In the Midwest, the chilly arrival of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and
Christmas creates the perfect environment to draw the drapes and hunker
down to watch some television. Because there's absolutely nothing else to do here.
To TV lovers in my age bracket (the Punic Wars) who are rooting
around for something nostalgic, triggered memories of annual CBS airings
of Charlie Brown animated specials (screw you, Apple) such as A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, are inevitable.
Not in the top tier of the classic Peanuts shows, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving resembles the gold standard A Charlie Brown Christmas
a little too much for its own good. There’s no denying, though, that
Snoopy (as usual) makes the toon worthwhile, as does the beautiful score
by Vince Guaraldi (arguably the guy who introduced more people to
jazz…who didn’t know they were listening to jazz).
In case you’ve been living on the Moon, a very brief synopsis of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving
is in order. Charlie Brown (voice of Todd Barbee), after having
humiliated himself yet again by falling for Lucy’s (voice of Robin Kohn)
old football trick, looks forward to another depressing holiday:
Thanksgiving.
It’s bad enough about the football, but then he sees that
Snoopy (voice of Bill Melendez) gets more mail than he does, and he soon
discovers from his sister Sally (voice of Hilary Momberger) that the
stores already have Christmas items for sale (back when people were
still worried about the commercialization of our holidays).
Adding to his existential troubles is the fact that Peppermint Patty
(voice of Christopher DeFaria) calls up on Thanksgiving Day, and invites
herself over for dinner…along with Marcie (voice of Jimmy Ahrens) and
Franklin (voice of Robin Reed).
But Charlie Brown’s family is headed to
his grandmother’s home for the day, so it’s up to Linus (voice of
Stephen Shea) to come up with a plan—with the help of Snoopy and his
bird-brained pal, Woodstock (voice of Bill Melendez)—to save Charlie’s
holiday.
After countless repeat viewings, what primarily interests me now with
these Charlie Brown TV specials is my own nostalgia factor, weighed
against the reaction of my kids to these perennial favorites. Anyone
growing up in the late 60s, early 70s remembers what a comparative
“wasteland” prime-time network TV was for kid-specific animation fare.
You had the groundbreaking The Flintstones and a few other
prime-time cartoon series here and there, as well as a few syndicated offerings, but overall, before cable,
VCRs, DVDs and streaming provided 24-hour-a-day access to
toons, it was a relatively rare event to see a cartoon on prime-time
network TV.
Saturday mornings were it, but holidays were a good bet,
too, and certainly the Peanuts specials took on an almost
quasi-religious aspect for most kids’ “must-see” TV schedules. Nobody missed a Peanuts special.
Today, of course, with a myriad of media options, it’s difficult if
not impossible to ratchet up that kind of viewer consensus for any TV show, as those skimpy ratings for ABC’s previous repeats of Peanuts specials bore out (and sorry—they never felt the same coming out of the now-wretched Mouse House or soulless Galactic Empire, Apple). While today’s
parents who grew up during that original Peanuts era probably still view
the specials as de rigueur holiday experiences, they’re more
likely to pop in a disc or search Hulu than sit through the edited,
commercial-laden network broadcasts.
My kids are no different. I don’t
think we’ve ever watched the classic Peanuts specials on network TV;
it’s always been video or disc (you want me to watch them on TV again?
Put back the vintage Dolly Madison commercials and I’m in).
Which brings us to A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. First aired
on November 20, 1973, when Charles Schulz’s strip comic was at the apex
of its cultural saturation, the short is now widely regarded as one of
the “Big Three” of the classic Peanuts specials. And while A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving isn’t the equal of either the superlative A Charlie Brown Christmas or It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (nor even the underrated Be My Valentine, Charlie Brown),
it’s relatively amusing, while conveying enough of the “Schulz touch”
to be recognizable as one of the “classic” outings with the Peanuts
gang.
A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving‘s biggest problem is familiarity: it’s structured too closely along the lines of the better A Charlie Brown Christmas.
Both feature Charlie Brown fretting about an upcoming, depressing
holiday. He then has to (ineptly) provide or produce some kind of event
in conjunction with the holiday (the play and the tree in Christmas, an impromptu dinner here)—an event that of course falls short, thus ticking off the gang (Lucy is the main complainer in Christmas;
here, it’s Peppermint Patty).
Then, with Charlie Brown at his lowest,
he’s given a pep talk by one of the quieter characters (Linus in Christmas,
Marcie here) who explains the real reason for the season, and lifts his
spirits. Except for some minor differences here and there, they could
be the same cartoon.
Which is fine, if A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving could at least hold its own with the beautifully modulated, surprisingly emotional A Charlie Brown Christmas. While Schulz’s patented cruelty towards the forever shat-upon Charlie Brown is on display again for Thanksgiving
(not only do his friends invite themselves over, but then they have the
nerve to complain about the food he serves them), the motivation seems
thin and arbitrary.
In the Christmas special, the children razz
Charlie Brown constantly, but when he brings that admittedly pathetic
tree to the play, that’s their cue to really lay into Charlie
Brown. Of course they can’t see the cruelty in what they’re doing (what
little kid does?), but they eventually understand how truly kind Charlie
Brown is, deep down.
In Thanksgiving, however, the basic premise of Patty inviting
herself and the other kids over to Chuck’s seems a small, forced plot
device (to further bolster the thin premise, a parent’s okay is thrown
in by Patty when she speaks to Chuck over the phone—a story crutch that
seems strangely out of place in the normally adult-less Peanuts world).
