Murder She Wrote: Murder To A Jazz Beat

On the third day of February in the year of our Lord 1985, the twelfth episode of Murder, She Wrote aired. Titled Murder to a Jazz Beat, it’s set in New Orleans. (Last week’s episode was Broadway Malady.)

The opening shot was actually a closer-in shot of the paddle boat behind the bridge. Even in the 1980s paddle boats were antiquated; screw-driven propellers are more efficient and less bulky. The paddle boat was iconic of the Mississippi river, though, so it makes perfect sense that our establishing shots have one. Mysteries frequently make use of iconography. There is something very fitting about suggestive imagery in a genre that’s all about interpreting clues. Murder, She Wrote, in particular, also made heavy use of types and archetypes to convey more in the relatively short time that it had. (Upbeat Jazz music plays over these images, solidifying the New Orleans feel.)

The episode begins with Jessica in a cab.

The cabbie, Lafayette, is explaining that the secret to good gumbo is using stale beer to make the fish stock, because that makes for an excellent roux. Jessica is polite, but not super interested. She does like his outlook on life, though, which is that if you spend your time with good food, good friends, good music, and good conversation, a man can’t die no ways but happy.

When Jessica observes that he’s a philosopher, he offers to take her on a tour of the city (off the meter) so they can keep talking and there isn’t a man alive who knows New Orleans better than he does. Jessica is tempted, but has her obligations. Specifically, she needs to be at the TV station to tape a segment for New Orleans Today. When Lafayette asks if she’s a celebrity, she replies “I sincerely hope not. But, uh, the taping starts in six minutes.” Lafayette asks her why she didn’t say so before, then takes a shortcut (which starts by going the wrong way down a one-way street).

The establishing shots in Murder, She Wrote are interesting because they do so much of the heavy lifting for the set decoration, and this one is no exception:

Lafayette screeches up with two minutes to spare. He tells Jessica that he’ll drop her luggage off at her hotel, and they’ll meet up later for sightseeing.

When Jessica gets inside, she goes to the stage, which is empty. The stage, by the way, is quite interesting from the perspective they show it:

This angle does a very good job of highlighting how fake the stage is; it’s a tiny oasis of New Orleans themed decoration in a larger sea of functional production that could be anywhere.

We then meet Jonathan, the man who is going to interview her.

He’s surprised to see her, because the taping is in two days. Jessica checks her pocket calendar and it turns out she’s transposed the dates of two engagements. At the moment, she’s supposed to be forty minutes into dedicating a new school library.

Jonathan is excited for the opportunity to show Jessica New Orleans and all it has to offer in terms of food and entertainment, since she’s clearly going to be in town for a few extra days. Which he does.

We then meet some Jazz musicians. Here’s Eddie Walters:

He appears to be a personal assistant to “Ben.” He’s got to get the coffee he’s holding to Ben while it’s still hot. Ben doesn’t like it when it’s not hot. (Eddie speaks in a halting and inarticulate way that suggests he’s got some kind of intellectual impairment.)

And then we meet Ben (Coleman), who’s giving an interview:

He’s in the middle of saying that there’s no denying that luck played a big part in his move to Vegas, but so did a lot of hard work. The woman sitting next to him is Lisa.

We then meet Dr. Aaron Kramer:

He’s Ben’s manager. And not too happy with something, though it’s not made clear what. If Lisa turns out to not be Ben’s wife, then it might be her.

Shortly after this, Jonathan comes up to the table and introduces Jessica to Ben and Aaron. There is small talk and the topic of the upcoming move to Las Vegas comes up. At the mention of this, two of Ben’s band-mates come up and angrily bring up the subject of whether they’re coming with him.

The guy on the right is named Eubie, the one on the left is Jimmy. Ben and Aaron try to avoid the subject, but eventually admit that they and another musician (Hec) are being dropped from the group in Vegas. Eubie feels betrayed. He spent sixteen years helping Ben and feels he’s owed gratitude. Instead, Ben insults him. When Eubie says that he aught to kill Ben, Ben insults him further, saying that he doesn’t even have the guts to do it.

I think we can tell who’s going to die in this episode.

Aaron promises the guys that he will take care of them—he’s got other groups. They leave, disappointed, but partially consoled.

Jonathan asks Aaron if this will interfere with the taping that night and Aaron assures them that it won’t—they’re all professionals and will fulfill their duties, whatever their private disappointments. He then invites Jessica to attend and Jonathan assures Aaron that she will.

Back stage, at the venue for the evening, if you can call it “that”back stage”, since the venue is a barn, we meet Callie.

She’s Ben’s wife. So it’s likely Aaron was indeed unhappy because Ben was fooling around with Lisa at the table earlier. Anyway, Eddie, Ben’s factotum, gives her a flower. Eddie, incidentally, speaks haltingly, and like he has some kind of mild mental impairment.

They discuss the latest news—she heard it from Eubie. Eddie is upset about Ben cheating on Callie.

Callie takes it more in stride, though. “Ben’s latest? She won’t last longer than any of the others.”

Eddie says that sometimes he doesn’t like Ben much, and Callie says that sometimes she doesn’t either. But then adds, “but we can’t help loving him, can we?”

Jessica and Jonathan have come early and go backstage to visit Ben and Aaron. On their way, they hear the two men shouting at each other in an office. (The barn has been sub-divided to provide a few rooms.) Aaron leaves and runs into them, embarrassed. After some minor talk about this, Aaron shows them to their seats.

After they’re gone, Ben comes out of the office and runs into Callie. They have some ambiguous dialog where Callie tells Ben if he wants to be free all he has to do is say so and he says that it’s not that simple and she knows why. So, yeah, Ben is definitely not long for this episode.

We then get a minute or two of the concert itself, then, at the end, there’s a special song, where Ben plays a song from his famous mentor, “Sweetman” Buddy Brunson, using Brunson’s famous clarinet. (Until this point, Ben had been playing a saxophone.) A minute or so into this song, Ben collapses. A doctor who was in the audience rushes up and, after taking his pulse, pronounces him dead.

After a few reaction shots in which everyone expresses surprise and dismay, we fade to black and go to credits.

Had you been watching back in 1985, you might have seen a commercial like this:

When we come back from commercial, Jonathan tells Jessica, “it’s like something out of one of your books.” Jessica gravely replies, “As a matter of fact, it is.”

The doctor who pronounced him dead remarks that it’s a pity for someone so young to die of a “coronary,” but Jessica is having none of it. The drained color around his lips and feint blue on the moons of his fingers suggests that it was poison, which she’s sure an autopsy will show.

When the doctor says that he’s not conversant with poisons, Jessica says that it’s unlikely that he would be with this one—it’s a very deadly, fast acting, and rare poison. Jonathan recognizes the book of hers this featured in. It’s called, “Murder on the Amazon.”

When Callie hears the word “poison,” she slips the coffee cup that Ben drank from right before he started playing into her purse. A moment afterwards, the police arrive.

They’re led by Detective Lieutenant Simeon Kershaw.

He asks who called them in and the doctor introduces himself. It doesn’t really make sense for the doctor to have called the police since he would have been with the body and wouldn’t have known where the telephone was, but I suspect that this is just TV economy—saving the money of hiring another actor to be the person who called the police. The doctor mentions Jessica’s theory, and Lt. Kershaw is extremely offended that she offered an opinion without being a medical pathologist.

In the ensuing conversation, we find out that the poison is an obscure curare derivative. This is curious because curares (curare is a family of plant alkaloids) are ineffective orally and must be introduced intravenously. Hence their popularity for being used to tip arrows and blowgun darts for hunting. (It does you no good to kill your food with a poison that will kill you when you eat it.)

Anyway, he suspects Jessica of a publicity stunt and says that an autopsy costs time and money, and if the coroner doesn’t find anything, he’s going to charge her and Jonathan with obstructing a police investigation. “Do you still say poison?”

Jessica starts to reply, “In chapter 18…” but he cuts her off and says, “Ten O’Clock tomorrow. My office.” He then walks out of the barn. It’s a dramatic exit, but more than a little strange that he evinces no interest in investigating anything at the scene of the death.

An older man, named Carl Turnbull, then walks in and talks with Jonathan.

He demands to know why he had to get a call from the cameraman instead of Jonathan. They have less than an hour to get the tape edited for the 11:00 news. Jonathan will have none of showing the footage of Ben dying on the news and they agree to see the station manager to settle the dispute. Aaron offers to drive Jessica to her hotel while the two men hurriedly walk off.

We then cut to Jessica investigating where the cup had been.

Aaron gives Jessica a ride, but they stop to have a “nightcap” since “sleep won’t come easily.”

At some restaurant they talk for a bit and Aaron explains that he wishes he could make music but can’t, all he can do is appreciate it, so he tries to help the various starving musicians make a little money, which is difficult because there are so many talented musicians in New Orleans. Many of his groups tour, as well as play locally. He lists them, and Jessica notes that Ben’s group just got back from playing in South America.

The next morning Jessica is in the Lt’s office where he plays her a tape of the 11 O’Clock news from last night where they showed the footage of Ben Coleman dying. The Lt. blames Jonathan for it, but he comes in and tells the Lt. that he (the Lieutenant) would have done well in the old west, being quick on the draw but none too bright. The station manager sided with Turnbull, so Jonathan quit.

He doesn’t seem to have gotten much sleep last night either, and looks the worse for wear.

Lt. Kershaw apologizes to him. When Jonathan tells him that he’ll be making another mistake if he doesn’t listen to Jessica, Kershaw tells him to stuff it, as he had a long night too. He pulls out a copy of Murder on the Amazon and tosses it on his desk, explaining that he roused a bookstore owner from sleep to get it. He tells Jessica that it’s not half bad. And this morning when the coroner called to say “heart attack,” he told him to check the “inner lining of the liver” and, sure enough, it was just like in her book.

Jessica graciously accepts his apology.

Oddly, no mention is made of the fact that curare paralyzes the voluntary muscles, not the involuntary muscles, so victims die of asphyxiation, not heart failure. I guess this is a very derived derivative of curare.

Lt. Kershaw also mentions that Ben had traces of narcotics in his system. The Lt. isn’t surprised; when he first met Ben, Ben was a “two bit street punk.” He adds that they were tipped that one or two of the band members might have been doing some smuggling, but they could never catch them.

Lt. Kershaw also recounts the story of how, fourteen years ago when he was just a beat cop, he had Ben and his brother dead to rights in a liquor store holdup where the clerk was killed, but they couldn’t obtain a conviction because Callie—then Ben’s girlfriend—swore that they were with her at the time. He muses that the brother died in a street fight a couple years later, and now Ben got his.

Jessica wonders how the poison was introduced. She asks if any marks were found on the body and Lt. Kershaw ridicules the idea of a poisoned dart blown from a trumpet. Jonathan asks if it could have been in his coffee. Kershaw says that he thought of that but the cup is missing. Jessica then points out that three cameras were rolling, so perhaps the killer was caught on tape.

This leads us to the next scene, at the TV station, where Jessica, Lt. Kershaw, and Jonathan (plus an extra playing the equipment operator) review the tapes. As they go over it repeatedly, Jessica notices something.

During the clarinet performance, Callie takes a drink from Ben’s cup. Which clearly proves that the coffee couldn’t have been poisoned.

And on that bombshell, we fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back, Jonathan suggests that maybe Callie didn’t actually drink the coffee, but was just faking it. Lt. Kershaw suggests that perhaps the poison was elsewhere. But if that was the case, Jessica asks, why did the coffee cup disappear?

At this point Turnbull shows up and asks what they’re doing there since Jonathan isn’t an employee of the station anymore. Then he notices Lt. Kershaw and changes his tune. Jessica then says that she was going to make public a theory she had about Ben Coleman’s death on Jonathan’s show, but since he doesn’t have a show anymore, she’ll have to go to a competing station.

Turnbull is alarmed at this and says that shouldn’t be necessary. He’s sure that Jonathan’s program can be easily reinstated. Jessica then wishes him a good day.

This is a very strange turn of events, given that Jonathan wasn’t fired, he quit out of principle. Jessica getting him his show back suggests that his principle of not being willing to work with people who would air the footage of Ben Coleman dying on camera no longer applies. If so, Jonathan has very short-lived principles and it’s doubly weird that Jessica initiated this move which relies on his principles being so short-lived.

