TMC
10-06-2021, 04:10 AM
This is a long essay (https://jacksonupperco.com/2021/09/28/a-deliberate-throwback-a-look-at-the-garry-marshall-style-ii-of-ii/) (and the second of two parts (https://jacksonupperco.com/2021/09/15/a-deliberate-throwback-a-look-at-the-garry-marshall-style-i-of-ii/)) so I'll try to narrow it down for clarity as best as possible:
First, in positing the show oppositionally to Lear and MTM, there might be an objection to my implication that Happy Days isn’t ever as serious or interested in offering social commentary, for, as proponents would argue, its earliest single-cam years are quieter, more thoughtful, and open to dealing with issues — such as racial prejudice and the Cold War. Second, there might also be confusion as to how Happy Days’ nostalgia is its guiding construct, given that it becomes less present as the seasons progress, such that the final few years feel as much like the early ’80s as the mid ’60s. I raise both of these concerns together because they speak to the same point: my analysis is focused on results — determining what a show does well vs. what it doesn’t. So, while, yes, there are a few topical stories in the first two years (particularly Season One), and absolutely, the nostalgia is strongest early on as well, before it gradually diminishes, I’m framing my depiction of the series here based on my perspective of how this art form finds triumph. That is, I’m looking for Happy Days at its best as a sitcom… and frankly, it’s not at its best as a sitcom during the rare times it engages a socially relevant narrative, because, remember, Garry Marshall does not make a priority of realism (even internally rendered aesthetic realism), so even in these earlier seasons where the text seems more literally realistic against the show’s baseline, Marshall’s application of heavier themes can’t help but affirm his ethos, as any social commentary is crushed by the attitudinal falseness of the characters and their world. Take the first episode, where Richie dates a girl with a reputation for going “all the way.” That seems like a naughty story that allows the show to poke fun at the changing social mores of the ’50s as opposed to the ’70s, presumably with more directness than we would have seen pre-1971. But the script pulls its punches, opting for an idealistic sentimentality that blunts a real sense of conflict, and therefore comic tension, rendering the story not only less-than-funny, but somewhat of a tease — a flirtation with an American Graffiti-esque humanity that we’re then denied. And, needless to say, compared to the bold agitation of All In The Family, or the elemental sincerity of Mary Tyler Moore, it feels dishonest. The rose-colored glasses are too thick.
As for the use of more topical subject matter in story — which some might want to laud because, well, it’s not as totally mindless as the series would eventually become, seeming worthwhile in contrast — all of these efforts are attached, as per Marshall’s idea-led bent, to some narrative gimmick, instead of the show’s tangible givens, from whom we’d hope to find dramatic support for these issues. Let’s look at the first season finale, in which the family considers buying a bomb shelter; this idea engages an era-based premise and feels like a victory on the show’s terms. But Happy Days doesn’t have the kind of characters who can personalize such material — there is no Archie Bunker or Mary Richards, two figures who enable socially relevant stories (or themes) from their definitions, making it so they, and the polemically idea-led All In The Family in particular, can be an excellent example of the sitcom, even with its politics dictating character usage. Unfortunately, Happy Days has no one who can reliably encourage much story of any stripe, since the ensemble is centered around a fairly “typical” family, who are kept as bland and archetypal for, I guess, the supposed sake of relatability, but in actuality, end up without the kind of definition that would give them the gravitas necessary to motivate plot — comedic or dramatic. And thus, Happy Days‘ leads appear too one-dimensional and vague to make even topical era-connected story feel uniquely earned by the series, let alone dramatically potent. And with Marshall’s tone purposely mitigating any real sincerity, I can’t even pretend that these plots make for a better modus operandi, as the show just doesn’t have the “situation” to support them. Oh, now, I know what you’re thinking: what about Fonzie? He’s not bland. Well… you’re right. But he’s an outlier, and easily the most fascinating character of the first few years, principally because he’s NOT bland — he’s the series’ one un-sanitized element, reiterating some of its clichés while simultaneously hinting at ignored truths about the era (just like we see in both Grease and American Graffiti, which also stars Ron Howard).
