January 22, 2014
Ralph Woolsey was born before World War I.
Woolsey, who turned 100 on January 1, is best known the cinematographer on more than a dozen cult and exploitation movies of the 1970s, some of them outliers in the New Hollywood movement of innovative, European-influenced studio filmmaking: The Lawyer; The Strawberry Statement; Little Fauss and Big Halsy; Deadhead Miles; The Culpepper Cattle Co.; The New Centurions; Dirty Little Billy; Rafferty and the Gold Dust Twins; Lifeguard; Mother, Jugs & Speed; and The Great Santini. Woolsey photographed The Mack as well as The Pack, and two features for John Frankenheimer, The Iceman Cometh and 99 44/100% Dead.
Before he transitioned into features, though, Woolsey was a prolific director of photography in television. He made a comparatively late entry into the medium via Warner Bros., which needed a large corps of DPs to churn out the suddenly popular Westerns and private eye shows that put its TV department on the map in the late fifties. Fast and cheap, the Warners shows attracted a mix of newcomers and veterans, many of them favored more for speed than talent.
After Warner’s television department faltered in the mid-sixties, Woolsey followed 77 Sunset Strip producer Howie Horwitz to Fox, where he became the original director of photography for Batman. Next Woolsey moved to Universal, where he worked on It Takes a Thief (for which he won an Emmy) and The Name of the Game.
In June of 2012, I spoke with Woolsey about his career by telephone. Although many of the shows and the stars (especially at Warners, where DPs rotated among a dozen different shows instead of settling in on just one) were a blur, Woolsey had some fascinating, detailed recollections of the nuts and bolts of his profession and of many of the directors with whom he worked.
How did you get involved with Warner Bros. in the early days of its television operation?
The first show was Maverick. Basically, I was a freelance cinematographer, while I was teaching in the cinema department at USC. I did commercials and things like that. I had an agent who, one day, got me a fill-in job at Warner Bros. I had never worked at Warner Bros., and it seemed like I was just a short replacement for somebody who was sick. I went out there, and Warner Bros. was practically shut down at that time. There wasn’t much going. Television was just getting started. There was sort of a legend around there that television was like poison, and they didn’t want anything to do with it. There were stories about Jack Warner firing actors when he found out that they had TV sets in their dressing rooms.
But anyway, they were at the point that they weren’t making any features. They were gearing up to do some television shows. The reason that I got this call was that the cameraman who was going to shoot it – he was a well-known Hollywood guy – was sick. Not only that, the director, who was another well-known Hollywood guy, also got sick. So my job was to replace the cameraman, and the guy who was to replace the director was a well-known figure named Howard W. Koch. He had quite a career at Paramount.
Now, all the people were hired and the sets were built and the actors were ready and the makeup people were all geared up to go on my say-so. This was the situation that I stepped in to. So we went to work and everything went along very smoothly. Howard Koch was extremely knowledgeable and didn’t waste any time. As a matter of fact, we were going home on time, which was by most standards of that time was early.
Of course, the camera crew tested me like they would a stranger. The new boss steps in and takes over, which meant that I had to deal with the art director and the sets that he had arranged and all the other stuff. But the crew was top-notch and as you might expect at a major studio, the equipment was as good as you could ask for.
Then you started working there full time?
Well, the way it turned out, yes. We went ahead and finished that show and started another one. On about the fourth day, my agent, whom I hadn’t seen yet at all, didn’t even know the guy, he showed up on the set. He came over and he said, “What the hell are you doing here?” I was puzzled. I wondered if he had heard some negative comment or complaint or something. I said, “What do you mean?” Well, he says, “I don’t know, excepting that the studio wants to sign you for five years.”
And it went on from there. I did a lot more, but that particular show happened to be Maverick, and that was Warners’ lead show in the television market. It was a big success. We were using feature picture sets, which actually made some of the very first shows look fantastic. On the other hand, you paid a price, because it took longer to work with those sets. They were more elaborate, took more lighting, and all that. Eventually, of course, they built sets on separate stages just for the television division.
Did you get to know the producer of Maverick, Roy Huggins?
Well, obviously, he was an organizer. We people in production didn’t actually brush up against [series producers] that much. We didn’t have much personal contact with those guys. Maybe sometimes when you walked out of the screening room you would pass like ships in the night. As long as everything was going fine, you’d never hear from any of them. Which was just as well.
At Warners, weren’t you rotated among the different shows rather than staying with a single series for every episode?