Jessica then walks out as Turnbull assures her that it can be straightened out and begs her to not leave. On their way out, Kershaw asks Jessica what her theory is, and Jessica replies that she’s still working on the theory, but she found Turnbull so insufferable that she just had to say something.

Later that day, Jonathan calls her from a payphone to relay the latest news on the investigation. Kershaw is checking all the chewing gum he can find at the barn. He believes Callie poisoned Ben because Ben only bought three tickets for Las Vegas. One for himself, one for Eddie, and one for his new girlfriend. Kershaw believes that Callie was going to be dumped like the rest, found out, and killed Ben in revenge. Jessica is dubious, though. You can’t get rid of a woman who saved you from a murder charge in the same way you can get rid of a trumpet player.

Jonathan invites Jessica to go have lunch to celebrate his show being back on the air, which confirms that this wasn’t just a thing to tweak Turnbull, Jonathan’s principles really didn’t last a full day.

Jessica declines, though, because she needs to make good her boast to Turnbull about having a theory to make public. Accordingly, she goes and finds Lafayette the cab driver. She asks if he knows where Eubie, Jimmy, and Hec are. Lafayette, making good his boast about knowing New Orleans better than any man living, takes her right to them. They’re in a restaurant auditioning for a spot as the restaurant’s entertainment.

They’re none too happy to talk to Jessica, and when the subject of Aaron saying that he’d get them work comes up, they explain that Aaron is a terrible businessman and can’t really get anyone work. When Jessica says that he must have something going for him, since he managed to keep on going, Eubie suggests she keep that kind of talk to herself. She might get someone in trouble with it.

Jessica then runs into Aaron outside and relays the news that the audition didn’t go wonderfully. He offers to give Jessica a lift, but Lafayette butts in. When he refers to Aaron as “Mr Kramer,” Aaron asks, “Do I know you?” Lafayette responds that there’s no reason he should, but he knows all about Aaron. Jessica tells Lafayette it’s OK and accepts the ride from Aaron.

In the car, Jessica accuses Aaron of smuggling, and he confesses to it. He’s not much of a business manager, and smuggling was a way to keep things going during lean times—to put a few dollars into the pockets of musicians when they weren’t working. Jessica says that there is no excuse for smuggling drugs, but Aaron exclaims that it wasn’t drugs—drugs are what customs always looks for. His fight with Ben Coleman was actually about drugs; Ben brought some in on almost every trip and if he’d gotten caught, it would have ruined everything.

But he didn’t kill Ben. There was no point. It wasn’t going to last anyway; the way Ben was going he was probably going to burn out in less than a year.

Aaron is also certain that Callie didn’t kill Ben. She loved him and would have gone through hell for him. In fact, that’s what she’s been doing for the last sixteen years.

That night, at a wake for Ben (which is being held at the barn where he died—I assume because it saved on set costs), Eddie puts the clarinet in the casket with Ben.

After he does this, Callie tells Eddie that it’s time to go, but Eddie doesn’t want to. Moments later, the police arrive and Aaron is arrested for smuggling. After Aaron is led away, Kershaw says that he figures Aaron killed Ben, too. He had motive and opportunity, and did it with the clarinet.

When he picks up the clarinet to collect it as evidence, Eddie gets deeply upset. He says that Ben told him to never let anyone touch it, and that Kershaw must put it back. Callie tries to calm him down but it doesn’t work; he’s inconsolable and uniformed officers are forced to restrain him.

When they drag Ben outside, Kershaw explains to Jessica and Jonathan.

It couldn’t have been the coffee, and they tested every spec of gum they could find and the poison wasn’t there, so there was only one other place it could have been: on the reed of the clarinet.

And on that bombshell, we fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back from commercial, Jessica, Jonathan, and Lt. Kershaw are in Kershaw’s office. He lays out the case of Aaron being a smuggler, which Jessica doesn’t argue with since she knows that he is. But she still doesn’t see how that makes him a murder suspect.

Kershaw says that Aaron had a contract with Ben and Ben threatened to tell the authorities about the smuggling if Aaron didn’t let him out of it. When asked, Jonathan says that the Buddy Brunson tribute song (the one for which Ben switched to the clarinet) was Aaron’s idea.

Jessica counters that it wasn’t Aaron who smuggled in the poison, since at the time he didn’t know that he was going to be blackmailed. Her guess is that Ben Coleman was the one who smuggled in the poison. (Presumably to kill Callie, since he was planning to drop her but couldn’t leave her alive to take revenge by recanting Ben’s alibi for the convenience store murder.)

Then Kershaw gets a call from the lab. There was no trace of poison on the reed. There was nothing at all; it was absolutely clean. Kershaw is perplexed by this, as is Jessica. Why the lack of saliva doesn’t immediately indicate to them that the reed was changed out, I don’t know. Possibly because there’s still five minutes left in the episode, so it can’t end now.

The next scene is at the station where Jessica and Jonathan are going to tape the show. Turnbull shows up and says that the show is going to be aired live and he hopes Jessica is ready to deliver on her promise. I guess Turnbull has been repurposed as the station manager because that’s cheaper than hiring a another actor to play the station manager. Anyway, while Jonathan argues with Turnbull, Jessica watches a denture cleanser commercial being filmed.

(They’re showing off removing blueberry stains from dentures.)

Somehow, this commercial gives Jessica the crucial insight into how Ben was murdered. She then runs off and calls for a taxi. By coincidence, the taxi she hails is driven by Lafayette. When he asks where she wants to go, she says “Saint Charles Cemetery.”

At the cemetery the funeral is going on in New Orleans style.

The band is playing a lively version of When the Saints Go Marching In. They start marching off, and lead all of the mourners away except for Callie and Eddie.

Eddie is upset that Aaron let the police take the clarinet, and Jessica explains that Lt. Kershaw was only doing his duty. He thought that Aaron had killed Ben by poisoning the clarinet reed. Eddie says that he couldn’t have; only he and Ben were allowed to touch the clarinet. Jessica says that she knows.

Callie tries to get Eddie to leave, but Jessica tells her that she knows who killed Ben. Callie denies this, but Jessica doesn’t care and just explains. Callie took the coffee cup off of the piano. She did this, not because it was poisoned, but because it wasn’t. He was poisoned via the clarinet reed, but via the reed that was on the instrument when Ben played it, not the fresh reed that was replaced on the clarinet after the murder. (Jessica points out that Ben drank black coffee right before he played, so the reed should have been stained, but it wasn’t, proving the reed had been replaced.)

When Jessica gently tells Eddie that he replaced the reed to hide the poison, he confesses. Ben had always been a good friend to him. Ben wasn’t nice to many people, but he was never not-nice to Eddie. A long time ago, Ben, Eddie, and Ben’s brother did a real bad thing, and Callie told the police that they were with her. He and Ben loved her for it. But then Ben didn’t love her anymore. He wanted to leave Callie behind, but thought she would tell the police that she’d lied. He got the poison in South America to kill Callie so he could leave her without going to jail, and told Eddie about this plan. Eddie couldn’t let him do that to Callie. He told Ben Callie would never hurt them, but Ben wouldn’t believe him. When he told Callie about Ben’s plan, Callie didn’t believe him. So he didn’t see any other way to keep Ben from killing Callie except to kill Ben. He then says that Ben didn’t love Callie anymore, but he still did. He repeats the last part several times as he breaks down crying and puts his head on Callie’s shoulder.

And on that sad note, we go to credits.

This is an interesting episode which has a lot of strong points. The mystery features the always-fun plot element of the victim having been caught in his own trap, or at least killed because of his own plan to murder someone else. And it’s done well. Additionally, this episode has an interesting setting (mostly in terms of music) and several vivid characters.

One big issue to consider in this episode is the poison: as a rare south-American poison, it is allowed to have any properties that the author wants it to. This can be easily abused if the properties of the poison are revealed toward the end of the story, but it has no major fair-play implications if all of the properties of the poison are immediately identified, as they were in this episode. The only major consideration is that it turns the episode into fantasy, just as much as if the killer had used a ray-gun or a magic want to kill the victim. (Just as much, but far more plausibly, since there are, undoubtedly, a great many poisons that we don’t know about.) It’s also a bit annoying that the writers got the properties of curare wrong, though this could be worked around by having Eddie have known Ben had a cut in his mouth.

That said, the identification of the poison was a bit fraught. It’s extremely implausible that a poison which kills within a minute would have time to do anything detectable to the lining of the liver, since blood circulation stops at death. Also, what lining of the liver? The liver is a dense organ that processes the blood. It’s not a pouch that stores stuff on the inside that it would have a lining, like the stomach or intestines.

In any event, the major effect of the poison being an obscure South American poison is that it effectively limited the circle of suspects to the band plus Aaron, which was useful. It’s a little unfortunate that it just happens to be the same poison that Jessica wrote about in one of her books but the killer didn’t know this. It would have been more interesting if the killer had gotten the idea from Jessica.

There are several characters in this episode which are worth considering. Let’s start with Jonathan, who’s a very vivacious character but also a bit strange within the episode. He serves two main functions: on a technical level he’s the primary connector between Jessica and the mystery. That doesn’t, in itself, make him a compelling character, but his broad range of connections that enables this is played up; people who know everyone are often interesting because they’re rare and this form of social connection is a kind of power. He also adds energy because of his boundless enthusiasm for all of the culture of New Orleans. Much of a setting being powerful is about how the characters react to it; this is a bit like how it was said of Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers that she gave him sex appeal and he gave her class.

Lafayette is another fascinating character. He’s a character with far more ability than is required for the job he performs. The thing about that is that it’s very rare in efficient economies with a lot of job mobility as has existed in the United States to a great degree after the second world war. It’s not universal, so it’s possible to find someone who’s just hard up on his luck, but in post-war America while it’s not completely unbelievable it just doesn’t ring true. What you can have, though, is someone who is simply content with what he has and who works a job he doesn’t find stressful in order to pay the bills and give him as much time to spend in a way he enjoys as he likes. The actual economics of driving a cab are a bit iffy, here, but he is portrayed as someone who enjoys meeting people, so I think it works. And they do lean into this with his character; he has an easy-going manner and a marked enthusiasm for enjoying the simple pleasures of life.

Lt. Kershaw is a striking character. Police lieutenants are often one-note characters in Murder, She Wrote and he’s got far more depth than most. He takes Jessica seriously and is willing to admit when he’s wrong. He is not passive, though, and does real investigation for himself. While he certainly doesn’t carry the episode, giving the police character some depth gives the whole story far more depth. Several real characters playing against each other makes for a far richer story because it creates a lot of possibilities.

Aaron Kramer is also a curious character. I’m not sure exactly how far we’re supposed to take the things he says as reliable, but he at least portrays himself as a lover of Jazz music who will do almost anything to help out the artists he can’t help by being competent as a manager. That kind of love is interesting. They keep it from getting too dark by having him smuggle things to avoid taxes rather than smuggling harmful things such as drugs, and tax evasion is, certainly, a much nobler way to make money than are highly addictive drugs, but at the same time struggling musicians are, perhaps, a dubious cause. It is interesting that he ends up paying for this approach to supporting the music that he loves with what is likely to be a lengthy prison sentence.

Callie isn’t a major character in this story, but she is still interesting. We’re left wondering why she has such a profound devotion to Ben Coleman. We certainly didn’t see him as having any redeeming qualities. But we didn’t see a lot of him, which is why this works. Her devotion raises a question which his relatively little screen time leaves possible there’s an answer to.

Having described the many interesting characters, one unfortunate thing about this episode is that none of them get closure. We last saw Jonathan when Jessica left him right before his newly reinstated show was going to air live. We last saw Lt. Kershaw when he was arresting the wrong man. We last saw Aaron when he was arrested for smuggling and was falsely accused of murdering Ben. We last saw Lafayette when he drove Jessica to the cemetery and was still hopeful he’d get to give her a tour of New Orleans. In none of the cases does the last time we see the character feel like the last time. That’s not the end of the world, and it’s particularly forgivable in a Murder, She Wrote episode which crams quite a lot into 48 minutes of screen time.