Her outraged reaction to a meal that most little kids would probably
love (popcorn, jelly beans, pretzels, toast (?), and some kind of ice
cream drink) seems calculated only to follow the pattern of
abuse/redemption that was established in Christmas.
Christmas was artfully simple in letting the audience discover
for themselves that Charlie Brown’s concern for the little tree was the
only true expression of the real Christmas spirit. A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving,
however, clumsily insists on Marcie spelling everything out for the
audience with her literal dressing-down of Patty’s rude behavior and her
obvious declaration of Charlie Brown’s essential goodness.
Even worse, Christmas delivered a small but powerful emotional wallop with Linus’ direct declaration of what the Christmas holiday is really about, when he quotes the Bible. Thanksgiving’s
botched kids’ dinner conveys none of the simple blessings that are
inherent in our own uniquely American holiday (nor certainly any of the
religious aspects, either—another mistake).
Still…whenever Snoopy is on in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving,
the film picks up considerable energy, and he’s more than enough to push
the short into the plus column. The Snoopy craze of the early 70s was
really peaking at this point, so it’s not surprising he has a much more
central role here than Charlie Brown.
Snoopy’s centerpiece sequences,
including the fight with the folding lawn chair and his efforts to make
toast and popcorn, never fail to get the kids laughing, while the
short’s final “gotcha” gag—Snoopy and Woodstock had a huge turkey and
pumpkin pie in his dog house all along, while poor Charlie Brown
suffered—fits in nicely with Schulz’ essentially pessimistic world view
(and yes, that would extend to Woodstock being, essentially…a cannibal).
Finally, despite the drawbacks of the toon’s script, it’s impossible to dislike A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving when Peanuts composer Vince Guaraldi lays down some sweet, mellow autumnal sounds (Thanksgiving Theme is lovely), along with the decidedly un-Thanksgiving-sounding Little Birdie, a fat funk groove that comes out of nowhere and almost lifts the short up with the best of the Peanuts classics.
I know it's hard for some people to read this, but...I'd rather watch Hanna-Barbera's The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn’t than college ball or a bowl game or whatever other sports are on during the holidays. Straight up. I just...go into a catatonic fugue state watching grown felons playing grab-ass with each other, chasing around a stupid ball for millions of dollars while other out-of-shape grown men in the stands and at home scream and cry like little girls, living vicariously through the ersatz gladiators down there on the pitch.
Don't feel threatened by that statement. Learn from it, and join me. You big girl blouses.
A few years ago, Warner Bros.’ Archive Collection released a crappy 1979 toon called Casper’s Halloween Special on m.o.d. disc. It’s rather dire. However, the disc’s “added bonus,” the animated Thanksgiving special, The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn’t,
which first aired in syndication back on November 21st, 1972, is a
classic weirdo H-B offering that should easily take your mind off
hilariously clueless, virtue-signalling multi-millionaire crybabies.
America, Fall, 1972. Little Jimmy and Janie, playing outside on a
swing, are called for Thanksgiving dinner. Ready to dig in, their father
asks them if they forgot something, and the family bows their head to
pray.
Outside the comfortable upper-middle class home, up a tree, Father Squirrel (voice
talent of Vic Perrin) also watches his disgusting rodent family pray as
his son (voice talent of June Foray) asks about how Thanksgiving came
about—to which Father Squirrel states that if it wasn’t for his Great
Great Great Grandfather Jeremy Squirrel (voice talent of Hal Smith),
there wouldn’t be a human Thanksgiving.
Flashback: America, Fall, 1620. The Pilgrims, showing “hard work,
perseverance, and courage,” fight back from lack of food and disease, to
survive their first hard winter. In the spring, help from the local
Indians leads to a bountiful harvest, which the Pilgrims plan on
celebrating with their Indian brothers.
Mirroring this development,
Johnny Cook, a young Pilgrim boy, befriends a young Indian brave, Little
Bear, son of Chief Massasoit. When their adventures that first
Thanksgiving day take them away from the settlement, it’s up to Jeremy
Squirrel, who got the two boys to stop fighting and be friends in the
first place, to find them before vicious wolves rip them apart.
Produced and directed for syndicated TV markets by William Hanna and
Joseph Barbera, based on a story by soon-to-be rivals-in-animation, Ken
Spears and Joe Ruby, The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn’t is so
well remembered by adults from my generation because it was one of the
very few animated prime-time toons that were built around the
Thanksgiving holiday. You can probably name twenty classic Christmas
toons right off the top of your head, and even a handful for
Halloween…but how many were specifically produced for Thanksgiving back
during the 1970s?
Watching it again here for about the 30th time (I know I caught it on
TV most years up to the 1980s…only to start all over again in the 90s
with my kids and Boomerang), it’s impossible not to like this
silly, action-filled outing the minute you hear its catchy, moonshine
jug, thud-puckin’ theme song, complete with those insane kazoos and Don
Messick’s big, booming bass drops (H-B were geniuses when it came to
instant “grab ya” theme songs). After just the first few bars, we’re
hooked on that classic, golden Hanna-Barbera nostalgia that sticks to
adults from my generation like bad cholesterol to our narrowing
arteries.