That’s true. Now, you may have had preferences, like I had, for working with certain directors, and I’m sure that some of the directors had the same experience. Everybody had their favorites. They scheduled everything out, and it was always fun if you were teamed up with a director that you liked, because that director probably would be more inventive.
Which directors did you like working with? Let me mention a few: Leslie H. Martinson?
Les Martinson made good shows, and I enjoyed the results from working with Les. But he was one of these guys who was always crying about things are taking too long, or [something else]. It was a yes or no situation. You liked to work with him because he got good shows. They were assigned to him and they usually turned out pretty well, but you had to go through a certain amount of hand-holding and all that stuff with him. Like, one day, he said to the assembled group: “I wanted to do this shot but Mr. Woolsey didn’t think it would be a good idea.” I don’t know what effect my – he was just looking for an excuse not to make the shot himself. But that was kind of petty stuff, you know.
Why couldn’t he make that shot?
I can’t remember the details, but he – early on, while we were using the big sets that were left over from the features, he would see a beautiful staircase in like a hotel lobby and would immediately want to have several people be featured coming down the staircase. Later on, on a television set, there wouldn’t be such a thing at all, because everybody knows it’s a time-consuming element for lighting and action and everything else. So you don’t put that into shows where you want to make some time.
He did funny things. He was kind of a crybaby about getting his stuff. Like, he hit his thumb with a hammer one day in a little fit of temper. It almost seemed deliberate, because it swelled up and over the weekend it was worse. Monday morning, instead of having gone to a doctor over the weekend or something, he brought it to the set looking absolutely horrible, [to] reinforce the terrible state that he described himself in.
There were some people that [if they] heard they were going to be teamed up with someone, they would refuse to do it.
It sounds as if that was a difficult relationship with Martinson.
One time I was working at another studio later on when my contract was up, and he was doing a show and he actually asked them to get me. But as soon as I got to do the show, he was the same old guy. However, we respected each other’s limitations, I guess.
Oh, Doug Heyes was one of my favorites. He a talented writer, because he wrote some of the best shows we ever did. He was top-notch. He was a lot of fun. On a personal level, we got along very well, and we sometimes would see each other outside of work.
He was always very sure of himself. For instance, when he was directing something like some of the Warner Bros. TV shows, he would come in late, with an armload of doughnuts or cookies or something like that for the crew. But he would always be late. The studio production guys didn’t like this at all, and they would lie in wait for him, so when he came into the studio they would have all the lights turned out or something, and then start trying to teach him: “We like what you’re doing, but you’ve got to be on time!”
Did things like that put you in between the director and the production department?
Not really, but of course if they get behind, they’d look for anybody that they could blame. If, say, the producer came over and said, “What the hell is taking so long?” you would be an idiot if you said, “Well, the director just goes on and on and on, doing rehearsals and this and that.” Because there is a true saying that of the entire production, the crew and everybody, only the director and the cameraman are in every shot, and you and the director had better get along.
I enjoyed working with Arthur. He was particularly talented working with actors.
Richard L. Bare?
Yeah, he was good. Workmanlike. Nothing flashy. Just did the job.
He would probably be my top favorite. We used to call him George Wag-ig-ner, because of the double G. He got into directing films accidentally. He came to Hollywood from somewhere up north, and he said, “I didn’t even know this was going on.” But George was a very thorough director. He gave a lot of attention to every detail. The sets and the decor, and interesting ways to open a sequence.
So you were aware of some of the regular Warners directors as being more visually creative than others?
Oh, yeah. That’s certainly true. There were some where you could do a scene in six different ways and they would be just as happy. But somebody like George who would have a definite way he would want to open the scene, by looking through some piece of architecture or maybe a bit of closeup action. Just kicking it off in a more spicy way.
Did the directors mainly leave the lighting to you, or did some of them have input into that?
The directors had nothing to do with the lighting. No, the lighting was the cinematographer’s bailiwick. And at Warners we had crews who had been working on pictures for years. So sometimes they would tend to be a little too fancy or elaborate for a television show. In other words, you had to say, forget the frosting on the cake and let’s take care of the meat and potatoes first. But there’s always an opportunity where you can make a set sort of perform on its own.
Did you prefer some of the Warners shows to the others?
Well, first of all, you had to take the attitude that whatever the assignment was for the next two weeks, that’s your favorite show. If they said you had to shoot only these shows for the rest of your life, which ones would they be? You’d probably pick the ones with the most interesting actors. [Or] the longest schedules, which give you more opportunity to concoct something interesting.
