing overalls with no shirt underneath, square dancing, and buffing his butt with a cleaning rag. Kevin rollerskates while playing a violin–what, you didn’t do that when you were a teenager? No wonder you’re so sad now. The song ends with the kids shrieking “Crazy if you let it! Crazy if you let it! Crazy if you let it! Crazy! Crazy! Crazy! Crazy!” It becomes a lulling, hypnotic drone, not unlike the noise the Man in the Planet makes in Eraserhead.


18:57: Kevin, dumped after one day of dating by Julie because he failed a magazine compatibility quiz, begins his quest to find a date to the big dance anew. He tries asking three sisters by telephone, all of whom turn him down, though a fourth sister accepts. “What do you look like? You’re a 10?” Kevin asks in delight. Can you guess what the punchline is here? Go on, guess. Did you guess it was “Oh…you are 10”? Man, you are too clever by half.

20:29: Crispin, not done harassing Mr. O’Reilly, comes into his store to buy the latest release by Talking Heads (certainly when I was growing up the number one source for the hottest new albums was the local 7-11). Nearly hysterical with excitement and not yet understanding how basic human interaction works, Crispin demands that Mr. O’Reilly listen to a track from the album while he flails around in front of him, ignoring the plea for mercy in Mr. O’Reilly’s sad, exhausted eyes.

Can you believe we’re not even halfway through this thing yet? I mean, can you believe it?

22:52: Crispin complains about having to do chores, which leads into yet another insane musical number in which he and the gang extol the virtue of weekends. Everyone wears disturbingly tiny shorts, except for chubby girl Lisa, who remains fully clothed, even while frolicking in a water park. They do aggressively kooky things, like turning somersaults in slow motion and forming a kick line, and Nick gets pulled over by a cop at a go kart track (because the cops are always on these middle class white teens’ backs, man!).


Take a deep breath, we only have one more song and dance number to go. We can get through this, together.

26:12: Julie has a fan letter to Walter Cronkite published in TV Guide, because if it’s one thing teens love more than true life murder trials, it’s elderly nightly news reporters.

28:13: Janet, in violation of several child labor laws, continues lugging around band equipment for free. Curiously, though Crispin refers to her as part of “the gang,” at no point is she ever seen interacting with any of them (she may have appeared in the song and dance numbers, I didn’t actually look that hard).

29:10: Julie and Lisa discover feminism. Julie proclaims that she’ll either be “president or a country singer,” and aspires to be the next Dolly Parton. Lisa looks at Julie’s chest and sneers “Maybe you should just stick with being president.” Because she’s flat-chested, get it? God, what a rich and plentiful humor mine this television program is!

30:06: Kevin continues going through his address book and just pretty much asking anyone out at this point. Eventually, he breaks down and asks the payphone operator to go with him to the dance. She declines.

30:53: Lisa has a framed photo of a male teacher on her bedside table. She tells one of the other girls by phone that the teacher asked her to stay after class, warning her that she was in danger of failing. Lisa reads between his lines. “I think he’s interested in me as a…woman,” she purrs, in a legit (as the kids today say) unsettling, wildly inappropriate moment.

31:51: Jill complains about how the “adult world exploits teenagers” by making them pay $80 for designer jeans. This leads into what appears to be a dream sequence in which she and the other girls manhandle Crispin on a table covered in pants while singing Pat Benatar’s “Heartbreaker.” It’s pretty elaborate as far as jerk-off fantasies go, and Crispin getting caught making a mess of the pants (ahem) by a stern looking adult woman is perhaps a little too overtly symbolic for this wholesome family comedy.


34:48: Crispin tells Jill about a dream he had with her in it (presumably not the same dream in which she was eye-fucking him on a pile of Gloria Vanderbilts) and asks her to go steady. Jill friendzones him.

37:41: David (remember him? he doesn’t get much to do in this) talks Mr. O’Reilly into supplying food for the big school dance for free, explaining that it’ll be good publicity for his store, because people were not yet aware of the existence of 7-11 by 1981.