I’m in two minds about Eddie being the murderer. I didn’t really like the character, since he had the kind of hollywood intellectual impairment which feels extremely fake. Like with Forest Gump, it’s a kind of affectation of speech rather than an actual intellectual state. Eddie’s limitations are whatever the authors want them to be in the moment. On the other hand, having the murderer be the victim’s devoted friend is very interesting when it’s done well, and it’s done reasonably well, here. Eddie’s devotion is given an explanation—Ben was never not nice to him, which might well count for a lot to someone who was often picked on because of his intellectual disability—as is his being willing to murder his friend. He just couldn’t let Ben murder Callie. And I do like the touch that they hinted at this when Jessica said she guessed that it was Ben who bought the poison.

Next week we’re going to the sea for My Johnny Lies Over the Ocean.

Secular People Still Need to Explain Religious Truths

There are a lot of stupid secular theories abounding today, such as red pill dating advice or mimetic-rivalry-hoe-phase-theory, which receive a lot of criticism from people who are sane. But this criticism usually has no effect because, to believers in these theories, it amounts to nitpicking. This is because they are secular people trying to explain religious truths. Their theories are (necessarily) secular and when you try to explain religious truths with secular theories, the theories have to be idiotic, for the same reason that if you jam a square peg into a round hole, it will end up as a very funny looking square.

The religious truths that people are trying to explain are the necessity of having ideals and the impossibility of achieving the ideals, or to give them their proper names, everything has a nature and it is a fallen world. God created the world to be perfect, but the world chose sin over perfection, but God has not abandoned the world and is working to save it. Within this religious framing, it’s easy to explain why it is that we must strive to achieve perfection and also why we must accept quite a bit of imperfection. You do not need to throw out the ideal for one which seems achievable, and you do not need to worry (overmuch) about not achieving it.

This framework is not available to secular people. Secular people can, of course, have lofty ideals and, in pure pragmatism, accept that no one achieves it and keep going anyway. Most people want some kind of rational relationship between their thoughts and actions, even if they are completely incapable of expressing that rational relationship in words. So for the vast majority who can’t just hold incompatible beliefs with no explanation, they either come up with an explanation (which doesn’t make sense if you look at it too closely) or alter the beliefs.

Red pill dating and hoe-phase-theory are the same basic philosophical move of throwing out the ideal and substituting one that they think is achievable. The benefit to this is that trying to achieve the ideal is actually a rational activity since the ideal is achievable. The downside, of course, is that it’s an evil ideal.

Modern ideas about marriage are the opposite, though with a bit of a twist. Modern ideas of marriage demand the perfect realization of the ideal, which is no small part of why so many people aren’t marrying (though by no means the only cause). The twist is that the ideal is modified to one which makes sense within the secular worldview, so we get marriage not as a covenental relationship or as the mutual self-sacrifice of the parents for the sake of their children, but as a thing which is supposed to be mutually fulfilling. That is, marriage is supposed to fill both parties up so that they are happy. And this happiness is increasingly demanded; where it is lacking this is taken as a sign that the marriage isn’t real and so divorce is just recognizing the reality of the failure to form a real marriage. This is not particularly more sane than the red pill dating ideas, though its insanity is less spectacular.

I am reminded of a wonderful section of G.K. Chesterton’s novel Manalive, about being happy in marriage:

“But really, Michael, really, you must stop and think!” cried the girl earnestly. “You could carry me off my feet, I dare say, soul and body, but it may be bitter bad business for all that. These things done in that romantic rush, like Mr. Smith’s, they– they do attract women, I don’t deny it. As you say, we’re all telling the truth to-night. They’ve attracted poor Mary, for one. They attract me, Michael. But the cold fact remains: imprudent marriages do lead to long unhappiness and disappointment– you’ve got used to your drinks and things–I shan’t be pretty much longer–“

“Imprudent marriages!” roared Michael. “And pray where in earth or heaven are there any prudent marriages? Might as well talk about prudent suicides. You and I have dawdled round each other long enough, and are we any safer than Smith and Mary Gray, who met last night? You never know a husband till you marry him. Unhappy! of course you’ll be unhappy. Who the devil are you that you shouldn’t be unhappy, like the mother that bore you? Disappointed! of course we’ll be disappointed. I, for one, don’t expect till I die to be so good a man as I am at this minute– a tower with all the trumpets shouting.”

“You see all this,” said Rosamund, with a grand sincerity in her solid face, “and do you really want to marry me?”

“My darling, what else is there to do?” reasoned the Irishman. “What other occupation is there for an active man on this earth, except to marry you? What’s the alternative to marriage, barring sleep? It’s not liberty, Rosamund. Unless you marry God, as our nuns do in Ireland, you must marry Man–that is Me. The only third thing is to marry yourself– yourself, yourself, yourself–the only companion that is never satisfied– and never satisfactory.”

(It must be born in mind that Michael Moon is his own character and not a mouthpiece for Chesterton; Michael does have some good points among his mad ramblings, even if he doesn’t have the fullness of appreciation of the committed single vocation.)

But his fundamental point is quite sound: it is a mistake to try, as one’s primary goal, to be happy in that earthly sense of the word happiness. There will always be pain and sorrow and trials, and worst of all we will let ourselves and each other down. The big thing is whether we always pick ourselves up again. But happiness is a terrible goal in marriage, because marriage exists to accomplish wonderful things—making new people and teaching them how to be human—and trying to be happy gets in the way of accomplishing things. There’s so much more to aim for in this life than happiness.

Happiness in the sense of smiling and having a good time and enjoying yourself, that is. Happiness in the sense of the Greek makarios, which can also be translated as “blessed”—that’s quite a different thing. But in that sense, it’s important to remember that this is a painting of the happiest man alive:

I’m sure that Chesterton has said it before me, but the problem with reasonable goals is that they always end up being completely unreasonable. And that’s because this world is about God, and so doesn’t make sense on its own. And every attempt to make sense of it in itself, without reference to God, will fail in one of only a few ways.

Why Modern Art is Bad

My title is a little over-broad, as there is Modern art which isn’t bad. But a large enough fraction of it is to justify the title, and I’d like to talk about why that is. Because it’s not an accident.

The first reason is that Modern art arose from Modern Philosophy, which jettisoned the idea of truth. (If you only know a little bit about Modern Philosophy this might sound odd; a few hundreds more hours of reading it will clear things up.) Since beauty, like truth and goodness, is a kind of apprehension of being, the rejection of truth was also a rejection of beauty. Art without beauty quickly becomes very strange, and also bad. That is, it becomes deconstructive. There is a thing which can be called deconstruction whose purpose is to give insight into the inner workings of something good, in order to better be able to appreciate it or to make goodness oneself; this is not what happens, though sometimes in the early stages it is what people pretend is going on. A complete rejection of truth and beauty means that deconstruction can only be for the purpose of destruction; the only enjoyment the feeling of power which comes from ending something which is good. Of course, not all Modern art embodies this perfectly. God is the only one who accomplishes all things according to His will, so human artists with bad intentions sometimes fail and make good art by accident. And, of course, not all Modern artists even fully buy into the idea.

The other major reason why Modern art is bad is because it is a status symbol of the upper classes. Well, not just that it’s a status symbol, because they don’t have to bad. Ideally, status symbols are good, and can be when the highest quality is limited in availability. Ermine furs and imperial purple dyes were both high-status and beautiful in the days when they were incredibly hard to get. The problem is when beauty becomes cheap, as modern chemistry has largely rendered it. Exclusive items with quality can still go together, as in the case of fancy wrist watches or luxury cars. But cheap reproduction and efficient markets have made beautiful art (relatively) easy to come by, so the only way for art to become exclusive is to artificially limit it to only certain producers. Modern art, being ugly, helps in this, because people won’t pick the selected artists by accident, that is, merely because they happen to like the art. Because no one naturally likes the art. High status people train themselves to enjoy the art because enjoying it confers status.

You can learn to enjoy Modern art, but the same skill would allow you to enjoy any random patch of dirt on the ground. Dirt is actually interesting stuff, if you take the time and trouble to look closely at it. But dirt is common; dirt is cheap. It’s dirt cheap, in fact. In consequence, few people have the humility to learn to appreciate dirt. If you learn to appreciate dirt, you will probably be happier, but no one but you and God will know it.

Murder She Wrote: Broadway Malady

On the thirteenth day of January in the year of our Lord 1985, the tenth episode of the first season of Murder, She Wrote aired. Titled Broadway Malady, it’s set in New York City. (Last week’s episode was Capitol Offense.)

The episode begins with the retired actress Rita Bristol…

…watching an old black-and-white movie that she starred in.

A young woman named Patti walks in and guesses that the movie is “Holiday in San Jose” but it’s actually “Moon Over Rio.” Moon over Rio was not a real movie, but I suspect that the clip was from a real movie that Vivian Blaine, the actress who played Rita Bristol, was in. The clip looked quite real.

“Oh look at me,” she says. “I was always a pushover for that bilge we cranked out, even while we were doing it. Were we ever that innocent?”

The young woman objects, “Mama, that’s not bilge. It’s terrific!”

Then Rita’s other child, her son Barry, comes in.

He announces that the play with both mother and daughter is going to happen on Broadway. “Si Parrish finally came through!” Rehearsals start in six weeks.

Some time later, over in Cabot Cove, Jessica gets a phone call from Grady. He’s gotten a job as the bookkeeper on the play that Rita Bristol is in. He tells Jessica that on her upcoming trip to the city (she’s coming to meet with her publisher) he’ll get her into the rehearsals and she’ll get to meet Rita Bristol. Also, she’ll get to meet his new girlfriend, Kate.

The scene then shifts from Grady, back stage, on the phone with Jessica, to Rita Bristol on the stage complaining about the scenery being in the way. She goes on a tirade about the general lack of skill of the production. This gets her into a fight with the director, who is unimpressed by Rita.

“I only know what I see, and it’s just laying there,” he says.

After this, backstage, Barry asks Rita if she wants him to fire the director, but Rita says no. Unfortunately, he’s the best there is. She does wish he’d be less hard on Patti. Rita’s not so sure about trying to make a comeback at her age, but Patti is terrific and she’ll do anything to help her career.

Later that night Jessica arrives and Grady meets her. He introduces his latest girlfriend, Kate Metcalf.

She’s Patti’s understudy.

Grady then ropes Jessica into going to a celebration dinner with Rita Bristol and the other important cast and production people. In fact, the dinner involves almost every character that will be in this episode, though we haven’t officially met them all yet. The setting is a fancy Italian restaurant, or at least I assume that it is since the waiter has a thick Italian accent.

I believe the photos on the wall are supposed to be of movie and Broadway stars. We then meet the man financing the play, Si Parrish:

Investment banking was becoming a bit of a bore, so he decided to get into theater.

Then, at the mention of Jessica being a writer, we meet the two writers of the play:

(They are worried that Jessica is being brought on to replace them.)

There’s a bit of back and forth in which Si thinks Jessica writes romance novels and Rita corrects him. I’m not sure if this is meant for humor or as a sneaky way of reminding viewers that Jessica is a mystery writer and hence why the title of the show is what it is. You’d expect people to know by now, but TV was always on the lookout for new viewers, who had no choice but to start in media res.

Barry then makes a speech in which he praises his mother and raises a toast to his sister. (The director conspicuously doesn’t raise his glass.) He also adds a small announcement, that Si is so confident in the show that they’re not going to try it out in Boston, they start Broadway previews in two weeks. The director rolls his eyes and Si, sotto voce, tells him to keep his negativity to himself.

Outside the restaurant, after dinner, Si offers Jessica a ride home, which she accepts. He also offers a ride to Barry and Patti, but Barry declines, saying that his car is only a block away.

As Barry and Patti go into an alleyway to get to the parking garage, a man jumps out.

“Your Money and your jewels, lady, fast!” he says.

Before either of them can react, he shoots Patti, who falls down.

Barry looks at Patti for a moment, then pulls his own gun and shoots the man, who crumples to a heap on the ground. As Barry cradles his sister in his arms, a crowd gathers, we fade to black, and go to commercial.

Here’s a commercial you might have seen, had you been watching the episode back in 1985:

When we come back from commercial, Barry is at the police station, on the phone with his mother , to whom he says that he’ll be there as soon as bail can be arranged.

The detective is Sgt. Moreno. Barry then conveys the news that the bullet nicked Patti’s spine and they don’t know if there will be permanent damage, or even if she’ll live. Barry is in trouble for using a concealed firearm to kill the guy who shot his sister. The Sgt. tells him that had he used the bad guy’s weapon, or even his bare hands, he’d have gotten a pat on the back, but the concealed firearm is a problem. Though the Sergeant does, personally, consider him a hero. (Barry explains he bought the gun after being mugged three times in the last 8 months.)