Which was your favorite among the Warners shows?
Tell me about your departure from Warner Bros.
I shot the first color [TV] show there at Warners, Mister Roberts. That was our first color show. [Then] I went over with the producer of Sunset Strip started a show – well, that was Batman. I went over and started that. I think I shot a dozen shows.
Did you like doing Batman?
Yeah. Mainly because it was something different. We had split-screen situations, with this character Mister Freeze, for instance. Half of the screen would be frigid and the other half of the screen would be normal. And it was always fun working with those actors, because they knew the characters that they portrayed. People like Burgess Meredith, for instance, who played the Penguin, was outstanding.
I borrowed the Penguin’s whistle, and he used to blow it with a sort of “honk, honk” sound that everybody knew. I brought it home and blew it for my kids. The other kids heard about it and they all came over and they were nuts about it. Naturally, I had a hard time keeping it from getting stolen, and I had been warned that if that whistle did not come back the next day, I was in deep trouble!
Why did you leave Batman?
Because I got fired.
I think we did a dozen or so. They hadn’t been on the air yet, and everybody was running scared about this or that. There was some talk about taking too much time preparing some of the shots. Well, it later turned out they had some prop guys who were drunk half the time, and they were supposed to be preparing or fixing some of the tech-y props that were used on the show. And you had to wait for them really much too long. So somebody had to go, and it happened to be me that time. Fortunately, there was a job [waiting]. I went right back to Warner Bros. Howard Schwartz came in and took it over. So I can claim the first dozen or so of Batman. But people, even today, associate me with Batman.
Were you instrumental in devising the visual signature visual of Batman – the extreme tilted camera angles?
I don’t know, I was not so crazy about it. I know what they were trying to do – they were trying to give an off-kilter look to the show. But compared to doing things like that later on, just a few years later we had equipment that would make it much easier to do that. It was very clumsy, making those few shots.
Do you have any memories of Adam West and Burt Ward?
Well, everybody on the crew used to say, “Those two should save their money.”
Then you shot the pilot for It Takes a Thief.
That grew out of a [made-for-television] feature that we shot up in Montreal during the Expo, with Robert Wagner. We went up to the Expo and shot the picture for Universal, and it was sold to one of the networks as a pilot for what turned out to be the series It Takes a Thief.
And you stayed with the show.
Yeah, I did maybe a dozen or so, along with some segments of some other TV shows they had going there.
What do you remember about It Takes a Thief?
The Montreal location for the movie was very enjoyable. Leslie Stevens was the creator and the director. We were friends to begin with, so we could tell each other if something was lousy, or whether we loved it. Talk about ideas, you know.
What was he like as a director and producer?
A very creative guy. Stoney Burke was one he did, and The Outer Limits. Conrad Hall worked on that, on both of those in fact, and before him, Leslie hired a great cameraman whom we both admired a great deal, Ted McCord.
Right, McCord was Conrad Hall’s mentor, I think.
That’s correct, because Connie was his operator, and he took over when Ted more or less retired. Connie had graduated from USC Cinema just a year before I started teaching there, so we met a few times but I didn’t get to know him personally too well until somewhat later.
Did you expect to become a cinematographer, or had you planned to remain a teacher?
I think the teaching came accidentally. I was a cinematographer. During World War II, I was shooting training films for the U.S. Air Force. I was not in the military; I was working for an aircraft company, Bell Aircraft. They were developing the first helicopter. Before we were in World War II, they were selling planes to Russia, and we were making training films as to how you took care of the planes and serviced them. So when we got into the war, that program just got magnified. That’s what I had been doing, so at the end of the war I could call myself a cinematographer. In fact, I was the head of the unit.
I came to California, and how I got to USC – let’s see, I knew some people who were shooting non-theatrical films. My working at USC was sort of an accident. I went down there to see the head of the department about something else, and while I was there the head of the department invited me to do some temporary work. There were a bunch of servicemen, Navy people, who were using the G.I. Bill. They had to go back to service and they weren’t getting done, and they hired me and a guy named Irving Lerner to direct these things. The two of us finished all of the projects for these servicemen. Just shot them ourselves, and then Irving edited them. Then the guy who was teaching camera had to leave for some commitment, and they offered me the job of teaching his class. So I did. But I had an arrangement where I could shoot stuff on the side.
You won an Emmy for It Takes a Thief.