In fact, it’s easy to understand why Fonzie would eventually find his usage elevated. Beyond just the oft-discussed machinations of Fred Silverman, the famed programming exec who moved from CBS to ABC in 1975 and wanted to combat a show he helped helm, Good Times, by creating for Happy Days another goofy catchphrase-maker with a teen appeal, there’s a creative impetus too: no other figure could be ascended so readily. Like J.J., Fonzie always had the most flavor — the most personality — especially in the most repeated story template of the first few years, in which Ron Howard’s Richie is a good kid who flirts with teenage rebellion (well, generic teenage rebellion, mind you — like going to a bachelor party or stealing the car; nothing really individualized), as he’s caught between his conservative family and his goading friends… most of whom are goofy-yet-tame (like Richie). Only one of his pals, Fonzie, is potentially dangerous. Indeed, contrasting Richie with Fonzie becomes the sole way that Richie himself has a characterization that can be maximized for humor, as Henry Winkler’s Fonz is the only persona scripts can put him up against to display any obvious difference — the trace of a comic perspective (through juxtaposition). Thus, the more he’s paired with Fonzie, the better it is for the show’s initial Richie-centric design, and for both characters. That’s another reason why, when I see praise for the early years on the grounds that Richie’s centricity is inherently more desirable in story, I cringe, because even though Richie is featured better early in the run and this seems to be the show’s dramatic preference, he needs Fonzie to be more prominent if he too is going to exist as an actual comedic presence — not totally deferential to lame, conventional narratives, like in these first two Fonzie-lite years. That’s right; Richie benefits when the Fonz moves in and becomes a proxy member of the family, as this allows for more personality-revealing comic interplay. (We saw the same thing when Hyde moved into the Forman house in That ’70s Show. I discussed the connection between these two nostalgic sitcoms here (https://jacksonupperco.com/2021/08/24/rerun-the-ten-best-that-70s-show-episodes-of-season-two/).)
That said, I’m with the many critics who find Fonzie’s encroachment troubling. Balance is needed, for while this show improves when it gets more Fonzie, that’s Fonzie for the sake of Richie — for the sake of his character and others’, NOT for the sake of Fonzie and Silverman’s Nielsen battle against CBS’ Good Times, where, as we’ve seen, there was no real way to reconcile J.J. against his show’s other narrative intentions. Accordingly, there’s a sweet spot during the first two-thirds of Season Three (1975-’76), where the series has upped its commitment to comedy by switching to the multi-cam live audience format (which, as you know, I prefer because it forces a sitcom to acknowledge the art form’s demand for laugh-out-loud material), and moved Fonzie into the Cunningham garage, so he can be more prominent. This is the best era of Happy Days — the fertile ground from which Laverne & Shirley sprung — but it’s brief, for by the end of the year, the “Cult of Fonzie” has already begun, and stories can’t help but show it. The “Cult of Fonzie” is what I call Silverman’s ordained creation of a Marshall-esque star persona, who quickly overtakes the cast and ensures that, if nobody was well-defined before, they’re going to get even less attention now, for everyone is subordinate to Fonzie (including Richie). And when nobody matters like Fonzie, then not even Fonzie matters, because he needs strong fixed situational elements (like Richie) in order to be maximized himself. Without commensurate help, he sadly remains one-dimensional, and regardless of how often the show tries to foist some melodramatic plot on him (e.g., “Fonzie cries when Richie almost dies”), it’s story without support from the situation, for his character isn’t emotionally authentic enough — nor is anyone’s — to make such drama feel motivated and not externally forced. (The same goes for the preachy After School Special stuff that develops around 1976-’77, the show’s fourth season and only one at #1, when Fonzie has apparently become such a role model that the show uses him to make moral pronouncements, à la Jim Anderson — Six’s “Smokin’ Ain’t Cool” is a memorable example.) And because everyone falls back, Fonzie grows to overtake more than the rest of the cast: he overtakes the show, and that includes another situational given — the era.