For context, this was during the NYC crime wave of the 1960s and 1970s which carried through the 1980s. (It began reversing in the early 1990s.) This was part of a broader trend in violent crime which gave us action figures like Dirty Harry.

A uniformed officer brings Sgt. Moreno a piece of paper, which he looks at, then tells Barry that he’s free to go, as the DA knows where to find him if he wants to file charges. Barry thanks him, but he replies, “No, thank you. You gave me one less bum to worry about.”

The scene then shifts to Jessica’ hotel room, where Grady is reading a news story about the shooting.

I find it interesting that this was just a story on the inside of the paper. I suppose that even Murder, She Wrote couldn’t pretend that in New York City of the 1980s a mugging would be front-page news.

Grady is also watching a news show about it, in which a strange man who had been preaching on the street next to the alley is being interviewed by the news.

He mentions two facts which catch Jessica’s attention. The first is that the shooting started immediately, and that a three-card monty dealer was even closer and took off like a flash when the shooting started. We hear that Patti remains in critical condition and that the drifter has been identified as “Manny Farkus.”

Jessica is bothered by what the strange man said. If it’s true, Patti was shot before either she or her brother had a chance to do anything (which we in fact did see was true). Which suggests that the motive wasn’t her money or jewelry.

Jessica then goes to the police station where she harangues Sgt. Moreno about the case. He’s unmoved, though, so Jessica says that she’ll do the investigation herself.

Incidentally, we’re shown the piles of paper on his desk to convey how busy he is:

It’s a nice touch that his nameplate is all but hidden.

Also interesting is that he quotes statistics at her to disprove her assassination theory; eleven people were shot yesterday, which is the number who are supposed to be shot each day. It really drives home the context of the crime wave.

This takes the form of Jessica visiting Rita Bristol. It seems that Jessica was invited because Rita could really use company. Jessica is willing to lend a sympathetic ear, but she’s surprised Rita wouldn’t prefer a friend. Rita explains that the funny thing about stardom is that, when your star fades, you discover how few friends you actually have. And she had fallen into alcoholism, which didn’t help. The few friends who didn’t disappear she chased off. She also lost two marriages and almost drove her children away until she became sober, seventeen years ago.

She breaks down crying about Patti and Jessica comforts her.

We then cut to Jessica finding the guy who does three card monty outside of the alleyway. She does this by finding a woman who plays three card Monty, who Jessica is sure knows the guy for reasons not explained to us. She takes out a $100 bill, rips it in half, and gives it to the woman, telling her that she’ll give the guy she’s looking for the other half, and what they decide to do with their halves is up to them.

Jessica walks off looking very self-satisfied.

It works, because the next seen is of her talking to the three card monty player at some street restaurant.

He confirms that the mugger shot immediately after demanding money and jewels but before giving her any time to comply. This strikes him as very amateurish, since it would involve wasting time to have to rifle through her pockets for the stuff to steal after having drawn attention to himself with the gunshot.

Back at police headquarters, Jessica harangues Sgt. Moreno some more, and he gives her the file on Manny Farkus.

He had no known address and his fingerprints were not on file with the FBI. There was no possible connection with Patti Bristol. Sgt. Moreno thinks that the three card monty guy was right: he was just an amateur mugger. And on that bombshell, we fade to black and go to commercial.

We come back from commercial at the hospital, where Jessica and Rita are going to visit Patti. They’re met in the hallway by a doctor in scrubs who jumps straight to giving her the news that Patti is going to make a full recovery—there will be no paralysis. Rita is overjoyed and goes to see her daughter.

We then cut to Barry, on stage, giving a speech to the cast and crew thanking them for their effort and hoping that they’ll all be able to work again some day. Right as this concludes the director comes in with the famous actress, Lonnie Valerian.

She’s willing to take over Patti’s role. Barry’s none too happy at this, but at Si’s request says that he will ask his mother if she’s willing to do it.

Back at Grady’s apartment, Jessica tells him and Kate that Patti’s first words to her mother were, “Mom, I want you to go on.” The conversation over dinner includes Grady mentioning that it seemed like the director had been planning to replace Patti for weeks. (Lonnie, in expressing her willingness to take the part, mentioned the lyrics to a song that had been cut two weeks before.)

Conversation then turns to the shooting of Patti, and Jessica just can’t get it go. Right when she admits that there’s no connection between Manny Farkus and anyone in the play, she sees him on TV.

To make sure we believe her, the camera zooms in on the TV, with a much clearer shot of him:

It’s interesting that they gave us two different shots, one where it’s harder for us to see but Jessica identifies him, and one where it’s quite clear that Jessica is right. This might be a technique for making us more impressed with Jessica, since she can spot the clue before we can, and we’re given immediate confirmation that she’s right in order to cement the impression.

Anyway, she goes and rents a tape of the movie and brings it to Sgt. Moreno. The movie was made fourteen years ago. He was credited as Morley Farmer, but of course that’s a stage name. The Screen Actor’s Guild gave Jessica the name of Morley’s agent. Sgt. Moreno refuses to follow this up—he’s too busy and as far as he’s concerned the case is closed—so Jessica vows to investigate herself.

Jessica meets Morley Farmer’s agent, Lew Feldman, who is played by the inimitable Milton Berle.

He last saw Morley two years ago. Like a lot of Lew’s clients his ability to get work was spotty, especially since the Catskills dried up. (The Catskills are a mountain range in southern New York, contiguous with the Poconos in eastern Pennsylvania; before air conditioning was common, people from NYC would often go to resorts in the Catskills and Poconos for the summer to escape the heat and accompanying spread of disease. This resulted in a ton of seasonal work for entertainers.)

Morley was mostly a failure as an actor. The last thing Lew saw of him was in an off-off broadway one-man act that Morley wrote for himself, which was the worst thing that Lew had ever seen. He’s confident that Morley never met Patti Bristol; the Bristols are a class act and Morley was a schlepper who failed at everything he tried. Jessica asks for a list of Morley’s credits and Lew says that will take a few hours, but he’ll get it for her.

Lew then gives Jessica the last address that he had for Morley, and Jessica goes to investigate.

While she does, the scene shifts to the stage where rehearsals are taking place. Rita is unhappy at how Patti’s part has grown considerably now that it’s not Patti’s part, and she lashes into the director for the way he clearly wanted to get rid of Patti. She points out that he and Lonnie Valerian got lucky with Patti getting shot. She asks if his plan had been to make Patti so miserable she dropped out? After storming off, Barry says that he’s pulling his mother out of the production and a big argument ensues with the director. After the director points out that Barry was riding his mother’s coat-tails just as much as his sister—he didn’t get on-broadway on his own abilities as a producer—Barry punches him. As he walks off, Grady tries to talk to him about Si Parrish, and that there seems to be a problem.

The scene shifts to Jessica and Grady in a horse-drawn cab in central park.

This is kind of a strange place to have a conversation, but I suppose that there is, at least, little danger of being overheard. I can’t help but wonder if this is a deliberate reference to Sherlock Holmes, since the hansom cab is Holmes’ most iconic form of transportation.

Anyway, this morning when Grady when to get the books from Si Parrish for the weekly audit, he grabbed some papers he probably wasn’t supposed to. It looks like Si Parish has double-sold the show, meaning that he will be out an enormous amount of money if the show is a success but will pocket the extra money if the show is a flop. Jessica can’t believe it, since Si Parrish seems like such a gentleman, but in any event this gives him a whopping good motive to have Patti shot.

That night, Grady drives Jessica to the address that Lew gave her for Morley Farmer.

There are two things interesting in this shot. The first is the location, which actually looks quite nice except for the poor illumination and the poster boards with writing on them. I think that this is meant to be a very bad neighborhood.

The other interesting thing is Grady’s car. Grady is normally shown as a a struggling young man, if a skilled accountant, and it’s very unclear how he would own a red convertible sports car. To say nothing why he would own it—that hardly seems like his personality, except perhaps that he does like to try to impress women.

And for once, Jessica doesn’t go into a dangerous place alone. (Grady goes with her.)

The woman—no idea who she is—is astounded by the idea that Morley had mugged someone. According to her, he had just run into an “angel.” That is, into some idiot who said he was about to come into a lot of money and that he’d produce Morley’s movie. She has no idea who it was, but the money guy was going to let Morley direct and play the lead. Jessica takes alarm at this and they leave. She sends Grady to wait at Lew Feldman’s table at the restaurant until Lew gives him all of Morley’s credits, while she takes a cab to go check on Rita Bristol, who she believes is in a great deal of danger.

At Rita’s place the doorman lets Jessica in after smelling gas they find Rita on the floor of the kitchen.

I really want to know who designed her kitchen; a free standing oven like that in front of cabinets whose doors are too close to be able to open all the way seems extremely impractical. As the doorman opens the windows, Jessica turns off the gas then bends down and takes Rita’s pulse, after which she notices an empty pill bottle next to her. After saying oh dear, we get a panning shot.

This is a very strange kitchen; as far as I can tell it has no sink. Anyway, we then fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back from commercial, we see an ambulance driving on the street, its sirens flashing, then we cut to the hospital where most of the major characters in the episode are waiting in a hallway.

I wouldn’t normally include this screenshot, but the framing is interesting. It’s a sort of tableau of the characters, only two of whom does it make sense to be here. And i f it makes no sense for the director to be here, it makes even less sense for Lonnie Valerian to be here. This may be related to catching people up after several minutes of commercials, or possibly to making people who just switched channels feel a little more like they know the characters. Or perhaps it’s just to visually convey how important whatever is going on is, for both aforementioned groups of people.

Anyway, Grady walks in and sits down next to Jessica. Rita’s not in good condition, but apparently she’s at least not dead. Si starts asking the director if he knows anyone who can replace Rita if worse comes to worst. Barry takes offense at this and Si defensively says that he’s concerned for the actors and chorus people. Jessica then whispers to Grady that he was right; Si needs the show to start or he’ll have to give back the investor’s money. I’m not sure if that’s true, but it at least does tend to exonerate Si, since trying to kill your two leading ladies isn’t conducive to a play opening. It would have been much better for him to kill them after opening night.

Jessica adds that Si Parrish doesn’t have the money; Jessica’s “tedious attorneys” play squash with Si Parrish’s “tedious attorneys” and the word on the squash court is that Si made a number of disastrous investments lately.

The doctor then comes out and says that Rita’s vital signs have stabilized for the moment, but gas, alcohol and barbiturates are a bad combination and it could go either way. He suggests that they go wait downstairs, grab a cup of coffee, and he’ll let them know the moment that there’s any change.

Jessica then asks Grady for the list of credits for Morley Farmer from Lew, which Grady hands her:

We don’t get to see the whole sheet, but Morley hardly seems like a complete failure. In the part I can read, he was in two episodes of one show, nine episodes of another, and was a guest star in a bunch of others. That’s better than many of the actors with bit parts in Murder, She Wrote episodes—the actors, I mean, not characters.

I also find it curious that this is an official-looking document and not a bunch of names scribbled on a napkin. Perhaps an agent keeps this kind of sheet for his clients to give to people who might want to cast him. Anyway, Jessica seems to recognize something from it, and we cut to the waiting room where all of the characters in the hallway, except Jessica, are. Various people say things either of blaming themselves or comfort, then Jessica comes in. Almost immediately, Barry is called to intensive care.

The scene then shifts to Rita’s apartment, where Jessica is pouring Barry coffee and he is saying that he can’t believe it. They make some small talk until Jessica starts saying (in an accusatory voice) that Rita didn’t kill herself. She always kept a coffee pot going, but when Jessica found her the coffee pot was empty and cleaned. She believes it had been laced with a strong sedative to knock Rita out. Then “alcohol was forced into her system” and the gas jets were opened. (Jessica doesn’t elaborate on how you force alcohol into the system of an unconscious person, so I suppose we are supposed to assume it’s not just possible, but practical.) Jessica then converts the accusatory tone into an outright accusation.

To that, she adds an accusation of trying to kill Patti. It was about the money. He not only wanted his mother’s money, but he wanted all of it.

When Barry denies this, Jessica starts imitating Rita Bristol, asking Barry why he’s lying to her. She reminds him of when he was a production assistant 12 years ago on Guns Over Abilene, in which Morley Farmer acted. He also worked with Farmer two years ago, “on location in Colorado.”