Yeah, that’s true. That was the pilot.
What about your work on that show caused it to win, do you think?
Well, do you want me to be truthful or inventive? I think if the show is different in its concept or its location, the way the location is used, I think that does a long way to making it of great interest to the nominating [committee]. And of course, that show was shot as a movie. So there was a lot more spent on it.
Do you mean it was a feature film, or a made-for-TV movie?
[It was] meant for TV, but we did shoot it in a rather sketchy way. In other words, we went there with inadequate lighting for some of the night shots that we did, so we had to get inventive. We pulled off some pretty good night shooting, and I think had some special processing done on the negative, which of course the studio and the camera department fought me on tooth and nail.
In the 1970s you moved exclusively into shooting feature films. How did that differ from the work you did in television?
There are things that I could and did do in shooting television that I wouldn’t do in shooting a feature. In other words, I could experiment more, and I did. When I was shooting some of these black-and-white Warner Bros. westerns, like Maverick, I fooled around and I even used what some of the people in the production department thought were my secrets. At least, I never told them how I did some of the things to get a certain kind of look.
For instance, all the old buildings, the wooden buildings in the backlot that you’d use in a western, like the western street. If you look at real old black-and-white pictures, the buildings all had a certain kind of a look, and it was because the film was colorblind. The sky would be white and anything blue would be pretty white, and anything red would be pretty dark. The more common film, orthochromatic, was sensitive to blue and green but not red.
A lot of the old pictures, even some of the early movies, were shot with that kind of film. That had the property of making all the reds look dark. For instance, you would be crazy if you shoot close-ups of a woman with that kind of film, because her lips would go black, or very dark. But there were advantages in getting that look, too. The old buildings really looked old. In the western street scenes, I used a filter combination to get that look. And I didn’t tell anybody what it was. I’d put it in the camera myself, and take it back home with me at night. And in the camera department, they were furious. They wanted to know what it was. Of course, for scenes where I’d shoot close-ups of women, I wouldn’t use it. But it did lend a very authentic kind of an old-time look to the buildings.
And there was another big problem: the streets were always photographing extremely light or even white because they were yellow. Every now and then they’d bring in a truckload of [dirt] and smooth out the street, and it was yellow. To make it darken down, they used to run a water wagon through the set before anybody worked on it. They’d create a little mud, and that made it unpleasant to work on. But with my system, they didn’t have to do that. People would say, “How come you got those streets darkened down and we didn’t have to water it?”
Who do you remember among the many other cinematographers working at Warner Bros. at that time?
Harold Stine had previously worked in special effects at Paramount or one of those studios, so he was really an expert on the technology. He gave me one of my best compliments one time. We actually used to compliment each other, because they would bring some of these guys in and some of their work really was pretty lousy. But if they had a reputation of being fast, that was evidently how they got the job. Anyway, Hal said to me one day as we were laughing about that: “Well, one thing about your work: It always looks finished, right up to the corners.” He said, “Some of these guys, they just light the center and let the rest go.”
The images above are taken from the three first season episodes of Maverick that Woolsey photographed and the pilot for It Takes a Thief.
March 1, 2012
“I remember giving up smoking at the same time I was struggling with some script,” the television writer Jerome Ross told me some years ago. “The combination was rather difficult.” But the effort was worth it. Ross, who died on February 11, one day after his 101st birthday, may have been the first centenarian among the significant Golden Age dramatists, and will likely remain the only one.
Never a mainstay on one of the major live anthologies, Ross nevertheless sold scripts to nearly all of the big ones – Cameo Theatre, The Philco/Goodyear Television Playhouse, Studio One, Robert Montgomery Presents, The Alcoa Hour, Armstrong Circle Theater, Matinee Theater, The DuPont Show of the Week. He also wrote for the live comedies Mama, Jamie, and Mister Peepers.
Like his contemporary David Shaw, Ross was versatile, prolific, and largely anonymous. His work was difficult to pin down in terms of consistent themes or quality. Ross’s two episodes of The Defenders and his only entry in The Outer Limits are undistinguished by the lofty standards of those series; his scripts for The Untouchables, early in the series’ run, are solid but unexceptional.