Produced in 1972, before political correctness had seeped out of the
liberal universities to infect and destroy our national culture, you
won’t have to worry about sitting down your Little Johnny and Janie to
watch The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn’t, only to have them see
the Pilgrims being portrayed as either backward dolts who needed to be
spoon-fed like babies by the Indians, or the even more popular canard
that they were cold-eyed genocidal racists looking to scam the New World
away from those trusting, childlike-yet-ever-so-wise,
sartorially-challenged Indians (what the hell goes with beaver pelt?).
The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn’t
comes from a long-gone time in American entertainment when, no matter
how gussied up it was for entertainment purposes, a history lesson aimed
at an American child was first and foremost a celebration of what used
to be—and what could be—great about this country.
In The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn’t, we’re given just a
quick timeline of the Pilgrims coming to America, with a rightly
justified nod to their bravery and tenacity (good luck hearing that
coming from your own Little Johnny’s commie socialist millennial school
teacher punk today). Here, when Johnny and Little Bear are lost in the woods,
they buck themselves up by both stating they’re proud of their heritages, before the rest of the episode goes into a busy but toned-down Jonny Quest Goes Native
playlet.
Little kids will enjoy Jeremy Squirrel scampering around
trying to save the boys, while you’ll crack up at unintentionally funny
stuff like 1972 Jimmy’s weirdly androgynous mixture of June Foray’s
Rocky Squirrel voice coming out of his hybrid Cindy Williams/Rosie
O’Donnell head, or the modern children’s positively morose, funereal
reply, “Yes, Daaaaaad,” as they’re forced to pray before digging
into dinner.
So this Thanksgiving, when you’re taking a pass on
unpatriotic NFL thugs and that fourth piece of pumpkin pie, pop in The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn’t for a heaping helping of positive, long may they American waves.
I don’t think anything takes me back faster to
the recollections of childhood TV viewing than those first tentative
strains of composer Jerry Goldsmith’s lovely theme for CBS's highly-rated period drama, The Waltons.
It was a show I never missed as a kid, following its story arc of a
tight-knit Virginia mountain family surviving the Depression and WWII
through 9 long seasons (1972-1981).
Structured around John Walton’s reminiscences of his childhood on
Walton’s Mountain (narration from series creator Earl Hamner, Jr.
bookended each episode), The Waltons was for me an early,
powerful melding of personal and professional yearnings that then became
locked into my own childhood memories. Wanting to be a writer since I
was a boy (which obviously didn't happen, as anyone reading this blog can clearly see), as well as wishing that my family
back then was as close and loving as the one depicted on the small
screen (um...hahahahaha), The Waltons became required viewing for me right from the start of its run.
Viewed so many years later, admittedly through my veil of nostalgia, The Waltons
still plays extremely well today. A show that many snooty critics back then dismissed as
either a kids’ show or a hopelessly backward-looking fantasy, The Waltons’
beautifully modulated tone often uncannily expressed the gentle hopes
and sometimes heavy disappointments of everyday life, a grounded vision
immediately responded to by viewers weary of all the cop shows,
detective series, and medical dramas that back then flooded 1970s network
television (and equally weary of the tumultuous times they lived in).
I’ve read a lot of criticism of The Waltons that found fault
with its deliberately cleaned-up picture of rural Virginia life in the
economically ravaged 1930s, as if creator Earl Hamner, Jr. was somehow
being artistically dishonest in taking out much of the grit from those
harsh memories. Of course, that view doesn’t take into account the
realities of network TV censorship in the early 1970s.
Nobody from CBS
was going to let viewers see what it was really like out in the
hills during the Depression. Nor does that critical carping allow for
writer Hamner’s deliberate use of nostalgia as a vehicle for dramatic
intent.
Hamner’s marvelous 1971 telemovie, The Homecoming, which was
not originally intended as a series pilot, was perhaps closer to reality
in depicting the economic hardships of the Depression, as well as the
rather earthy, pious people that inhabited those hills at the time. And
yet still, that telemovie, according to the network brass, had to be
“toned down” for mainstream audiences.
Except for the kids watching The Waltons at the time, most of
the adult viewers had first-hand accounts of the Depression from their
own parents (if they hadn’t actually lived through it themselves). My
parents were born during the Depression, so their childhood memories
were certainly shaped by it, and they knew The Waltons wasn’t a
“true” depiction of those times—at least in terms of showing the actual
hardships that people went through (the poor of Walton’s Mountain are
not the poor of Walker Evans’ photos by a long shot).
In fact, growing up myself during the hard recession of the early
1970s, I distinctly remember thinking the Waltons had it pretty good
compared to us: they had their own mountain, plenty of game to hunt, plenty of
land to plant crops, their own business (a saw mill), and a huge house with a dining room table, groaning with food (I don’t remember the Waltons ever going without a meal, which happened
to me more than once).
Hamner knew what he was doing: no one would have
tuned in to The Waltons to see people starve (that’s why today’s
network television—obsessed with showing only the seaminess, despair,
and gritty “truth” of life…as their liberal writers see it—is losing
more and more viewers every year).
What my parents did see as very true were the more modest, restrained moments in The Waltons,
ones that resonated with their own experiences. The feeling that life
must have its quiet moments, moments to just live and experience life as
it comes. The feeling that families had to stick together to survive
the harsh, outside world. The feeling that one could be in accord with
one’s natural surroundings—all feelings that were increasingly under
assault in 1970s American society.
The Walton family may have looked too well-scrubbed and fed, and
their teeth too white and perfect, and they may have always had the
money to pay the electric bill…but when they gathered around the radio,
enjoying a program together as a family, that fictional moment had a
decidedly real impact for my parents—they had experienced the exact same
thing as children.