She keeps pestering him with facts and assertions, doing her best nagging-mother/Rita-Bristol impression, and Barry starts to forget who he’s talking to, shouting, “You can’t do this! You can’t spoil everything for me! Not anymore.” With some more nagging, he smashes the things on the mantle.

He then stares at the picture of his mother in her heyday up above the mantle.

He slowly says, “I can’t remember when I didn’t want to see her dead.”

Jessica asks if it was lucky that the director brought in Lonnie Valerian, and Barry agrees that it was.

Barry then tries to explain himself. “Do you have any idea what it was like, to be Rita Bristol’s little boy? To have a self-involved, penny-pinching lush for a mother? She never gave a damn about me. She hardly even admitted that I was alive.”

This goes on for a bit; Jessica doesn’t believe him and he explains further what a terrible mother Rita was. Finally he grabs Jessica and makes as if to throw her off of the balcony.

He’s interrupted by Rita calling his name from a door to the bedroom that just opened.

Pretending that she was dead was Jessica’s idea; the doctor cooperated and Rita was so, so sure that Jessica was wrong. He slumps and cries on her shoulder while she apologizes that he never knew how much she loved him. We then cut to the play on the stage with mother and daughter singing.

Grady is backstage and on the phone with Jessica. He holds it out so she can hear the music and singing. Jessica, back in Cabot Cove, says that it’s marvelous.

The set decoration here is interesting. Jessica has her phone immediately next to her typewriter, I believe in her kitchen, and on the desk she has her own books, though with the spines faced away from her. I presume that was for the audience’s sake, but in broadcast quality I don’t know that many people would have been able to read the spines; we can barely read them in DVD-quality.

According to Grady the show is fabulous and is going to be a huge success. Jessica observes that this is going to be big trouble for Si Parish, and Grady agrees, saying that the DA has been talking to him since 10am.

Jessica asks how Kate is doing and Grady says that there’s not much to tell. She ran off with some TV weatherman from Pittsburgh. Jessica expresses her sympathy and Grady tells her to not worry about it. She was OK; they didn’t have much in common. “But wait till you meet Francesca. Aunt Jess, she’s beyond belief.”

When Grady asks how soon Jessica can get down to New York City, she laughs and we go to credits.

This is an interesting episode. It leans very hard into the nostalgia that Murder, She Wrote was often known for. The washed up actress making a successful comeback is also very much in the dominant theme of Murder, She Wrote: that old things are still valuable.

The plot is quite solid in this one, possibly at the expense of the murderer being relatively obvious. Once it was established that Si Parrish desperately wanted the play to open (then fail) he was eliminated as a suspect. Aside from Barry, the only other person with a motive was the director. (Though if you really want to stretch things there was also Lonnie Valerian. Since she’s established as a highly successful actress, this seems too slim a motive, even for Murder, She Wrote.) And they could have gone in the direction of the director being the murderer, at least until the attempt on Rita’s life. That said, he wasn’t nearly so good a suspect. In particular, he had no plausible control over Barry and Patti going down that alleyway. (This could be worked around if it was obvious that they would, but that would really need to have been established as a pattern and that would require the mugging to have happened after a rehearsal.) Barry, by contrast, had complete control over where they would go after the dinner.

I don’t think that it was painfully obvious that it was Barry, though, and it’s a bonus that, at the end of the episode, it feels like there was only one possible suspect. I think that the actor did a good job of looking distraught over the things happening to his mother and sister, which was a good bit of misdirection. I think it also helped that the connection between Barry and Morley Farmer was obscured until the end. This does bring up some issues with fair play, but they’re not huge.

There were a few loose ends in this episode, but they were pretty minor. The main loose end, I think, is where the name “Manny Farkus” came from. Jessica said that the name “Morley Farmer” was a stage name, but it was used consistently by Morley’s agent as well as the people who knew him in the building where he lived. I almost wonder if this wasn’t more about having some name by which people could refer to him in the episode rather than being any kind of plot point. The names “Morley Farmer” and “Manny Farkus” sound similar enough that the audience might easily confuse them, and “Manny Farkus” is dropped as soon as the name “Morley Farmer” is introduced. As I said, this is a pretty minor point, though it would also have been easy enough to have fixed it.

The other loose end would have been how Barry convinced Morley Farmer to murder his sister. We’re given enough to figure it out—Barry told Morley that he would come into the money if he got rid of his sister—but it does feel a little at odds with what little of Morley’s character we’re given and a few lines about how he persuaded Morley would have been nice.

Despite this, I think my judgement is that this is a merely average episode of Murder, She Wrote. It works. It is entertaining. But it doesn’t grab one.

I think this is because there are no stand-out characters. This may be a personal quirk, of course. I don’t generally find show-business people to be sympathetic characters. Further, I generally don’t find people whose children turned out terrible to be sympathetic characters. Don’t get me wrong; children are their own people and make their own choices for which they are responsible. One bad child is easily chalked up to a personal choice. All of the children turning out bad seems… unlikely to be in spite of good parenting. Especially when the parent is known to have been a bad parent.

I do like the character of Grady Fletcher, but he’s not much in this episode and isn’t enough to redeem it. (And Grady is generally given some grating personality characteristics, too, which are a big too on-display for my taste.)

The one non-showbiz character (other than Grady) which we’re given is Sergeant Moreno, but he’s mostly just in the episode as comic relief and to provide a few bits of exposition. Still, it’s a decent enough mystery.

Next week, we’re in New Orleans for Murder to a Jazz Beat.

The World’s Top Scientists and Doctors

There’s a cartoon going around which shows a man pointing at his computer and calling out, “Honey, come look! I’ve found some information all the world’s top scientists and doctors missed!” It’s been roundly and deservedly criticized, but I’d like to focus on a few points I haven’t been touched on.

The first point is the level of generality that is used (“all the world’s”) when “top” scientists and doctors are all specialists. If the guy may have discovered some information about whether dietary fructose causes insulin resistance, what does it matter whether the world’s greatest geologists don’t know this? Who cares whether the best heart surgeons know it? Would anyone be surprised if the world’s greatest ophthalmologist knows nothing about it? The cartoon makes it sound like tens of thousands of brilliant people have all been studying the exact question the guy has been researching, but the reality of specialization is that the number of people who are actively studying whatever exactly the guy may have found may well number less than a dozen. There’s no guarantee that this small handful of people are among the best and the brightest, except in the narrow sense that someone who took bronze in a competition with only three people in his division is the best in the world who showed up at that meet.

This, of course, is even assuming that anyone is actively studying the field. The inclusion of “doctors” suggests that what the man has found relates to health, and the number of things being studied in health is absolutely dwarfed by the things that there are to study. It’s entirely possible that there are no experts in the specific subject that the guy believes he’s found information in because no one has funded research into it in the last twenty years. And even if they had, it’s entirely possible to be an expert in only one aspect of a subject; a scientist who conducted the world’s greatest trial on the effect of aspirin in reducing heart attack incidence may be completely ignorant as to whether it’s effective for treating lower back pain.

Then we come to the thorny problem that many people are not courageous enough to consider: who has declared these people to be the world’s top scientists and doctors? Was it themselves? In theory, there is no one more qualified to identify the best in a field than the best in the field. But, of course, a man saying that he’s the greatest is worthless. So is it the world’s average doctors and scientists? But how do they know that these other people are better than they are? How did they even form this opinion? Where would a heart surgeon get the information necessary to know how good another heart surgeon is? Do they, in their copious free time, watch each other perform surgery? And what of researchers? Are we to suppose that scientists drop in and conduct audits of each other’s labs to see how well they’re actually conducting their research? Or does this all come from people who are not experts at all, observing? That might be valid for doctors like heart surgeons for whom we can collect easily evaluated data such as “how often was the surgery successful” and “how often did the patient die on the table”. Though even there, any system which relies on measurement can be gamed. A surgeon can look fabulous by only accepting the healthiest patients compared to one who takes on the riskiest patients. And most fields in science and medicine do not admit of even this kind of measurement. No one expects everyone with chronic back pain to become pain free, and the only reliable way to judge a doctor’s nutritional advice is to wait until all his patients die and see how old they were, and what their qualify of life was over the years. Since they may well outlive the doctor, this is useless.

So suppose you find a doctor who says that fructose induces insulin resistance and you need to limit your sugar intake, while a government-sponsored doctor says that you should eat as much fructose as you want but limit your fat intake. How do you know that the government-sponsored doctor is the top doctor and not merely the doctor with the best political connections? How do you know that the doctor with the plain office is not, in fact, the top doctor, in terms of ability?

People really want infallible oracles that they can query for whatever knowledge they want, but it’s just not available.

And, truth to tell, even if they found it, most people would reject it because they wouldn’t like the answers that it gives.

Conservative vs. Progressive Artistic Talent

A debate which comes up from time to time is about why are most artists “progressives” and is this because conservatives don’t have artistic talent. There is, perhaps, something to be said for the idea that the kind of extreme creativity involved in artistic work tends to be unbalancing to a person’s sense of how the real world works, so a wildly creative person is more apt to believe absurd things (like socialism) will work in the real world, but I doubt that this explains the majority of what causes the tremendous skew towards progressivism in the arts. For that, we need to look at selective pressures, envy, and the defense against envy.

First, let’s consider selective pressures. Most of what is called conservatism is about producing the best environments possible for the raising of children. This puts all sorts of restraints on parents and communities for the sake of children. Included in these is needing to earn one’s living in a reliable way, because children (and sometimes a spouse) are relying on one to provide their living for them. The arts, in general, are an extremely unreliable way to earn a living. There’s an excellent reason that the words “starving” and “artist” go so well together. Thus there is a massive selective pressure against people who value family and the raising of children. And the talents that underlie art can, generally, be put to more practical uses, and practical uses pay better. This is especially true if the person with artistic talent has other talents, too.

From this we can see that it’s no accident that a large fraction of artists come from broken homes. Not only does coming from a broken home make a person less likely to understand the value of raising children well (though it can have the opposite effect), it also makes them more likely to seek attention. Putting the talents which underlie art to practical use tends to get you a paycheck but not nearly so often praise. (Don’t get me wrong, people can make art out of love. But it takes a lot of love. It takes a lot less love if you also have a deep-seated psychological need for approval.)

There is a secondary selective pressure on art to appeal to buyers or (in the case of advertising-subsidized art) viewers. This can be done through quality, but it is easier to do it through adding pornography. There is an absurdly large market for pornography that comes with social sanction or plausible deniability. Just check out the short film It’s Not Porn, It’s HBO. The success that this kind of pseudo-pornography brings allows for bigger budgets which makes for higher quality in the output (largely by being able to pay more people to work on it).

The other major thing to consider is envy. If you study history for even a few minutes, one of the most dominant themes you will find is that if somebody put in the work to make something worth having, someone else wants to take it from him rather than make it himself. This gets modified slightly when it comes to competition, where envy wants to win by dragging down others. “He did not deserve first place, I did.” You see this kind of envy constantly in third-rate artists. And progressivism is practical just codified envy; the progressive ideal is that all men are equal by dragging down any who are ahead, justified by fairy tales about how they only got ahead by cheating. This explains why third rates artists are so often progressives. But what of first-rate artists?

Here we come to the universal need of the successful to defend against envy. On an international scale, the primary defense against envy is a powerful army. On an international scale, if you want to steal what others have built, you must take it with an army, and their army being large enough to defeat your army protects them. This does not work within a nation, though, where the state retains to itself most of the use of violence. There are still defenses against envy using direct violence, such as front doors with locks and the police. But within a nation the envious can work within the legal system to enact laws to use this machinery of the state to take what belongs to others and give it to themselves. This is the reason why the rich are usually politically connected; as long as the laws are crafted in a way to allow loopholes, it doesn’t matter what the law is meant to achieve. And this is why, wherever you have a progressive party with enough power, the rich are always members of the progressive party. But it’s not the only reason. It also defends them against excessive envy being directed at them, personally. And this is why we see successful artists being progressives—it (partially) defends them against the envy of third rate artists.

(It should be noted that the individual political views of the artists making it don’t matter very much on collaborative projects, because most artists, and especially most progressive artists, will do whatever they are paid to do. The people who made movies were not wonderfully better people during the days of the Hayes Code, they just did what the men with the money told them to do, and that happened to be to make morally decent movies. So they did. It’s very easy to find the documentation that they didn’t want to.)