And yet Ross contributed a remarkable teleplay to Arrest and Trial, a favorite of both mine and of Ralph Senensky, its director: “Funny Man With a Monkey,” a frank study of heroin addiction that corrals the horrifying energy of Mickey Rooney within the role of a flaming-out junkie nightclub comedian. Ross learned of John F. Kennedy’s assassination on the set of that show, from a crying Mickey Rooney. (Coincidentally, the other writer who contributed to “Funny Man,” Bruce Howard – who wrote the stand-up bits for Rooney’s character – passed away on January 30 at 86.)
Other noteworthy Ross efforts include his only episode of Way Out, “20/20,” a spooky piece about haunted eyeglasses and a taxidermist’s stuffed animals that come back to life; and “Family Man,” his only episode of Brenner, a story of a family who learns that their patriarch (Martin Balsam) is a mafioso marked for death. Ross was one of the ex-newsmen that Adrian Spies reunited to write for his rich, authentic newspaper drama, Saints and Sinners, although the series lasted only long enough for Ross to contribute one strong episode, “Ten Days For a Shirt-Tail,” in which the hero (Nick Adams) experiences the violence of jail life after refusing to reveal a source.
In 1965 Ross wrote the longest Dr. Kildare ever, a seven-parter for the show’s final serialized season. His papers, which he donated to the University of Wisconsin, Madison, hint at some intriguing uncredited work around this time. Ross was probably the “Perry Bleecker” (a pseudonym, assuming that’s what it is, that pinpoints a West Village intersection) who wrote the first draft of one of the best early episodes of The Fugitive, “Come Watch Me Die”; and he may have done substantial uncredited writing on “Final Escape,” the famous Alfred Hitchcock Hour in which a convict (Edd Byrnes) attempts to smuggle himself out of prison in a coffin. (Ross never had a feature credit, but he wrote three unproduced screenplays, which are available in the Madison collection.)
A devoted New Yorker, Ross enjoyed the life of a live television writer. He shared an agent, Blanche Gaines, with Rod Serling and Frank D. Gilroy, and she looked out for him. He got to do things like hang around with beauty pageant contestants before writing “The Prizewinner” (for Goodyear Playhouse, in 1955), and drive down to Washington, D.C., with his son for a day, to research material for an Armstrong Circle Theater at the FBI, where Clyde Tolson gave him a tour. Late in his career (if not his life), after the work in New York dried up, Ross moved to Los Angeles – “an enormous thing, which I kept delaying and delaying” – and settled in as a house writer for David Victor’s medical drama Marcus Welby, M.D. (1969-1976) for the length of its long run.
Like the show overall, Ross’s writing for Marcus Welby was fair-to-middling. The standout scripts were two tender romances, “The White Cane” (about a young blind couple who founder after the boy regains his sight) and “Unto the Next Generation” (about parents who must decide whether to have a second child, knowing that it could be afflicted with the same genetic disease that killed their first), although Ross earned his historical footnote on Welby as the author of one of Steven Spielberg’s first directorial assignments, the episode “The Daredevil Gesture.” Also during this period, he was a story editor on Earl Hamner’s short-lived comedy-drama, Apple’s Way (1974-1975). After a time, though, “it just got interminable on the Coast,” and Ross fled the “endless stupid rewrites” and returned to New York.
On a frigid winter day in early 2003, I ventured up to Ross’s Upper West Side apartment in the hope of conducting a detailed oral history. Already, Ross was shrunken and hobbled by age, in the hands of caregivers and foggy about most of his television work. In one of those sad quirks of senility, however, Ross was able to remember the initial years of his career with some clarity. Although the interview was more fragmentary than I had hoped it would be, I have reproduced the best portions of it below.
Jerry, how did you begin as a writer?
I started as a cub reporter for the New York Post. This is in the days when there were five or six evening newspapers, and it was absolutely invaluable training. I covered crime stories, bank stories. And about six months on what was then called ship news. This is before the days of air travel, of course, so every incoming celebrity or politician or statesman had to come in by boat. The regulars, of which I was one, would go down every morning at six o’clock on the cutter, to what was called “quarantine” on Sandy Hook, and board the boat. We’d have a list of celebrities to interview.
That was really where I started. In the course of it, the 1929 crash happened, and deflation was so severe that the city editor of the second largest evening paper, the New York Post, was making something like fifty dollars a week. Everybody had been cut back. An elderly uncle of my mother’s, who came in every day on the train from Long Island, was used to traveling in with an early radio producer, who was looking for somebody to write a children’s show called Tom Mix, based on the western [star]. My mother’s uncle, knowing nothing about radio or writing, said, “I have a young nephew . . .”