39:14: Janet gets the band a gig playing at the school dance, under the condition that she be allowed to play with them. Finally, she is freed from her indentured servitude.

39:40: In another gem for the lifetime achievement clip reel, Nick speaks to the camera about his fear that he’ll have to fight in the war against El Salvador. The monologue sounds as though it was written 10 years earlier for another, probably equally terrible TV show, and someone merely swapped out “Vietnam” for “El Salvador.” Though he’s afraid of what the future holds, Nick is an optimist–at least he can use the prospect of being drafted to get hot chicks to bone him. “I just hope we don’t have a war!” he cries, then wanders away down the beach in a moment of quiet introspection.

42:20: It’s finally the night of the big dance. Crispin, an irritating asshole to the very end, mocks his parents having fun and enjoying each other’s company. The evening is a smashing success–Janet gets to pantomime her way through a blistering generic 50s rock ‘n’ roll guitar solo, Kevin scores a date to the dance with Julie, the prettiest girl in school, Jill seems to be warming up to the idea of dating Crispin, and Nick telling his date “It’s off to the war in El Salvador tomorrow!” has the desired effect. Nearly 45 minutes of these characters complaining about how hard it is to be them wrapping up with everyone getting exactly what they want is merely the weird cherry topping off this bizarre little sundae.

45:15: Mr. O’Reilly just doesn’t know what to make of this crazy teenage dancing nonsense. Meanwhile, the food he’s provided is being wolfed down by the kids as if they were all released from a basement dungeon earlier that afternoon.


We end the show with Crispin chiding the audience for misunderstanding teenagers. You see, they’re just scared of growing up, and that’s why they get “a little wild and crazy” sometimes, like buffing their behinds with cleaning rags or blowing into soda bottles like the Frogtown Hollow Jubilee Jugband. “Next time you see one of us,” Crispin advises, “Just say to yourself, hey, that used to be me.” He then bids goodnight, and flails around to the theme song.

If I put an unnecessary amount of detail into recapping The Best of Times, it’s because I need help understanding it. If this was a pilot, and a pilot is essentially a sample episode of a proposed television series, can you imagine how this would have turned out if it made it to full production? And if it was a one-off special, who was it for? It was a show written about teenagers that makes references to things teenagers either don’t know or don’t care about, in addition to icky jokes about underage girls wanting to fuck their teachers. For a show that purports to present its young characters in a positive, likable manner, everyone seems a little dumb and self-centered. The musical numbers don’t help; in fact, they do the opposite of help. After spending nearly an hour with Crispin and the gang, you’ll be begging to spend some time in a retirement community, or perhaps volunteering as a kindergarten teaching aide. If The Best of Times was an actual teenager, it would deserve to get pantsed and stuffed in a locker.

“Tenspeed and Brown Shoe” (1980)

One of the great mysteries of the modern era is how pop culture icons are made. Out of the many Saturday Night Live alumni turned movie stars, why was Bill Murray the one elevated to near mythical status? Like Dan Aykroyd, he seems to do a lot of movies strictly for the paycheck. Like Chevy Chase, he has a reputation for being a jerk both on and off-set. So why him instead of them? Out of all the lovable elderly actresses in Hollywood, why have we chosen Betty White as a Buzzfeed spirit animal? Why is everything that Neil Patrick Harris does worthy of adoration and multiple heart-eye emojis? How is it that one of the best selling items on a popular women’s clothing website is a t-shirt with pictures of Jeff Goldblum all over it?

Mind you, I’m not saying these folks don’t deserve the bountiful love they receive, but it is still puzzling. After a steady career starring mostly in mediocre comedies (and one really great horror movie), Jeff Goldblum’s train finally came in when he was cast as Ian Malcolm, the “rock star” mathematician in Jurassic Park. In addition to making a grillion dollars at the box office, Jurassic Park turned Goldblum into an unlikely heartthrob, a pioneer of the “sexy nerd” archetype, and an eternal pop culture legend. Though it can be argued that his career peaked with that and Independence Day a few years later, it doesn’t really matter, Goldblum merely just has to show up unannounced in the middle of a comedy sketch on late night television, and the audience acts like Ed Sullivan just introduced The Beatles. He could never appear in another movie again, and still be just as beloved as he was twenty years ago.