Which of course leads to the rather reflexive
experience for me as an adult, remembering watching The Waltons as a child with my parents, gathered around the TV set. It’s a fairly layered experience, then, for a former viewer to watch The Waltons today (especially if you add in your own kids watching it on DVD…which just adds another mirror, reflecting another mirror, back on itself).
When I sat down to watch the second season’s 10th episode, the special two-hour The Thanksgiving Story
(originally airing on November 15th, 1973), I had forgotten that it
was, in part at least, a sequel. One of the main subplots involved
John-Boy (Richard Thomas) welcoming back his first serious love, Jenny
Pendleton (Sian Barbara Allen), who memorably appeared on Walton’s
Mountain in season one’s 17th episode, The Love Story (January 18th, 1973).
That
episode was one of my all-time series’ favorites, but I hadn’t watched
it in years, so…it was back down to my vast subterranean DVD vault to
retrieve it for some article background padding.
In The Love Story, written by Hamner himself and directed by
Lee Phillips, John-Boy experiences the intoxicating—and rather
terrifying—pangs of serious first love. Passing the “haunted” Pendleton
house one night, aspiring writer John-Boy Walton sees a candlelight
moving around the abandoned place before the light is extinguished.
Telling his father, John Walton (Ralph Waite), John and his son go to
check out what’s happening (9 years before, John had promised the owner,
Dave Pendleton, that he would watch over the boarded-up house). Inside
they discover Dave’s daughter, Jenny, who has run away from her father’s
house in the city because widower Dave has remarried. Invited back to
the Walton home, Jenny soon becomes entranced with the loving family…and
with an equally smitten John-Boy.
Opening with an appropriately old-fashioned romantic device (a doomed love walking alone among a darkened, “tragic” house) The Love Story is a perfect distillation of one of The Waltons’
central dramatic structures: a stranger with an emotional problem comes
to Walton’s Mountain, and through the healing love and understanding of
the generous, kind Walton clan, he or she finds…fill in the blank:
love, redemption, honor, courage, etc.
Throughout Jenny’s stay, everyone
is constantly reassuring her that she’s welcomed and liked, and that
she can stay as long as she wishes—was that kind of positive
reinforcement happening over on Mannix or The Mod Squad or even Marcus Welby, M.D. (no, not even there—they needed the beds)?
That welcoming feeling The Waltons always strived to achieve
no doubt helped it ride out 221 hour-long episodes over nine years with
its loyal fan base. It’s a cliche, but TV back then was still about
asking the viewer permission to come into their homes.
As a kid, I felt that even a little wise-ass jerk like me would be made to feel like part of the Walton family (and
that’s saying something), and The Love Story is a particularly good example of the series’ ability to create that genuinely warm, convivial atmosphere.
Quietly potent, too, are the gentle, tender love scenes between
John-Boy and Jenny, no doubt aided significantly by the added chemistry
of then real-life lovers Richard Thomas and Sian Barbara Allen. Having
met during the filming of that year’s Patty Duke thriller, You’ll Like My Mother,
Thomas and Allen were indeed already skilled performers (we lost Allen this year; sadly, she didn't have the career she should have)…but there’s no
mistaking an added intensity, a reality to their scenes together here
that telegraphs their true feelings for each other (Thomas reportedly
insisted on girlfriend Allen getting the part).
Nicely built by writer Hamner, and sensitively staged by director
Phillips, their courtship believably begins as tentative, awkward
attraction (the scene where John-Boy plays the dulcimer for her,
nervously looking over at Jenny to see if she’s feeling what he’s
feeling, is expertly played by both), before it segues into their own
Heathcliff and Cathy moment up on the top of Walton’s Mountain, playing
children’s make-believe games to hide the fear of stating what they feel
is coming…before their emotions overtake them (another delicate, subtle
moment for the actors).
There are other telling little moments in The Love Story that
fill out the episode, such as John and “Livie” (Michael Learned)
remembering how they grew up together (no syrup for them: he remembers
her as “prissy,” and she states he was “the wickedest boy in town,”
before they both look at each other with knowing attraction). It’s a
smartly written scene (later, “wicked” John of course allows John-Boy to
escort pretty Jenny up to the mountain, while “prissy” Olivia subtly
suggests John-Boy invite the younger children to come along…).
But then, The Waltons was almost always smartly written (even
the potential for an “evil stepmother” is squashed: kind, loving Eula is
searching for a way to reach Jenny, too). And the sad, final goodbye of
Jenny and John-Boy is no different: their parting words are direct and
to the point, and no less effective for their simplicity (for the
dreamers out there who always wish for a cinematic happy ending, even if
its only hinted at as a possibility, Hamner the narrator gently puts
the kibosh on those yearnings: “Jenny was to come into our lives again,
but the promises we made to each other we were not to keep,”).
Okay. So…where is all of that continued in The Thanksgiving Story? I mean…shouldn’t the return of Jenny be a momentous event for John-Boy that dwarfs everything else? Apparently not….
In this extremely busy episode, John-Boy’s excitement at seeing Jenny
again is overshadowed by his all-consuming desire to gain a scholarship
to Boatwright College. Without it, John-Boy can’t attend college, and
without college, he knows that his raw skills as a writer won’t be honed
into a usable or meaningful artistic commodity.