First, in positing the show oppositionally to Lear and MTM, there might be an objection to my implication that Happy Days isn’t ever as serious or interested in offering social commentary, for, as proponents would argue, its earliest single-cam years are quieter, more thoughtful, and open to dealing with issues — such as racial prejudice and the Cold War. Second, there might also be confusion as to how Happy Days’ nostalgia is its guiding construct, given that it becomes less present as the seasons progress, such that the final few years feel as much like the early ’80s as the mid ’60s. I raise both of these concerns together because they speak to the same point: my analysis is focused on results — determining what a show does well vs. what it doesn’t. So, while, yes, there are a few topical stories in the first two years (particularly Season One), and absolutely, the nostalgia is strongest early on as well, before it gradually diminishes, I’m framing my depiction of the series here based on my perspective of how this art form finds triumph. That is, I’m looking for Happy Days at its best as a sitcom… and frankly, it’s not at its best as a sitcom during the rare times it engages a socially relevant narrative, because, remember, Garry Marshall does not make a priority of realism (even internally rendered aesthetic realism), so even in these earlier seasons where the text seems more literally realistic against the show’s baseline, Marshall’s application of heavier themes can’t help but affirm his ethos, as any social commentary is crushed by the attitudinal falseness of the characters and their world. Take the first episode, where Richie dates a girl with a reputation for going “all the way.” That seems like a naughty story that allows the show to poke fun at the changing social mores of the ’50s as opposed to the ’70s, presumably with more directness than we would have seen pre-1971. But the script pulls its punches, opting for an idealistic sentimentality that blunts a real sense of conflict, and therefore comic tension, rendering the story not only less-than-funny, but somewhat of a tease — a flirtation with an American Graffiti-esque humanity that we’re then denied. And, needless to say, compared to the bold agitation of All In The Family, or the elemental sincerity of Mary Tyler Moore, it feels dishonest. The rose-colored glasses are too thick.
As for the use of more topical subject matter in story — which some might want to laud because, well, it’s not as totally mindless as the series would eventually become, seeming worthwhile in contrast — all of these efforts are attached, as per Marshall’s idea-led bent, to some narrative gimmick, instead of the show’s tangible givens, from whom we’d hope to find dramatic support for these issues. Let’s look at the first season finale, in which the family considers buying a bomb shelter; this idea engages an era-based premise and feels like a victory on the show’s terms. But Happy Days doesn’t have the kind of characters who can personalize such material — there is no Archie Bunker or Mary Richards, two figures who enable socially relevant stories (or themes) from their definitions, making it so they, and the polemically idea-led All In The Family in particular, can be an excellent example of the sitcom, even with its politics dictating character usage. Unfortunately, Happy Days has no one who can reliably encourage much story of any stripe, since the ensemble is centered around a fairly “typical” family, who are kept as bland and archetypal for, I guess, the supposed sake of relatability, but in actuality, end up without the kind of definition that would give them the gravitas necessary to motivate plot — comedic or dramatic. And thus, Happy Days‘ leads appear too one-dimensional and vague to make even topical era-connected story feel uniquely earned by the series, let alone dramatically potent. And with Marshall’s tone purposely mitigating any real sincerity, I can’t even pretend that these plots make for a better modus operandi, as the show just doesn’t have the “situation” to support them. Oh, now, I know what you’re thinking: what about Fonzie? He’s not bland. Well… you’re right. But he’s an outlier, and easily the most fascinating character of the first few years, principally because he’s NOT bland — he’s the series’ one un-sanitized element, reiterating some of its clichés while simultaneously hinting at ignored truths about the era (just like we see in both Grease and American Graffiti, which also stars Ron Howard).