Before all that though, he was just a regular struggling actor trying for his first real big break, which should have come by way of Tenspeed and Brown Shoe, a comedy-drama which aired for just six months in 1980. After appearing as a Jughead hat wearing rapist in Death Wish, a pod person in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and “Party Guest” in Annie Hall, he finally landed a lead role,  playing Lionel Whitney, a well-meaning but largely out of his depth private detective.


Now, only true Hollywood insiders know this, but during the 70s and 80s the FCC required that fully one-third of all television programs airing at any given time must prominently feature at least one private detective. Preferably two, but if two were not present then they had to least have a secretary, assistant, or police contact whose primary purpose is to spar with said detective. This “Common TV Character Job That 1% of 1% of Actual People Have” clause would eventually be updated in the 90s with “full-time magazine writer” and has not yet been changed again.

Lionel, who’s obsessed with the seedy misadventures of fictitious private eye Mark Savage, starts his own detective agency, with the help of E.L. Turner (Ben Vereen), a con man fresh out of prison. In the third episode, Lionel gets his first official assignment, which is to track down a missing woman. Considering that his client refuses to identify himself, and even insists that Lionel wear a blindfold when they meet, it seems a bit fishy, but, desperate for money (for such a popular job with TV characters, being a P.I. doesn’t seem terribly profitable), he takes the case anyway.


It’s clear early on (and would be a running gag throughout the show’s brief run) that Lionel, while well-meaning, is woefully out of his depth, and would probably be brutally murdered several times over if it weren’t for the slick, savvy E.L. He crumbles when threatened with violence (despite being nearly a foot taller than everyone he encounters). He immediately turns to mush in the presence of the woman he’s been assigned to find, a taxi dancer who’s pregnant by her rich, sleazy lover–the man who paid Lionel to find her. He looks and acts more like a nebbishy bank clerk than a hardboiled private dick, and occasionally trying to do flying kicks at bad guys while shrieking doesn’t improve that image.

The plot gets a little needlessly complicated, particularly after the third act introduction of a double-crossing hitman with a soft spot for broads in trouble, and a Winston Wolfe-like character who works for Lionel’s client’s family. But you know what? For a show that came and went without leaving the barest trace on the TV history landscape, this was perfectly fine. I, too, carry a torch for Jeff Goldblum, and even here he has that familiar quirky, nervous charm. To be fair, though, Ben Vereen is pretty great too, and they’re great together, exchanging a lot of witty, engaging dialogue.


Of course, much of the humor relies upon the already stale even by 1980 trope of the uptight white guy keeping the streetwise black guy honest, while the streetwise black guy helps the uptight white guy learn to loosen up a bit. It comes off as a sort of light beer version of Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder (tastes great, less cursing), and while that works well for a ninety minute movie, it probably wouldn’t have been able to sustain itself for several seasons. No matter–Tenspeed and Brown Shoe would prove to be a but a mere bump in Jeff Goldblum’s career, as just two years later he’d be cast in The Big Chill, working almost non-stop ever since, and ushering in a glorious era of weird fan fiction and internet memes.

“The Rockford Files” (1974)

My heart broke a bit upon the news that Martin Sheen is a 9/11 truther. Though it’s likely I simply confused him with his character on The West Wing, the most level-headed, reasonable politician in television history, I had hoped that he would be above all that moonbat nonsense about controlled demolitions and steel not melting even at thousands of degrees. Alas, it was not to be, as he joined Rosie O’Donnell, Woody Harrelson, Jesse “the Body” Ventura, and Charlie Sheen, amateur physicists all, who prefer to think that the attacks on the World Trade Center were some elaborate plot by the United States Government to strip its citizens of their liberties, rather than the work of a well-known terrorist.