Unfortunately, while
helping his daddy and Grandpa (Will Geer) cut some lumber, the belt on
the saw breaks, whacking John-Boy a good one in the head. Soon, he’s
suffering dizzy spells and shaking hands, both of which spell doom for
his taking the scholarship test.
As well, John-Boy’s resumed courtship of Jenny is initially
rocky…particularly since he’s been dating other girls in her year-long
absence. Brother Jason (John Walmsley) has a sticky problem: the wealthy
Baldwin Sisters, Miss Mamie (Helen Kleeb) and Miss Emily (Mary
Jackson), want to send a jar of moonshine “the Recipe” to FDR (as thanks for extending handling the Depression), and they need Jason to help run the still.
They also want to adopt him.
Middle brother Ben (Eric Scott) wants to bag the family turkey by
himself…with Grandpa’s help. And perpetually crazed sister Mary Ellen
(Judy Norton-Taylor) is hoping to land the lead as Pocahontas in the
high school Thanksgiving play.
Granted, The Thanksgiving Story was a longer 2-hour special,
allowing more characters to have their own subplots, but it’s curious
how the scripter, Joanna Lee, short-changed the reunion of Jenny and
John-Boy in favor of a storyline that smacks of Medical Center, not Love Story.
Of the side plots, Mary Ellen’s, unfortunately, is the weakest. I
always loved Judy Norton-Taylor’s fractious, anxious, growin’-pains
portrayal of Mary Ellen. Whether growling, “Grandma!” at the episode’s
opening, or self-importantly proclaiming, “I am never going to be a wife. I am going to pursue a career in the theater,” Mary-Ellen was a wholly believable evocation of a smart, emotional, frequently hilarious teen girl at war with everyone who irritated her…which was everyone.
Too bad, then, that the Pocahontas play angle was treated as merely
filler (every time you think the character is going to rev up…they cut
away to dizzy John-Boy falling down somewhere).
Ben’s desire to grow up too soon, and Grandpa’s willingness to let
him fail, was better developed, and nicely played by Geer and Scott. How
many parents out there today are delivering up the much-needed lesson
Grandpa gives Ben? Damn few.
Ben, spending all that time making a wooden
turkey call, blows his one and only chance to bag his prize when he
too-excitedly blasts his shotgun before sighting it…something Grandpa
knew he’d do. When a dejected Ben asks him why he let him fail, Grandpa
simply states, “How are you going to learn if I don’t let you try?”
Even
better, when Ben realizes people may laugh at his story, Grandpa wisely
states, “When you take on a man’s challenges before you’re ready, you
gotta learn to take on the risks.” He offers Ben an out—Ben has to
barter his own hard labor to get a turkey farm bird—but Grandpa says
they’ll tell the truth of what happened: Ben did get the turkey.
And Jason’s subplot with the adorable Baldwin Sisters is a particular highlight of The Thanksgiving Story. The delightfully daffy Baldwins were my favorite Waltons
characters bar none: Helen Kleeb and Mary Jackson could effortlessly
switch from hilariously clueless to touchingly sweet in seconds, as they
do here.
Watch their expert interplay as they sit on Livie’s couch,
trying to sell their outrageous desire to adopt Jason; it’s a master
class in comedic timing (Walmsley’s kind stillness is used to good
effect against the actresses). There’s an additionally fine follow-up to
this scene for Waite and Learned, where John apologizes and then charms
Livie into forgiving him for allowing Jason to bootleg whiskey (it’s
only the second season, but pros Waite and Learned act like they’ve been
doing this together for 20).
What a shame, then, that the nominal main plot line—John-Boy’s head
injury and renewed romance—is so…blah. The injury angle is as old as the
hills (and plays as such), while his romance with Jenny seems as
truncated as the Thanksgiving dinner that the director doesn’t show (a
big cheat for this kind of episode—I want to see those kids digging in).
I get that the John-Boy character has initially moved on to other
interests—new girls, college—but if they prime our expectations by
making it look like things are right back on track with Jenny (as they
do, with a lovely scene back up on the top of Walton’s Mountain, where
John-Boy lays out his view of humanity, and Jenny makes it clear she
wants to get physically involved)…why do they just drop the whole thing at the end?
The episode’s fade-out is John-Boy whooping about college—not
Jenny. Did she stay? Did she go? Did she get the wish bone? Who
knows…because Jenny and Sian Barbara Allen were never seen again on
Walton’s Mountain (that tends to happen when you’re not dating the
series’ lead anymore...).
Luckily, there are more than enough worthy scenes in the other
subplots—with a Thanksgiving theme threading through each—to make up for
the fact that what drove me to The Thanksgiving Story in the first place—to see more of John-Boy and Jenny from the beautifully crafted The Love Story—is mysteriously ignored.
Today, November 11th, 2025, marks the 50th anniversary of the passing of one of the screen's greatest actors: Higgins the Dog, better known as "Benji."
Let that sink in. Not just the frankly ridiculous passage of time (if only they had taken better care of him, he'd still be with us at 67-years-old...), but my assertion that shelter mongrel-turned-superstar Higgins truly belongs up there in the pantheon of cinema's best actors (except for possibly opening a Hunt's pudding cup tin with his teeth, let's see if Brando could have done any of Higgin's stunts in Benji...and do them with such scrappy, adorable elan). Let's look at his magnum opus, Benji, as well as two of the "Benji" character's ABC TV specials: 1978's The Phenomenon of Benji, and 1980's Benji at Work.
