TVFactFan
11-01-2020, 06:31 PM
"Three's Company acquired the reputation for being about sex, even though no one in that ABC comedy ever has any. We might assume that other TV characters-Archie and Edith, for instance-have a therapeutic nocturnal moment now and then, but nobody Three's Company progresses ever progresses beyond wiggles, jiggles, and giggles. It's a kind of sexual purgatory. But viewers seem to love it, for whatever that means about the national psyche
The most inert relationship seemed to be between the landlord, Mr. Roper(Norman Fell) and his itchy, blowzy wife (Audra Lindley), so this pair has been spun off into the Ropers, another series monastic in practice but libidinous in suggestion-with enough references to bras, hot tubs, jockey shorts and other marginally naughty items to provide a lubricious atmosphere. As before, the main joke is that Mrs. Roper can't get any action.
If you drained the energy out of Joey Bishop you would be left with someone like Fell, who plays Roper with a glum wariness that can be funny, as he avoids the moist embraces of his spouse. Lindley, the pinkest person in television, is a good comedienne who puts a curl in every line disparaging Roper's manhood. "Bedrooms don't interest Stanley," she growled in the pilot, as Jeffery Tambor showed them through their new house.
Tambor plays the next-door neighbor a sputtery blowfish who quite reasonably despises Roper. He has a sexy-perky wife( Patricia McCormick) and a carrot-headed son, David(Evan Cohen), who is there to ask precocious questions. "David's got to keep his hands out of my drawers, " puffed Tambor to wife, "You 're his mother, That's your department." It must tax the writers terribly, slipping a mention of under-wear or anatomical parts into every three lines of dialogue.
Lindley makes doomed efforts to arouse Fell's animal instincts, from hot-tubs(two nubile teens hopped in with them) to marriage counselors. "You mustn't think of it as a duty, Mr. Roper, " said the counselor. "Don't tell him that," shrieked Audra. "That's the only edge I got." Lindley and Fell are an artful mis-match and can be funny together. But sometimes there is a twist of cruelty in their exchanges that sets to wincing when I am supposed to be chuckling. When Helen discovered Stanley had been keeping up a lovelorn one-way correspondence with Doris Day, she phoned him, pretending to be Doris, bellowed "Que Sera, Sera," in his ear and went off into cackles.
The Ropers is one of numerous comedies now exploring the rather bleak frontiers of innuendo. Small kids who watch these shows maybe getting their first impression of sex; as something that makes adults nervous and giggly, that involves underwear in some way, is seldom done and never talked about seriously, but that figures some-how in the reproduction of jokes. My attitude toward the Ropers is something like Mr. Roper's attitude toward his wife, I know it's cute, but don't ask me to get excited about it.
Robert MacKenzie, TV guide, September 1979
The most inert relationship seemed to be between the landlord, Mr. Roper(Norman Fell) and his itchy, blowzy wife (Audra Lindley), so this pair has been spun off into the Ropers, another series monastic in practice but libidinous in suggestion-with enough references to bras, hot tubs, jockey shorts and other marginally naughty items to provide a lubricious atmosphere. As before, the main joke is that Mrs. Roper can't get any action.
If you drained the energy out of Joey Bishop you would be left with someone like Fell, who plays Roper with a glum wariness that can be funny, as he avoids the moist embraces of his spouse. Lindley, the pinkest person in television, is a good comedienne who puts a curl in every line disparaging Roper's manhood. "Bedrooms don't interest Stanley," she growled in the pilot, as Jeffery Tambor showed them through their new house.
Tambor plays the next-door neighbor a sputtery blowfish who quite reasonably despises Roper. He has a sexy-perky wife( Patricia McCormick) and a carrot-headed son, David(Evan Cohen), who is there to ask precocious questions. "David's got to keep his hands out of my drawers, " puffed Tambor to wife, "You 're his mother, That's your department." It must tax the writers terribly, slipping a mention of under-wear or anatomical parts into every three lines of dialogue.
Lindley makes doomed efforts to arouse Fell's animal instincts, from hot-tubs(two nubile teens hopped in with them) to marriage counselors. "You mustn't think of it as a duty, Mr. Roper, " said the counselor. "Don't tell him that," shrieked Audra. "That's the only edge I got." Lindley and Fell are an artful mis-match and can be funny together. But sometimes there is a twist of cruelty in their exchanges that sets to wincing when I am supposed to be chuckling. When Helen discovered Stanley had been keeping up a lovelorn one-way correspondence with Doris Day, she phoned him, pretending to be Doris, bellowed "Que Sera, Sera," in his ear and went off into cackles.
The Ropers is one of numerous comedies now exploring the rather bleak frontiers of innuendo. Small kids who watch these shows maybe getting their first impression of sex; as something that makes adults nervous and giggly, that involves underwear in some way, is seldom done and never talked about seriously, but that figures some-how in the reproduction of jokes. My attitude toward the Ropers is something like Mr. Roper's attitude toward his wife, I know it's cute, but don't ask me to get excited about it.
Robert MacKenzie, TV guide, September 1979