The Taming of the Shrew is Very Strange

I must begin by confessing that I’ve never seen The Taming of the Shrew and only have read most of it. What I have seen performed is the 1953 movie Kiss Me Kate. It’s very funny and I highly recommend it, by the way. Anyway, it motivated me to look into the actual play by Shakespeare, and it’s a rather extraordinary one. It’s very hard to know what to make of it.

The first thing to note about the play is that it’s a comedy. But it’s not merely a comedy, it’s an utterly absurd comedy. So it’s not necessarily the case that it is possible to make anything of it; part of the comedy may be that it is nonsensical.

The play begins with a very strange framing story, where a tinker by the name of Christopher Sly is drunk and a Lord notices him and has his servants play a practical joke on Sly that he is, in fact, a lord who for the last seven years has been affected by a madness, thinking he is a tinker. Then a troupe of players happens by the lord has the troupe of players put on the main play for him. We never heard of Christopher Sly or the lord again. The framing story is simply dropped after the introduction.

There is a main plot and a sub-plot in the play-within-a-play (which I will henceforth just refer to as the play, since that’s what it really is). The main plot is about Petruchio and Katherine (the titular Shrew). The sub-plot is about Katherine’s younger sister Bianca and her suitors. I say main plot and sub-plot, but the latter takes up about as much time as the former. It also involves various suitors pretending to be tutors and a servant pretending to be a suitor and, frankly, it’s so absurd I have a hard time keeping track of it.

All of this is the context for the taming of the shrew to which the title refers. It seems unlikely that we’re meant to take it seriously. For all that, though, there does seem to be a mildly realistic foundation to the absurdity.

When Katherine is called a shrew, this has nothing to do with different time periods having different ideas of decorum or it being considered, in Shakespeare’s time, immodest for a woman to speak her mind. Kate is an outright bully. She ties up and beats her younger sister out of jealousy (she claims that as her motivation) and physically attacks her music teacher for daring to try to correct her fingering on the lute. She is sharp-tongued in the sense of gratuitously insulting people. Her behavior would not be acceptable in any culture, in any time period. (Imagine a stereotypical Marines drill instructor, except with everyone, not just recruits.)

Petruchio is not a virtuous character, but he is, at least, polite to his social equals. And he is cunning. Moreover, he takes a liking to Katherine precisely because she has a powerful personality. The “taming” of Katherine is, perhaps, an apt metaphor, because her behavior is outright antisocial (in modern times it would be criminal). What it consists of is where there seems to be a minor element of truth underlying the absurd humor: Kate becomes content when she finally finds a man who she can’t intimidate. It is true that women do not, as a rule, like a husband who they can easily overpower. (For those who are young: that’s not because marriage is a Nietzschean power struggle, it’s because life is difficult and a man who can be easily overpowered can be easily hurt by accident when a woman is concentrating on other things, such as caring for young children, and feminine instincts don’t protect against this. The reverse is not nearly so important, since masculine instincts do include being gentle to the mother of his children, though even there, only so much; males do not usually want a wife so delicate relative to their force of personality that they can easily hurt her by accident, either.)

It is often said that when it comes to husbands and wives, opposites attract. This is true of many qualities, but certainly not of all qualities. You tend to find “assortive mating” (i.e. similarities attracting) in things like education, social status, and intelligence. A truth underlying the absurd humor of The Taming of the Shrew is that you also find assortive mating with force of personality. People with big, forceful personalities tend to get along better with a husband or wife who also has a big, forceful personality. When it comes to what two human beings get along well, there are no absolutes. But this is a trend you readily see.

The Taming of the Shrew seems to take this then turn it up to eleven.

But it should be remembered that it is an absurd play, and should not be taken too seriously.

Murder She Wrote: Capitol Offense

On the sixth day of January in the year of our Lord 1985, the ninth episode of the first season of Murder, She Wrote aired. Called Capitol Offense, it takes place in the swamps of Washington, D.C. (Last week’s episode was Death Casts a Spell.)

It opens with a congressman talking with some lobbyists in a richly furnished room. We’ll find out later that the taller one is Roy Dixon and the shorter one (mostly obscured in the picture below) is Harry Parmel. The congressman (getting a drink) is Dan Keppner.

For some reason the woman serving drinks has a camera in her lighter, which she uses to take pictures of the congressman doing nothing incriminating. He’s drunk, but that won’t show up in photographs, especially photographs from tiny cameras using 1980s technology.

A few moments later Congressman Joyner shows up and tries to take Dan “home.” The lobbyists try to get him to stay and Joyner unloads into them, calling them rattlesnakes and saying that the next day he will make a full complaint to the house ethics committee. For what, I cannot imagine and he does not say because he immediately has a heart-attack and dies. (As the scene closes, someone says to call an ambulance and someone else replies, “No. No ambulance.” The waitress then takes a picture of them over the body with her cigarette lighter.)

The scene then shifts to Cabot Cove, where Jessica answers her door to an aid from the governor. Congressman Joyner was found by his housekeeper dead in his bed this morning. Why on earth the other congressman and the lobbyists moved the body will, I presume, be something Jessica has to figure out, but it seems quite absurd on its face.

Anyway, the long and short of the rest of the conversation is that Jessica is named as Joyner’s replacement on an interim basis, until an upcoming primary takes place, so Jessica is off to Washington, D.C.

Before Jessica shows up, we see her soon-to-be-secretary, Diana Simms, answering the phone:

For once, I can actually believe the set decoration.

We then see Jessica arriving in town. She’s been picked up from the airport by Joe Blinn, the Media Liaison Officer.

Joe’s job is to get her name in the papers, or to keep it out, whichever she prefers.

On the way in to her office in the capitol building, she meets congressman Keppner. He asks to stop by later to discuss the Maine cannery bill and others.

Inside her office she meets Diana. Diana tells her that her resignation is already on Jessica’s desk but she’s prepared to work closely with Jessica’s incoming staff. Jessica retains Diana, however, for pretty obvious reasons. This is portrayed as Jessica being pure and honest, but it’s a little absurd to expect a mystery writer from Maine who is only serving for a few weeks to hire her own staff.

Right after Jessica crumples up Diana’s resignation letter and throws it in the trash next to her desk, Harry Parmel comes in and introduces himself.

He tries to invite Jessica to lunch, but Diana signals to not accept. After he leaves, she tells Jessica, “Most lobbyists are good people. They know the rules. Harry not only breaks the rules, he’s never heard of them.”

Later that night, Dan Keppner calls Jessica from a payphone in a bar. He’s sorry if he woke her, but there’s something he really needs to talk to her about. Jessica asks if it can be in the morning and he says sure, and makes an appointment to have breakfast.

He goes outside the bar and runs into Marta Craig. She was the bartender with the camera-lighter.

She tells him that she’s scared about the other night and moving the body. She then hands him a photograph of Keppner and the lobbyists crouched over Joyner’s body.

We then fade to some guy.

He kind of looks like he’s following Jessica, except that he loses her and she turns up behind him. When she asks who he is, he flashes his badge and introduced himself as Detective Lieutenant Avery Mendelsohn. He tells Jessica that he’s following her in the hopes of finding out who killed Congressman Joyner. And on that bombshell, we fade to black go to commercial.

Here’s a Northwestern Mutual life insurance commercial you might have seen, had you been watching on that fateful night in January of 1985:

When we come back the Detective Lieutenant is massaging his foot while talking to Jessica in the lobby. He says that maybe Joyner wasn’t murdered, but somebody moved the body. When people move a body, he asks himself why. After a bit of a comedic routine about taking pain medicine for his bad back, his stomach gurgles, and he says that perhaps he’s making something out of nothing, but when his stomach starts to growl, it’s a sure sign there’s a fox loose in the china shop. He then pauses in perplexity as his own metaphor and takes his leave.

It’s unlike Murder, She Wrote to run an investigation of a crime we saw in the beginning of the episode, Columbo-style. I guess we’re still in early-first-season experimentation.

Later that morning congressman Keppner wakes up in an alley with a bum going through his pockets:

He chases the bum away then runs after the bum and a passing police car notices him and picks him up. They have a photo of him for some reason.

At the police station Detective Lieutenant Mendelsohn is interviewing the congressman. Apparently, Marta Craig is dead. She was beaten to death in her apartment some time the night before. His jacket was found in her apartment and his hands have blood on them, so he’s got some questions to answer.

Back at Capitol Hill, Jessica is talking with Diana about the cannery bill, which would permit the building of a fish cannery on McHenry’s Point, which is only a few miles from Cabot Cove. It’s a classic case of business interests vs. the environmentalists. (Given that this is 1985, the business interests are supposed to be the bad guys.) Congressman Joyner was going to vote against the measure. Jessica says that she may also vote against it, after she’s shifted through the testimony herself and had a chance to make up her own mind. No mention is made of the opinion of the people from the congressional district she is representing.

Jessica then asks Diana where Joyner was the night before his body was found and there was nothing on his schedule but Diana remembers that Harry Parmel invited him to a party that evening but Joyner turned him down.

There’s then a bit of congress-related stuff where Jessica attends a committee meeting where testimony is heard from one of the lobbyists. This involves some digs at how things are done in Washington, including people reading out their prepared testimony. This was very much in the style of a kind of quasi-populism that was popular in the 80s and early 90s. The post-war consensus was breaking down and people who grew up with it didn’t know what to make of what government looks like when not everyone agrees, and one popular explanation was that there was just some imperfection in the system, and if common folks with common sense were put in charge, everything would be fine.

It was certainly a seductive idea at the time, but it’s absurd if you think about it for more than a few seconds. If common folks with common sense would do such a great job, and the populace was not to blame for the failures of democracy, then why does the populace not elect these common folks with common sense?

Anyway, back in Jessica’s office, Joe Blinn is remonstrating with Jessica for not having lunch with Kaye Sheppard, who is “the empress of Washington gossip, syndicated in 98 papers.” After this bit, the Lieutenant is waiting in Jessica’s office. He asks about her breakfast date with Keppner. Jessica says that she overslept and he never showed up. It’s not like Jessica to oversleep; she’s normally a very early riser. Frankly, I’m a bit surprised that we didn’t get any shots of Jessica jogging around D.C. in her sweat suit. Anyway, he tells her that they’re holding Keppner for the murder of Marta Craig. His feet hurt, which is a sign that something isn’t exactly kosher, so he asks if she can spare him a minute.

In the next scene Jessica is talking with Keppner in the Lieutenant’s office, explaining that it was dumb to move Joyner’s body but he was too drunk to think straight. No explanation is offered for why it seemed like a good idea to him drunk, because I don’t think that there can be one. Anyway, he explains that Marta was at the party where Joyner died and last night met him at the bar he called Jessica from (he doesn’t remember which) and showed him a photograph of him over Joyner’s body. He went with her to her apartment and had a drink—ginger ale. That’s the last thing he remembers.

He says that the key to her apartment was planted on his jacket and the Lieutenant says that doesn’t explain the blood and makeup found on his shirt. He says that he doesn’t understand it but he’s not a killer. He turns to Jessica and begs her to believe him. And on that bombshell, we fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back from commercial break, Jessica views the body. After being suitably disgusted and the Lt. saying that he told her it wasn’t pretty, Jessica says that Keppner certainly didn’t kill Marta. While there was blood and makeup on his shirt, there wasn’t that much, and there was only blood on his hands—no makeup. Had he beaten her as severely as she was beaten, he’d have had both blood and makeup on his hands.

Jessica has the Lt. take off his coat then demonstrates how the killer—who had blood and makeup on his hands—would have moved the unconscious body of congressman Keppner.

Thus explaining the blood and makeup found on Keppner’s shirt. The Lt. is impressed and says, “maybe you should have been a cop.” She replies, “I am a cop, when I’m at a typewriter.” He replies, “you’re not at a typewriter now.”

In the next scene we’re back at Jessica’s office and Diana is giving us some backstory on Keppner, with Joe filling some details in. He used to be an alcoholic, then recovered about 6 years ago—attended meetings, etc. Then a few months ago his wife left him, took the kids, and went to New York. Keppner started drinking again. Jessica then tells Diana and Joe that Keppner was framed, very clumsily, and assigns Joe to dig up everything possible on Marta Craig since he’s an expert in this town. Joe protests that he’s not a detective, but promises to do his best.