A few years back, Mill Creek Entertainment, in association with Mulberry Square
Productions, released (in a super-sharp, extras-loaded
Blu-ray+DVD+Digital special edition) Benji, the 1974 family
classic from producer, writer, and director Joe Camp. Starring Higgins
the Dog (trained by Frank Inn), alongside Patsy Garrett, Peter Breck,
Christopher Connelly, Tom Lester, Mark Slade, Deborah Walley, Herb
Vigran, Frances Bavier, Terry Carter, Cynthia Smith, Allen Fiuzat, and
Edgar Buchanan, Benji was the record-smashing zero-budget indie hit of both
the summer of 1974 and 1975.
This remarkable box office achievement
catapulted the “Benji” character into the upper stratosphere of mid-70s
pop culture, right alongside other fictional “bedroom poster” icons like
Rocky Balboa, Jaws the shark, Charlie’s Angels…and Donny and Marie.
Click to order Benji on Blu-ray/DVD:
If you’ve seen Benji in previous washed-out, cropped video and
DVD incarnations, you’ll be blown away by Mill Creek’s bright,
colorful, sparklingly clean widescreen presentation. As well, there are some very cool bonuses here,
including a commentary track with Joe Camp, not one but two of Benji’s 1970s network TV specials (The Phenomenon of Benji and Benji at Work, both…essential viewing), an original trailer, and a photo gallery.
Despite what some clueless new reviewers out there claim, Benji works just as well today as it did 44 years ago, for kids and their parents. After all: who wouldn’t love that face?
Benji (Higgins the Dog) is the town stray. He lives alone in an
abandoned, spooky “haunted house” out beyond the city limits. He has
lots of friends, though, all of whom look forward to seeing Benji each
morning.
There’s the “Lady with the Cat” (Frances Bavier), who screams
curses on Benji when he chases her cat, Petey, up a tree…before smiling
benevolently after him as he trots off. Friendly Officer Tuttle (Terry
Carter) likes to feed Benji if he has any snacks left. Cafe owner Bill
(Edgar Buchanan) calls Benji “Sam,” and depends on Benji to wake him
from his mid-morning snooze out on the front entrance.
And little Cindy
and Paul Chapman (Cynthia Smith, Allen Fiuzat) are the two children who
love Benji and want to keep him. So they have their
housekeeper/governess Mary (Patsy Garrett), feed him on the sly…against
the strict wishes of their widowed father, Dr. Chapman (Peter Breck),
who almost lost a brother to a rabid dog.
Benji finds love one day during his usual garbage scrounging,
flirting and romping with girl dog Tiffany. However, their honeymoon
home is invaded by three criminals—Henry (Christopher Connelly), Riley
(Tom Lester), and Linda (Deborah Walley). These hapless goofs are
waiting for the arrival of their ringleader, nasty Mitch (Mark Slade).
When a phony kidnapping con turns into the real thing, it’s up to Benji
to rescue the kids.
Benji’s backstory is one of the more interesting indie movie
tales from the 1970s (has that ass-clown Tarantino ripped off Benji in any of his "hommages" yet?). In the late 1960s, Texas advertising man Joe Camp,
who had experience shooting commercials and instructional films, had
the idea of producing a low-budget live-action feature starring a dog,
shown mostly from the canine’s point of view (in the vein of Lady and the Tramp),
but one that avoided the then-prevalent Disney “True-Life Adventure”
semi-documentary style that mixed staged nature footage with human
voice-over narration.
All the major Hollywood studios passed on Camp’s
treatment, telling him that Disney had already done this kind of thing
to death, and that he couldn’t pull it off, anyway—not with a real dog
acting in a naturalistic way in a dramatic storyline.
Camp didn’t give up. He went ahead and wrote a full screenplay, and
then looked for backers. Apparently, his presentation must have been a
wow (he states he even got down on the floor like Benji, acting out all
the scenes for the money men), because he secured his $500,000 budget
within a mere six weeks.
Casting the dog was crucial, particularly since
Camp had been told it would be next to impossible to get a dog that
could do all the things his script required. Camp found the legendary
Frank Inn, who had helped train various “Lassies,” “Arnold the pig” from
Green Acres, and the remarkably expressive, tricks-filled “Dog” from Petticoat Junction.
Inn thought that particular dog, Higgins, a Miniature Poodle, Cocker Spaniel, and Schnauzer mix he had found at the Burbank Animal Shelter, would be perfect for Benji.
He was getting on in years—15 and officially retired—but Inn stated
Benji was the smartest, best-trained animal he had ever worked with, and
he could get the job done. Camp was sold.
Using a micro-crew of less than 25 people, Camp assembled an
inexpensive cast of familiar TV and movie faces down around McKinney and
Denton, Texas and shot for 8 weeks in 1973. Editing took another 6
months and then…no one in Hollywood wanted to distribute the movie.
Taking a page from other notable “four wall” releasing successes like Billy Jack and the Schick-Sunn Classic movies (where’s that
boxed set?), wherein a producer actually rents out a movie theater,
thus collecting 100% of the ticket sales, Campell decided to form his
own releasing company, but with a twist.
Instead of renting out the
second-run houses in less-desirable markets (as was the norm for a lot
of four-walling back then), Camp laboriously released Benji section by section throughout America in the spring of 1974, aiming for only the best, most prestigious theaters in each town.