In fact, it’s easy to understand why Fonzie would eventually find his usage elevated. Beyond just the oft-discussed machinations of Fred Silverman, the famed programming exec who moved from CBS to ABC in 1975 and wanted to combat a show he helped helm, Good Times, by creating for Happy Days another goofy catchphrase-maker with a teen appeal, there’s a creative impetus too: no other figure could be ascended so readily. Like J.J., Fonzie always had the most flavor — the most personality — especially in the most repeated story template of the first few years, in which Ron Howard’s Richie is a good kid who flirts with teenage rebellion (well, generic teenage rebellion, mind you — like going to a bachelor party or stealing the car; nothing really individualized), as he’s caught between his conservative family and his goading friends… most of whom are goofy-yet-tame (like Richie). Only one of his pals, Fonzie, is potentially dangerous. Indeed, contrasting Richie with Fonzie becomes the sole way that Richie himself has a characterization that can be maximized for humor, as Henry Winkler’s Fonz is the only persona scripts can put him up against to display any obvious difference — the trace of a comic perspective (through juxtaposition). Thus, the more he’s paired with Fonzie, the better it is for the show’s initial Richie-centric design, and for both characters. That’s another reason why, when I see praise for the early years on the grounds that Richie’s centricity is inherently more desirable in story, I cringe, because even though Richie is featured better early in the run and this seems to be the show’s dramatic preference, he needs Fonzie to be more prominent if he too is going to exist as an actual comedic presence — not totally deferential to lame, conventional narratives, like in these first two Fonzie-lite years. That’s right; Richie benefits when the Fonz moves in and becomes a proxy member of the family, as this allows for more personality-revealing comic interplay. (We saw the same thing when Hyde moved into the Forman house in That ’70s Show. I discussed the connection between these two nostalgic sitcoms here (https://jacksonupperco.com/2021/08/24/rerun-the-ten-best-that-70s-show-episodes-of-season-two/).)
That said, I’m with the many critics who find Fonzie’s encroachment troubling. Balance is needed, for while this show improves when it gets more Fonzie, that’s Fonzie for the sake of Richie — for the sake of his character and others’, NOT for the sake of Fonzie and Silverman’s Nielsen battle against CBS’ Good Times, where, as we’ve seen, there was no real way to reconcile J.J. against his show’s other narrative intentions. Accordingly, there’s a sweet spot during the first two-thirds of Season Three (1975-’76), where the series has upped its commitment to comedy by switching to the multi-cam live audience format (which, as you know, I prefer because it forces a sitcom to acknowledge the art form’s demand for laugh-out-loud material), and moved Fonzie into the Cunningham garage, so he can be more prominent. This is the best era of Happy Days — the fertile ground from which Laverne & Shirley sprung — but it’s brief, for by the end of the year, the “Cult of Fonzie” has already begun, and stories can’t help but show it. The “Cult of Fonzie” is what I call Silverman’s ordained creation of a Marshall-esque star persona, who quickly overtakes the cast and ensures that, if nobody was well-defined before, they’re going to get even less attention now, for everyone is subordinate to Fonzie (including Richie). And when nobody matters like Fonzie, then not even Fonzie matters, because he needs strong fixed situational elements (like Richie) in order to be maximized himself. Without commensurate help, he sadly remains one-dimensional, and regardless of how often the show tries to foist some melodramatic plot on him (e.g., “Fonzie cries when Richie almost dies”), it’s story without support from the situation, for his character isn’t emotionally authentic enough — nor is anyone’s — to make such drama feel motivated and not externally forced. (The same goes for the preachy After School Special stuff that develops around 1976-’77, the show’s fourth season and only one at #1, when Fonzie has apparently become such a role model that the show uses him to make moral pronouncements, à la Jim Anderson — Six’s “Smokin’ Ain’t Cool” is a memorable example.) And because everyone falls back, Fonzie grows to overtake more than the rest of the cast: he overtakes the show, and that includes another situational given — the era.