The next scene is at a restaurant where Roy Dixon (the lobbyist from the first scene) is waiting for a senator to show up and Harry Parmel comes in and tells him that his job doesn’t include covering up murders, before, during, or after the fact, and at the first sign of trouble, he covers his own rear end, not anyone else’s. This is clearly meant to implicate Dixon, who then tries to look guilty for the camera.

Which, of course, means that he definitely didn’t do it. The murderer never tries to look guilty for the camera.

In the next scene Diana gets home and is started to see a man standing there. But only for a moment, then she recognizes him. He’s a lobbyist we only saw for a few seconds who Diana directed Jessica to treat rudely. His name is Thor, and he comforts Diana about the news about Marta.

After embracing her, he tells her that some photos came in the mail. He shows her one.

She says that he showed her these photos a week ago and said that they were faked and she believed him. He then says that they came with a note.

The music then turns dramatic and we get a dramatic closeup of Diana. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Possibly nothing more than this is supposed to be important. We still have almost twenty minutes to go in this episode so perhaps they will pay this off.

The scene then shifts to Marta Craig’s apartment.

Jessica observes that Marta lived very well for a secretary. Jessica says that she didn’t know the woman—all she knew was what was on the police report, which wasn’t very much.

The Lt. incredulously asks, “you call two charges of extortion and blackmail, ‘not very much?'”

While the Lt. makes small talk about how he should have been a doctor, Jessica finds a picture in a frame which has Diana in it.

Jessica has then seen enough and they leave. She asks the Lt. to drop her off at the library of congress, though the next scene is at a restaurant called Sans Souci. Apparently she accepted Kaye Sheppard’s invitation after all.

(This was in the era before people called their pets emotional support animals to bring them to places where animals weren’t allowed, so her having a cat in a restaurant (which is a health code violation) is a sign of her enormous importance.)

It turns out that Jessica is there because Kaye sent her a note saying that she has information that might help Jessica about Marta Craig’s murder. She does have a price for her information, though. When Jessica solves the case, she wants an exclusive.

Kaye’s sources tell her that Marta was playing both sides of the aisle. Also, three nights ago, Marta came running out of the Watergate hotel and Roy Dixon came running after her and looked mad enough to kill.

Back at Jessica’s office, Joe comes in and reports what he learned about Marta. She had six jobs in the last four years and did the party circuit 5-6 nights per week. That’s all he learned. Also, Diana called in sick after lunch.

After Joe leaves for a “hot date,” congressman Keppner comes in. He thanks Jessica for all she did for him but asks her to not go to any more trouble. He’s decided that he’s not going to seek reelection. He’s got a phone call into someone or other to make that official. Jessica talks him out of it, and to instead go back to New York and to see his wife and talk to her and find out what she thinks about whether he should seek reelection. “She might surprise you. Women in love do that.” Keppner hugs her and tells her that this is the first time in 8 weeks he’s felt good about himself. He then says that he’s going to cancel his call, but he will stay around an extra day to vote against whatever Ray Dixon (the lobbyist) wants him to vote for.

That night, Jessica visits Diana at home. Diana doesn’t want to let Jessica in, but Jessica politely forces herself in, saying she has some important questions about the cannery bill. She then says that perhaps they can ask Thor to help. Jessica suggests asking him to come out of the bedroom. (She points out the heavily used ashtray and the no smoking sign on the desk in Diana’s office.)

Thor asks how she knew it was him. Jessica explains that she noticed a Lion’s head tie pin Thor was wearing during the moment she met him in the hall when Diana was rude to him, then she noticed it was the same as on the cheerleading costume that Diana and Marta wore in the picture in Marta’s apartment, and went to the library of congress and dug up an old yearbook and found that the three had gone to school together.

We then get a bit of backstory: they used to be good friends with Marta, but then Marta started hanging out with the wrong crowd. She worked with Harry Parmel and men like him, working the “party circuit”. They didn’t say anything because they were scared. Thor figured he’d be at the top of the suspect list. And on that rather tepid bombshell, we fade to black and go to credits.

When we come back, Thor is showing the photos to the Lt. in his office. He points out that they’re faked, which you can tell because he’s clearly unconscious in the photo. Marta had asked him up to her place and he had one drink—she must have drugged him. Diana says that Thor wanted to show the police the photos but she stopped him since it would cost him his lobbying job at the ecological foundation at which he works since they’re very publicity-shy.

The Lt. says that they can go. But, of course, don’t leave town.

After they’re gone, he remarks that the case is very complicated, but it seems to him that with all of the bad stuff that Marta was into, it’s likely that the guy she worked for is the one who beat her to death. Jessica asks why she says “guy,” since it could just as easily have been a woman.

In the next scene Joe is driving Jessica around and gives her a bit more information on Marta. At 6:30 she had lunch with a married mid-level man from the state department. They left separately, and she picked up Keppner at around 9:30 outside the Stockman’s bar. She had no close friends and had no known associates.

In the hall of congress Dixon runs into Jessica. She presses him on Marta, he denies knowing her, Jessica says that he’s very good at lying—it’s a difficult skill—and he says that they play a game in this town. Those good at it get things done. It’s the amateurs who get hurt.

Back in her office, Jessica finds out that the vote starts in less than two hours, then says she has to go out and to not let them start the vote without her.

Some time later, when the committee meeting started, Jessica finds Joe and brings him into her office and tells him that she got a great lead from Kaye Sheppard. It seems a jilted boyfriend of Marta’s was hanging around her apartment when she brought Dan home with her. A few minutes later the boyfriend saw another man go inside. He didn’t get a good look, but Jessica says that it had to be Ray Dixon. He must have the photos that Marta took of Joyner. They need to get into his penthouse. Right now she needs to go to the committee meeting, but she wants him to meet her afterwards. They’ll talk to the Lt. and get a court order.

Jessica arrives at the committee meeting and has some brilliant idea that solves all problems (including jobs for her community) while still sticking it to Ray Dixon. And everyone claps when she’s done talking because her common-sense speech was so common-sensical and brilliant and moral and good.

Over at Ray Dixon’s penthouse, Joe breaks in to plant the photographs Jessica expects to find. Unfortunately for him, Jessica and the Lt. are waiting for him. The Lt. isn’t impressed with the hiding spot that Joe had chosen and remarks, “Give us cops a little credit. Ray Dixon would have been smarter than that.”

Jessica admits that she was baffled until this morning. She asks Joe what happened—did Marta get greedy? He still protests his innocence, so Jessica asks Joe what happened to the fancy driving gloves he had been wearing the first time she met him. He stopped wearing them after Marta was killed. Clearly that’s because he wore them when he beat Marta to death. It’s almost impossible to get blood and makeup out of suede, so he had to get rid of them.

That’s only part of it, though. He slipped up badly when he said the name of the bar that Marta picked up Keppner from. It wasn’t in the police report and Keppner didn’t remember it. They checked with the bartender and the waitress who worked at Stockman’s Bar that night and neither remember Keppner, so the only person Joe could have learned it from was Marta herself.

Joe is done in by this. His confession starts out interestingly

I’m no different than anyone else in this town, Mrs. Fletcher. You buy and you sell. People. Legislation. Influence. There’s a price tag on everything and everyone. And I was doing real well, too. Until Marta got just a little bit too big for her pantyhose.

When he’s done, Jessica asks him if he thought that he was the only one allowed to buy and sell. After he’s led away by the uniformed officer present, the Lt. asks Jessica if he can take her out to lunch. There’s a deli run by a friend of his cousin Sadie and they make a lox and cream cheese platter you could die from…

And with that, we freeze frame and go to credits.

Well, this episode definitely doesn’t make my top ten favorites list. Hollywood is never good when it touches politics, and Murder, She Wrote was no exception. It’s not that was unrealistic. It was, but TV was generally unrealistic about everything. It’s how smugly self-satisfied Hollywood always is. Hollywood is generally populated by the worst people, and they’re convinced that they’re the best, and their self-congratulations are quite grating. For example, after Jessica’s speech about re-using canneries that have closed down even if it’s less profitable and the round of applause from everyone, the committee unanimously voted against the bill. It’s really unpleasant to watch narcissists convinced that everyone loves them taking a victory lap in their own imaginations.

About the only thing to learn from this episode is: don’t do this.

The one decent thing in this episode is the character of Detective Lieutenant Avery Mendelsohn. This is as much the actor who plays him as the character, but he was quite likable. It’s also the case that non-stupid detectives who work with Jessica tend to be more fun.

As far as the plot goes, there are fewer plot holes (in a strict sense) because the episode doesn’t explain much. Why did they move Joyner’s body? The closest thing to an explanation which we’re given is, “I was too drunk to think straight.” There’s some vague hints that Keppner shouldn’t have been at the party, but there’s no obvious reason why that would have been compromising. And even if there was, all that would have to happen would be for Keppner to leave before the ambulance arrived.

We’re never given any kind of explanation for why Dan Keppner has puppydog-like faith in Jessica. It’s so strong that despite having spoken only a half dozen words with her, he drunkenly calls her up at her hotel—how on earth did he get the number and memorize it?—and plans to confess to moving Joyner’s body to her the next morning.

And why did Marta bring Keppner to her apartment and drug him? She drugged Thor to take incriminating pictures of him in bed with her. She didn’t need incriminating pictures of Keppner in bed with her since she already had incriminating pictures of him over Joyner’s dead body at, presumably, a place he shouldn’t have been.

It’s a huge coincidence that Diana and Thor happened to be friends with Marta Craig, though on the other hand nothing came of this coincidence, so it doesn’t matter much. Much more important to the plot is the enormous coincidence that Marta happened to be working for congressman Joyner’s media liaison officer. That’s part of why Joe is such a surprise murderer at the end—there was no on-screen connection to the victim other than living in the same large city. We do get on-screen clues that Joe was the murderer, though as clues go not wearing driving gloves in a later scene isn’t a great one. Especially since driving gloves weren’t really a thing in the 1980s. Cars had had steering wheels that were comfortable in bare hands for enough decades that the practice had long since died out (outside of racing).

We’re also given no explanation as to why Joe picked the night he did to kill Marta. Normally, someone getting “too big for her pantyhose” is not an urgent matter, and he didn’t pick a great time for it. (To be fair to him, we’re only on episode 9, but I’d have waited until the mystery writer who’d solved at least 8 real life murders prior to this had gone home.)

Also given no explanation is why Joe tried to frame Keppner and why, if he did frame Keppner, he dragged him out to an alley to do it. Leaving Keppner at the scene of the crime would have more directly connected him to the crime, and also would have been less risky since Joe wouldn’t risk being seen dragging an unconscious body outside.

Another loose end in the story is the threatening note that Thor got with a second copy of the picture of him with Marta. Who was supposed to have sent that? So far as I can see, the only person who had any motive was Roy Dixon (or Harry Parmel), but the only person with opportunity was Joe Blinn. And they made a big deal out of this. It was so important they showed us a closeup.

Oh, well. It must be said, one consequence of being given no explanations for anything is that none of the explanations we didn’t get contradict anything that happened—or each other. It’s not a great way to avoid plot holes, but it does, technically, work.

Next week we’re in New York City for Broadway Malady.

Introduction to Mystery!

Back in the 1980s, at least on the east coast of America (for television was broadcast over radio waves in those days, and i grew up on the east coast), there were television stations called “public television stations.” They distinguished themselves from ordinary stations in that they were (ostensibly) not-for-profit. They received funding from various places, including members, and didn’t have commercial breaks during shows. These stations were (generally) members of PBS, the Public Broadcasting Service, which made most of the programming that they showed, often in coordination with local member stations.

On such show was Mystery!, which was a spinoff of Masterpiece Theatre that focused on mystery and crime genres, mostly British-made. Mystery! was a hosted show—host segments are enormously helpful in adapting shows with their own running time to the running time of the show—and during most of the 1980s the host was Vincent Price. The show also had a fascinating opening title sequence, which was an animation based on the artwork of Edward Gorey. Someone put up a clip on YouTube which was clearly transferred from a VHS tape. The quality isn’t very good, but this isn’t too far off from how it might have been back in 1984, depending on what your reception was like, or if you were watching it taped:

The Edward Gorey intro segment is fascinatingly rich with symbolism. The murder mystery genre is very frequently decorated in symbolism, as I discussed about the cover of my Complete Sherlock Holmes. It’s night time, we have a grave stone, we have flashlights, we have a dinner party, we have a murder, we have a detective hiding behind a pillar, we have a great house—it all reminds us of the potential of the mystery genre and sets us up to be in the mood to enjoy whatever is coming.