This unusual method worked; by the end of the summer of 1974, Benji
had returned its budget ten times—a phenomenal result for a zero-budget
indie. Then, Camp did something else that was quite unique: he pulled Benji
from U.S. theaters, and waited until the summer of 1975 to start all
over again (his thinking: if he stayed in theaters in the fall and
winter, when grosses dropped off, he wouldn’t be featured in the trade
papers anymore, which noted his weekly record-breaking b.o. grosses).
The gambit worked beyond anyone’s expectations. By the time Benji
ended its 1975 theatrical re-release, it had grossed $46 million
worldwide—an unheard-of 1-to-92 return on investment (and that’s not
even counting all the hundreds of millions in merchandising).
Camp went on to make a few more Benji movies over the years (to diminishing returns), along with family outings Hawmps! and The Double McGuffin, as well as several Benji TV specials (usually brought out to promote an upcoming movie). I saw Benji with my girl cousins when I was 9 (I was out-squealed 3 to 1). I thought it looked dumb (I made my preference known: Death Wish,
which horrified my aunt and uncle—no Jujyfruits for me in the lobby as
they kept glaring at me…),
But I distinctly remember laughing and
sniffling throughout it, against my (death) wishes, seeking it out again
on my own the next summer. It was one of those small, quiet titles a
movie fan remembers from their childhood, the kind that can stand out
against noisier, more flamboyant picture memories.
Once I found out, though, that the original “Benji," Higgins, had kicked it shortly after his triumphant 1975 summer, and was
replaced with Benjean, his daughter, I wasn’t interested in seeing the
sequels (I was getting too old, anyway). If they could replace Benji
like he was Roger Moore stepping in for George Lazenby, well…the specialness,
the uniqueness of that sad-eyed, adorable little pooch was eliminated—at
least for me.
The character "Benji" was a Hollywood commodity now, not a rejected rescue scamp named Higgins who came off
remarkably “real” (strange as that reads) in the context of that first
anonymous little indie (the final degradation and proof of that
transformation came with the spectacular miscalculation of Camp’s 1980’s
Oh! Heavenly Dog, where Benji was voiced by Chevy
Chase, the poster depicting Benji’s PG-rated hijinks that included
eyeballing naked Jane Seymour with a magnifying glass).
Reading some past and present reviews of Benji, I see a lot of
bitching about the quality of the movie itself, which seems not only
beside the point (this wasn’t intended to be Citizen Kane), but also wrong. Compared to similar zero-budget family indies from that time period, Benji is actually pretty clean in terms of technique. For a first time director, Camp made a lot of smart choices.
Considering the budget, Camp managed to get quite a few talented TV
faces that people in the audience would recognize: radio star and
actress Patsy Garrett (Nanny and the Professor, Room 222, and that classic Purina Cat Chow “chow chow chow” commercial); Peter Breck (The Big Valley); Christopher Connelly (Peyton Place); Tom Lester (Green Acres); Mark Slade (The High Chaparral); Deborah Walley (the AIP starlet, even playing Gidget); Terry Carter (The Phil Silvers Show, McCloud); Frances Bavier (The Andy Griffith Show, Mayberry, R.F.D.); Edgar Buchanan (Petticoat Junction);
and character actor Herb Vigran (too many movie and TV credits to
list).
With their easy air of experience, veteran pros like those did
more than half the work for first-time writer/director Camp, giving Benji
a polish it wouldn’t have otherwise had (check out the amateurish
non-actors in so many indies from that time period to see the
difference).
Camp’s main story, in terms of narrative, may be slight, and right
out of some Victorian penny dreadful—cute kids are kidnapped and
threatened, dog rescues them—but that simplicity allows the movie to
focus on Benji and his activities, not on the humans, and not on their
plight—a rather daring move on Camp’s part.
That’s a nice twist for
anyone expecting a standard family outing (when the kids are first
introduced, with the sweet mother-figure governess and the widowed
father, you expect this classic “broken Disney family” to take over the
story). By keeping the narrative coming from the diminutive dog’s POV,
the suspense can’t help but flow along nicely, too.
Camp intros the
first three gang members as vaguely comical (the bickering over the
pudding tins; one is scared of the “haunted house”), setting up the kid
viewers for when the truly menacing villain—ringleader Slade—steps in
(kicking Tiffany into the wall is Benji’s strongest visual, then Camp lets Higgins’ expressive, soulful eyes do all the work).
Camp’s tone is quite deft, too. He often shoots for sentiment here,
but it doesn’t come off as sloppy or syrupy—a neat trick. There’s just
the right amount of loneliness in that famous opening, as Benji shambles
out of his “haunted house” on the outskirts of town to visit with his
human friends (the choice of growly, folksy Charlie Rich to sing the
theme, I Feel Love, was an inspired match to the visuals of
Higgins).
Camp is able to tease that almost all of them have something
sad in their life—Garrett talks wistfully of her passed husband,
Buchanan remembers his dead wife, the children without a mother want a
dog but can’t have one because of their loving-but-strict father (only
Carter’s cop is truly upbeat)—but these small details are only hinted
at; nothing mawkish is heightened for effect.
We can’t tell if Benji
likes being alone or not, and that lets the viewer take over, depending
on their age and how they’re experiencing the story (as a kid I remember
thinking he had to be scared and lonely during his nights in that
pitch-black house…but now seeing him with adult eyes, his independence looks pretty good: lots of
friends, free grub, obliging girlfriend, no job…).