Anyway, this was a job I had, writing – I rather think it was five fifteen-minute programs a day. So I sat up all one night and wrote one, and thought this was an awfully easy way to make a hundred and fifty dollars a week, which would have been three times what the city editor of my newspaper was getting. After a while, it seemed more reasonable to resign my newspaper career and get into radio.
The only radio credit I could verify was something called Society Girl.
That was interesting. That was a soap opera that a dear friend of mine, a collaborator, David Davidson and I, wrote. We hated the leading lady, who couldn’t act at all. So we wrote several letters, presumably fan letters, saying how much we liked the show, but we didn’t like the leading lady. Rather nasty! It didn’t go, the show.
David Davidson is one of my favorite unknown television writers, especially on the newspaper drama Saints and Sinners. What do you remember about him?
He was a newspaperman, too. We met working on the Post. A big story broke in the Bronx, we both made a dash for a telephone, to phone in the story, and we began fighting as to who had the rights to the phone, and it turned out we both worked for the same paper! That’s how we met.
Then, in the early fifties, television came in, and so I gradually lapsed over into it. Particularly, there was a show called Mama, a very popular show based on Van Druten’s very successful play. I worked on that with Frank Gabrielson. He was an excellent writer, and I worked with him, and did an awful lot of them. I did more shows, I think, than most. About 125 shows over about four years. That was the TV version. It started, I think, as a radio show.
What were the rules for writing Mama?
It was a warm, lovable family show. Nobody could do any wrong. Really, the friendly – well, this happens today, too. Any popular show becomes almost a unit of friendship. Writers were allowed much more flexibility in those days. We could go on the set, and all that sort of thing.
There was a period in Hollywood where there were strict limits set on the number of writers who could be on the set for x number of minutes. This was following various conflicts, so it all had to be spelled out in the next union contract. But we did have a Writer’s Guild strike. It was called the Radio Writers Guild in those days, and I think I was either the first or second president of it here.
You were also involved with the Television Academy.
Ed [Sullivan] and I and several other people met, perhaps monthly, getting this thing underway, at Toots Shor’s. Toots was a favorite of Ed Sullivan. [We] read our monthly report, with a defecit of two or three thousand dollars, or whatever. Ed Sullivan said, let’s make up the defecit, for goodness sake, and he took out the biggest bankroll I’d ever seen, and peeled off – he said, “Let’s all chip in.” Then he caught the look of horror on my face, I think, and said, “Well, those who can afford it.” This was the Academy.
Did you know Ed Sullivan well?
Not very well, no. I can’t remember where we met. I had something to do with his show when he was on the air, in the radio days. I think I arranged to have William Lyon Phelps of Yale on the show for some reason. I was involved off and on, but I can’t recall that I wrote anything.
How did the television industry’s shift from New York to Los Angeles in the sixties affect you?
A whole group went to Hollywood about the same time. This happened for all of us, increasingly, as television shifted to Hollywood, we would go out to do a show. Many of us all stayed, in those days, at a hotel called the Montecito. This was a famous place for New York actors, directors, and writers, because it was so cheap, as compared with the decent hotels. I had my whole family out one summer. Dick Kiley taught my kids how to dive in the hotel pool. Sidney Poitier was staying at the hotel with us, because in those days, he wouldn’t have tried to get into the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. That just didn’t happen in the fifties – even Sidney Poitier wasn’t going to allow himself to be humiliated.
When Rod Serling died, and he died really at the top of his career, in Ithaca or near there, with the family, the funeral was held in the East. I think Carol stayed on in the East, but there was a memorial service in Hollywood or Beverly Hills, which was announced in the paper. And Rod’s agent and I were the only people to turn up at the memorial service in L.A. It was shocking. Nobody took the trouble – you know, Rod was dead, so what the hell.
Do you have any favorite shows from the Hollywood half of your career?
I remember this Mission: Impossible, “Operation: Rogosh,” which was very good. The difficulty of letting complications box you in a corner, and then having to figure it out. “Soldier in Love” [a Hallmark Hall of Fame with Jean Simmons] was a good thing.
On the whole, are you satisfied with your career in television?
At 92, which I am now, I look back and think I should have stayed writing plays in New York. [I wrote plays that] tried out. Nothing that ever reached Broadway. I did a play called Man in the Zoo, a year or so after I graduated from Yale in 1931, which was very well received. And then I spent a year rewriting it for Broadway, but it never – I think the producer, Crosby Gaige, died, and that was the end of that.