It was another letdown to discover that James Woods, who brings a certain sleazy charm to virtually every role he’s ever played, is a hard right Republican. Whether it’s due to age, his political viewpoints, or his reportedly prickly personality, the acting jobs have dried up for Woods in the past couple of years, and he seems to have remade himself into a conservative pundit on Twitter, spouting the same old tiresome “controversial” opinions (such as questioning the validity of Barack Obama’s birth certificate) and filing a $10 million defamation suit against one user who dared to make a joke at his expense.


“It’s my favorite wine, Scumbag Vineyards, 1952.”

While we’re stuck with that James Woods, let’s take a moment to fondly remember the old James Woods, who struck on just the right level of scumminess very early in his career, with an appearance on the first episode (pilot aside) of The Rockford Files. It goes without saying that The Rockford Files is probably the greatest detective show of all time, and that James Garner gave one of the best television performances of all time playing the lovably shady, always underestimated Jim Rockford. In “The Kirkoff Case,” Woods plays Larry Kirkoff, heir to his murdered parents’ considerable estate, who’s hired Rockford to find out who’s responsible for their deaths.

The twist here is that the police think Kirkoff himself is the culprit, but can’t build a case against him. Woods plays Kirkoff like a lesser Bond villain, a pile of slime formed into the shape of a man, and it’s great watching him and Garner spar with each other during Woods’s limited screen time. Kirkoff’s motives in hiring Rockford are vague, as opposed to Rockford’s motives in taking the job, which are largely financial in nature. He’s pretty sure Kirkoff is guilty, but Kirkoff is also willing to pay him a lot of money, something that is constantly in short supply for Rockford (the show opens with an answering machine message from the local grocery store telling Rockford that his check bounced). This crisis of conscience in relation to taking desperately needed money from various scumbags and lowlifes would be a running thread in The Rockford Files, offering a unique and compelling spin on the genre.


Jim and Tawnia arm-wrestle over who’s picking up the check

With the help of Kirkoff’s father’s mistress, Tawnia (Julie Sommars), Rockford discovers that the case is not as cut and dry as it initially seems (are they ever?), and involves real estate holdings, a failed boxer turned killer for hire, and a special guest appearance by Abe Vigoda (R.I.P.). Rockford, having been beaten, drugged, and threatened with further bodily harm for his trouble, returns to Kirkoff with the case half-solved: his mother was murdered by a hitman hired by his father. He goes on to tell Kirkoff that he still believes he killed his father, but that the case will likely never be pursued by the cops due to lack of evidence.

In an amusing turnabout, Rockford then offers to work for Tawnia, in an effort to find more evidence proving Kirkoff’s guilt. Before he has a chance, however, Kirkoff turns himself in, admitting that he did indeed kill his father. Why being told that there isn’t enough evidence to arrest someone for a crime would compel them to admit to that crime is unknown, but in any case Rockford misses out on both the payout from Kirkoff, and the potential money from Tawnia, and thus must continue rubbing shoulders with miscreants and people of questionable repute just to earn a living, for six seasons and eight TV movies.


Holy shit, water rates go up in South City?!?

Though he plays a pivotal character, Woods appears on screen for barely ten minutes total, near the beginning and at the end of the episode. This is a shame, because he and Garner have terrific chemistry. You get right away that Kirkoff isn’t entirely sure that Rockford isn’t as smart, or even smarter than him, and so he doubles down on the class snobbery instead, knowing that it’s a sore spot for Rockford. Meanwhile, Rockford only just barely swallows his distaste for Kirkoff, putting up with it for the sake of being able to pay off his bills and various debts. Their dialogue crackles with energy, and it evidently carried over into real life, with Garner and Woods becoming close friends and poker buddies, and starring together in a few other television projects in the 80s. Considering that James Garner was a well-known Democrat, one can assume that politics never came up in their conversations, or perhaps Twitter has simply brought out the worst in James Woods.