Camp walks a fine
line with this low-key, happy/sad atmosphere, and he pulls it off. For a
first time writer/director producing a feature-length movie with almost
no money, Joe Camp’s work on Benji doesn’t need to be qualified or excused in relation to his canine star’s talents.
And that’s high praise when that star is Higgins the Dog. With all
apologies to trainer Frank Inn, as the famous saying goes: stars aren’t
made, they’re born, and regardless of the remarkably naturalistic tricks
Higgins acquired, he has that “X factor” you can’t coax out with a
command and a treat (Flipper had the same deal going on, too).
He’s such
a scrappy, all-American mutt, with his funny little face and growly,
yelpy yap. Physically small but fleet of foot when running and dodging
and climbing, he’s the classic underdog we all love to root for. He’s
not the steely, flinty Rinty, or the brawny, muscular mongrel Old
Yeller, or cool, classy, patrician Lassie.
He’s right down on the
ground, and we’re with him, at eye level, maximizing our identification
with him (another master stroke by Camp, insisting that the camera stay
down on the ground). Camp’s script has him climbing arbors, opening
pudding tins (remember slicing your thumbs on those?), dodging grasping
humans, flirting with pretty Tiffany (the funniest scene in the movie—if
you don’t want a dog just like Higgins at that point, you’re not
human), and then romancing her in a field full of butterflies, all in
dreamy, gauzy slo-motion, and all of it effortlessly accomplished by the
wonderfully game, communicative Higgins. It’s a star-making
performance…that couldn’t be made.
There are some terrific bonuses included on this Mill Creek
Entertainment Blu-ray+DVD+Digital special edition. In addition to an
original trailer (love those real folk testimonials) and a photo
gallery, featured on both the Blu-ray and the DVD discs is a full
commentary track with Joe Camp, moderated by his son, Brandon (who does
an excellent job guiding the discussion—that rarely happens on these DVD
commentaries, as you well know if you read my reviews). Joe Camp offers
up a wealth of behind-the-scenes production information, while coming
off as that most rare of moviemaking creatures: a genuinely nice guy. A
must-listen to for Benji fans.
Next up is The Phenomenon of Benji, the 1978 ABC special
directed by Joe Camp, and starring Benjean, Higgins’ daughter, as Benji
(the video for this looks pristine). “Benji’s special guest star” is
none other than Charlie Rich, who sings a medley with the pooch perched
on his piano (when Rich—not Benjean—slipped into The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, I was instantly transported back to the gloriously wacky days of network TV specials).
Petticoat Junction
pals Edgar Buchanan and Meredith MacRae show up as we get down to brass
tacks: Benjean doing some tricks for the paying yobs (holy christ how
many people are in that theater??). Clips of Benjean traveling, getting
the Golden Globe (for Charlie’s singing—bet he loved that), and Benjean
executing a remarkable bit of slave labor: pulling up a giant bone on a
ladder, using his paw each time to hold the chain.
To their credit, they
admit this ain’t the real “Benji” (they're not stupid, though: they say he “retired,” not
“expired”), before we get clips of For the Love of Benji (they
really want us to accept the new dog…). The special ends with Benjean
forced to endure the sweaty, grasping hands of hundreds of kids in the
audience as she nervously trots by them, the frenzied tykes barely
containing their (innocent) desires to tear her to pieces. Jesus do I
miss TV specials from this era….
Next up is 1980’s Benji at Work network special is up, hosted by ABC’s Eight is Enough’s
Adam Rich (who promptly blows his first joke—thanks, Adam!). I’m pretty
easy when it comes to how these animals are trained for their movie and
TV roles (I guarantee they eat better than me), but I have to say: if
you’re one of those PETA freaks, you might not want to watch Benji at Work.
Even I was a little taken aback by a couple of things I saw…mostly that
smug asshole Chevy Chase trying to upstage Benjean at a real press
conference for Oh! Heavenly Dog…and failing (Jane Seymour, however, can do no wrong).
I guess I can see them putting Benjean on two tightropes, or putting
Visine in her eyes to make them “sparkle” (“Sparkle, Benjean,
sparkle!”).
But that dog does not like getting close to that
crazy f*cking dolphin at Marineland, and they keep shoving her forward
at it. If that isn’t cruel enough, Frank Inn puts a fish in Benjean’s mouth, grasping her tightly so she won’t bolt, and then lets that dolphin try and snatch it out of Benjean’s mouth!
In a panic, Benjean snatches her head back before it’s neatly sliced
off (just in time, kids!). Now…get on that surfboard, Benji! Don’t
worry, Frank offers, not entirely convincingly, “She can swim pretty
good…” (she better!).
Later, on location in London, they show Benjean trying to navigate a
closed road set while cars drive by (the constant yelling at that dog is
something to hear, but even better is the subtle shutdown Camp the
director puts on mere trainer Inn: when Camp calls, “Stay,” to Benjean
he means it. Okay, Frank?).
Worse, wait until you see the completed
shot: tell me I’m wrong that they’re not throwing that poor animal down some stone steps and onto his ass.
Watch him scrabble and almost break his leg. You watch it and tell me
I’m wrong to think that’s not only cruel, but dumb (what were you going
to do with your movie if you broke its neck? Unless you had a couple of
spare “Benjis” on hand…).
Adam Rich closes out the show with an
unintentionally hilarious mournful coda, existentially wondering where
all this acting life ends for kid stars like him and dogs like
Benji…before wising up but quick and brightly offering that they’re not
complaining, no sir! (they better not!). A rare, bizarre treat.
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