I'd looked online for this for a while, and here it is: a memo from Robert Reed to the producers of the Brady Bunch. This memo is reprinted in Barry Williams' book, 'Growing Up Brady,' and in the April 1992 Harper's magazine, the latter of which should be in any decent university library. There are at least two episodes Reed really loathed--#59, 'And Now a Word From Our Sponsor,' which he seems to be discussing, and #116, 'The Hair-Brained Scheme,' which he refused to appear in.
Notes:Robert Reed
There is a fundamental difference in theatre between:
1.Melodrama
2.Drama
3.Comedy
4.Farce
5.Slapstick
6.Satire &
7.Fantasy
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 reveiews 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. Teevision falls under exactly the same principle. What the networks in their oversimplification call "sitcoms" actually are quite diverse styles except where bastardized by carless writing or performing. For instance:
M*A*S*H....comedy
The Paul Lynde Show....Farce
Beverly Hillbillies.....Slapstick
Batman......Satire
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 teh 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 conciousness 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 teh caracter 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 seweating 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 subext pertinent to the scene, cannot accept as real in their own terms this other character. Oh yes, they could make fast adjusgements. 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 wish 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.
.... (I think these segments are part one and part two of the same memo, but I'm not sure)
In this week's episode, The Brady Bunch once again takes an inconsistent literary leap from semi-real situation comedy into thinly motivated farce bordering on slapstick. It's the old 1930s "Movies enter the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Average American" plot, in which our lovable, down-to-earth family is unwittingly hit by a tidal wave of Hollywood lunacy. They're nearly torn from their middle-class moorings, but thanks to their good humor, stability, and unflagging good sense, they not only withstand the barrage but emerge unsullied in their victory. (Warm embrace, chuckles, and we fade out.) It's been done a thousand times. If it were well written, it could probably work again, at least in a dated sense. But this episode is not well written.
Scene 13
1. Mike's expository speech, "Art Emhoff works in one of the biggest advertising agencies in town," is typical of constantly overdone exposition.
2. Mike's phone conversation with Art has no phatic communion in it--no normal everyday dialogue. Art has been established as a friend. You don't call a friend out of the blue and go right to the problem without "How've you been?" or "How's your golf game?" and you don't hang up without the same kind of thing. This may seem small, but it is typical of careless dialogue sans transitions. Sitcom writing is writing at its simplest level. We have a right to expect someone to know enough or care enough to have it done right.
Scene 14
1. In Mike's response to Farnum, "kooky" is an inapt term. "Oddball," maybe, "nuts," "laughable," "ridiculous," or "cliche"; but not "kooky."
Scene 16
Typical weak scene, ending with a limp gag line.
Scene 22
1. Mike: "I can't make heads or tails of this legal double-talk." Nonsense. Mike is an adult in business and is capable of understanding contracts.
2. The whole soap sequence allows Carol [the mother] to become unreal and cutesy-poo to no avail. The limpest sort of gag sequence.
3. The end gag is unplayable. Tearing up the contract is out of character and unmotivated--an author's device.
Scene 45
1. Mike's line "We don't know much about acting" is like referring to "movies" in the movies. It brings the audience out of the fantasy. Never remind them that what they're seeing isn't the truth.
Scene 50
1. Ludicrous. My God, if Alice [the housekeeper] has been mopping the floor, as indicated, the mop is wet! Yet she "clasps it" to her breast, "kisses it," etc. This is an unfortunate but typical example of how scenes too often have ridiculous inconsistencies or impossibilities.
Scene 64
1. Carol: "I guess we'll just have to wait until Mr. Brady gets home." A ninnyism. Once again, Carol becomes a nincompoop. If Carol can read a grocery list, she can look up a given reference.
The Character of Skip Farnum
Skip Farnum, our foil, is a paper-thin, one-dimensional version of the old pot-boiling cliche of the Hollywood director, updated by someone's version of the "mod" dialect. In forty-five speeches he has been given almost as many cliches, including "like real," "rap" (twice), "flip" (twice), "lay it on," "cool it," "squares," "gig," and the inevitable theatrical labeler of the au courant young: "dig" (twice). We are led to believe he is "one of the biggest directors in TV commercials," and yet we never see him really direct. In his big scenes he does little but react to us and respond with one-liners. Meanwhile, Mike and Carol are supposed to bear the comedy burden of the scene by severely overacting. If done to the height it is written, it will cause suspension of belief. We are not that dumb. In short, it seems to me, the problem with this script is not in the plot situations. It could all happen. Where the rub comes is in how the situations are brought about. The troubles are: totally unmotivated behavior; weak dialogue (as ever); and overwritten, cliched characters.
(Text by the late
Robert Reed, via '
Growing Up Brady,' via '
Harper's,' via
Abigail Fox, seemingly, and this
Zelda fan site.