The host segment is also interesting, as far as setting us up to enjoy what comes. First, we have the phenomenon of human attention. If one person shows interest in something, we are far more likely to find it interesting ourselves.

We also have the parasocial aspect of the host segment. We feel like Vincent is a friend who is also interested, and will watch it with us. Later, when Diana Rigg hosted Mystery!, when she’d say “Goodnight” at the end, my father would half-jokingly respond, “Goodnight, Diana.” Television in the 1980s had a very powerful parasocial aspect because, in part, of its social aspect. Especially in the early 1980s, families normally had a single television and people would gather around it to watch together. The parasocial feeling of interacting with the person on the screen was thus amplified by the real social aspect of the human beings sitting around you. It’s not just that you felt the company of fellow human beings, but also that they also “knew” the person on the screen, and that person was someone you could talk about with others. They didn’t just feel like a friend, but like a member of the family.

The introductory segment also serves to talk up what we will see. In this one, Vincent Price talks at some length about the greatness of Sherlock Holmes and even reads from a book by an expert.

And then we have the set decoration. It’s not so easy to see in this recording, but it’s a dilapidated opulence. We’re given that the sense that it’s a room in a great house, and there are a great many things in it which would have been expensive when they were bought, but that wasn’t recently and they’ve seen better days. I’ve written about this in Mysteries and Changing Society, but it’s worth pointing out again that great houses falling into disrepair are a wonderful setting for a murder mystery. The thing was designed for many more people than currently live in it, and this gives a lot of scope for people to do things unobserved, plenty of places to hide things, and plenty of things to be important without anyone knowing that they’re important.

I also think it’s worth mentioning that Mystery! also had an outro:

Goodnight, Vincent.

Murder She Wrote: Death Casts a Spell

On the thirtieth day of December in the year of our Lord 1984, the eighth episode in the first season of Murder, She Wrote aired. Called Death Casts a Spell, it is set in a resort on the shores of Lake Tahoe. (Last week’s episode was Death Takes Curtain Call.)

After some introductory shots of what could be Las Vegas if, like me, you have to look up Lake Tahoe to know what it’s about, we meet one of the main characters of the episode, The Amazing Cagliostro. His first line is, “Ladies and Gentlemen, observe the power of hypnosis!” He is a stage hypnotist, and has his volunteers pretend to be their favorite animals after he claps his hands. The volunteers do so with great enthusiasm.

The young lady pictured pretends to be a chicken, while a woman standing next to her pretends to be an elephant, using one arm to represent its trunk.

Hypnotism is an interesting subject about which a great deal can be said, but to keep things brief, and oversimplifying: hypnosis was developed by the Scottish doctor James Braid in the mid-1800s (inspired by demonstrations from Mesmerists who claimed to have special magnetic powers). After much research he published a book called Neurypnology in which he described his research and called for others to take up research into the possible medical applications of hypnosis. I’m still not very clear on how hypnosis progressed in the public eye from there, but it seemed to have gotten a huge boost with the 1952 case of “Bridey Murphy,” where a Colorado woman under hypnosis “remembered” one of her past lives, when she was an Irish woman named Bridey Murphy. This was described in a popular book which was then made into a popular movie which inspired a bunch of horror movies using hypnosis to access past lives in various forms. Probably the best known of these was the 1957 movie I Was A Teenage Werewolf, starring Michael Landon. There was a great deal of interest in “paranormal activity” in the 1960s and 1970s and hypnosis certainly fit well enough in that category. (I can recall hypnosis showing up as the crux of a mystery at least once on Scooby Doo.)

I do not know when interest in hypnosis (as quasi-magic) waned, but I can’t remember it being talked about much in the 1990s and I suspect that Murder, She Wrote was on the tail end of the trend with this episode. Which makes sense, since its main demographic (older people, at least if you go by all the commercials that used to run with it for denture cream and term life insurance where there’s no physical and you can’t be turned down) tended to either catch trends later or else remember older trends like they were just yesterday.

Anyway, we then meet some more characters.

In the audience is Joan, who works for Jessica’s editor.

By the bar are two reporters:

Their names are Bud Michaels (on the left) and Andy Townsend (on the right). Bud thinks that Cagliostro is a “two bit fraud.” (According to an inflation calculator, that would make him a six bit fraud in 2024 dollars.)

We then meet two more characters:

His name is Joe Kellijian. Hers is Regina (they’re married). She’s explaining to him that the reason she’s having an affair with Cagliostro is that he’s controlling her with hypnosis. Joe doesn’t buy it, pointing out that hypnosis isn’t magic mind control and can’t make people do things they’re completely unwilling to do. She does admit that she’s attracted to Cagliostro but never intended to do anything about it. The idea that she’s attracted to Cagliostro strains credulity, but it’s not the most unrealistic thing they’ve done in Murder, She Wrote.

Anyway, Joe turns out to be the owner/manager of the hotel, and in the next scene he tells Cagliostro that this was his last night. Cagliostro points out that his contract entitles him to a million dollars over the next three years whether he performs or not. Joe thinks it’s worth it to get rid of him. Cagliostro says that this may cost him more than money, it may cost him “the fair Regina”. At this Joe attacks Cagliostro, but is stopped by Cagliostro’s bodyguard. I find it curious that Cagliostro has a bodyguard but Joe has no security staff. Joe swears “I will get you” to Cagliostro. I do not know whether Joe will get him, but I am quite confident at this point that Cagliostro is going to be killed. We’ve got at least two suspects established (Bud and Joe) and Jessica hasn’t even shown up.

That said, the very next thing that happens is that Jessica shows up at the front desk. She’s in room 1241, which has a lakeside view. They don’t need a credit card from her because they’ve arranged to bill her publisher. She asks for the room number of Miss Marilyn Dean, who is her editor. As the hotel clerk goes to look it up, Joan comes up to greet her, explaining that Marilyn won’t be there until the next day. She then takes Jessica over to the hotel restaurant, where it turns out that Joan lured Jessica over under false pretenses to suggest that Jessica write a book with Cagliostro as a character.

She doesn’t quite come out and say this; she pitches it as Marilyn’s idea and Jessica sees through her.

Joan comes clean and then starts to realize what a terrible idea this was. She even sent a telegram to the head of publishing company because she was so sure Jessica would love the idea she’d never considered what might happen if Jessica didn’t. Why she lured Jessica to an expensive lakeside resort to pitch an idea rather than just call her on the telephone, she is not asked and does not explain.

Jessica takes pity on her, though. Diana Canova, who played Joan, was thirty one at the time the episode aired but she plays the character as if she’s somewhere between twenty one and eleven, and Jessica’s soft spot for impetuous children takes hold. She tells Joan that she’ll stay the night, then the next day Joan can call up Mr. Winfield (the owner of the publishing company) and tell him that Jessica wasn’t interested. Joan is incredibly relieved, though I don’t particularly see how this is going to solve any of Joan’s problems because she’ll still need to give some explanation for why she spent the company’s money on flying Jessica out to a fancy hotel on Lake Tahoe without authorization. That’s not a minor thing.

Anyway, this conversation is broken up by Cagliostro coming into the hotel with his assistant and bodyguard. Oh, I should mention that somewhere in the conversation Joan slips in the background that Cagliostro came from England a few years ago, but no one knows anything about his past. Regina comes in and orders a drink from the bar. While she waits for it, Cagliostro motions to her to come sit next to him, but instead she leaves. Right after this Bud and Andy walk up and Bud says, in a loud drunken voice, that he’s still wait for an interview. Cagliostro says that he never gives interviews. Bud asks if this is because he has too many skeletons in his closet? What about Surrey Street? And when’s the last time he saw Reggie Downs? Cagliostro then threatens Bud with his bodyguard and Bud then blusters about how he and other reporters will eventually uncover the truth.

Cagliostro then makes Bud an offer. In his suite, in half an hour, he’ll give Bud every details of his past life, as well as any other journalists who wish to be there, providing that they can remember it—his one condition is that he will hypnotize them first. This will prove that Cagliostro is the world’s greatest hypnotist, as no other hypnotist can permanently prevent someone from remembering what they hear. And with that, Cagliostro leaves.

Joan is beside herself with excitement and says to Jessica, “What about that? You couldn’t write that scene if you tried!” Jessica agrees, though not, perhaps, in the spirit in which Joan meant it.

Joan then rushes off. Bud tells Andy that he’s not going, he’s going to go up to his room and pass out, but Andy is going. Bud tells him to “go round up some of the local boys and call his bluff.” He then staggers off.

As Cagliostro is entering his hotel room Joan rushes up and tells him that J.B. Fletcher is in the hotel. Cagliostro says that he’d be honored to have her attend and Joan is tickled pink. She promises that they’ll be there and rushes off to get Jessica.

Back in the hotel, Andy approaches Jessica and introduces herself. He tells Jessica he hopes that she’ll attend Cagliostro’s session but Jessica says that she won’t. She’s “going to go to bed the old fashioned way”. On her way to her hotel room she’s stopped by a woman playing slots who recognizes Jessica as “Nurse Beecham” from the show Doctors After Hours.

I think that the costume designer was told “turn the gaudy up to 11.” (Or would have been, had Spinal Tap not come out on December 2 of 1984, making it impossible to reference during the filming of this episode.) She’s trying to drag Jessica to meet the ladies of her bridge club who are at the craps table when Jessica thinks she spies a way out of this. She sees Andy walking to the elevator and calls his name. He doesn’t hear, though, and takes the elevator, Jessica’s chance of politely escaping going up with him. Jessica then notices that the woman has one of her books, all of which have a giant picture of Jessica on the back rather than a blurb about the book. Jessica shows it to her and insists that she is, in fact, J.B. Fletcher and wrote this book. The woman gets angry, declares she isn’t, and storms off. It’s an amusing scene, though I’m still finding the explicit comedy routines that you find int he first season a little jarring. It will be interesting to see when they get rid of them.

Joan then runs in and tells Jessica that they’re in. Jessica refuses, but Joan wins her over by saying, “as a writer, aren’t you the least bit curious?”

At Cagliostro’s room, where Jessica notably isn’t present, he begins. He hypnotizes the journalists present, testing that they are hypnotized by shoving down on each one’s outstretched arm.

Once he has verified that they are all hypnotized because they adequately resist, he tells them that they will only remember that he said important and revealing things about himself, but no details. He then tells them to lower their arms then begins his story. “Now, my story begins in a small flat in London, not far from Trafalgar Square, in 1972.”

Cagliostro has to be at least in his sixties (the actor, José Ferrer, was 72), so it’s a bit odd that his story starts a mere twelve years ago. If we conservatively place Cagliostro at 60, he would have been 48 when his story began. It doesn’t really matter, though, because we are not going to find out what his story was. At least not from him.

We cut to Jessica and Joan coming out of the elevator and running into the bodyguard who is standing outside. He apologizes but says that he couldn’t open the door if he wanted to because he doesn’t have the key. We then hear a loud crashing noise and the bodyguard becomes very concerned.

With excusably convenient timing (in a one-hour TV show) the hotel owner happens to show up in the elevator and asks what’s going on. When they explain, he uses his master key to open the door and they find out what happened.

We then pan over the hypnotized journalists, Joan feints, we fade to black, and go to commercial.

Just for fun, here’s the kind of commercial you might have seen had you been watching when this was aired:

When we come back from commercial break, we see Cagliostro being zipped up in a body bag. Shortly after, we meet the detective in charge of the case, Lt. Bergkamp.

(Lt. Bergkamp is the one in the suit.) As they’re waiting for a psychologist to come bring the people out of hypnosis, Jessica comes in.

Jessica points out that it’s very odd that the glass is broken so far away from the door handle—too far away to do anyone on the outside any good. While the detective considers this the psychiatrist comes in and diagnoses the people as being under hypnosis. He’s got no ideas for how to bring them out of hypnosis, so Jessica suggests playing a tape of Cagliostro bringing people on stage out of hypnosis, and perhaps that would bring the witnesses out of hypnosis too.

I find it amusing that Murder, She Wrote is taking such a magical approach to hypnosis, as if it’s impossible to get someone out of the hypnotic state except by the person who put them into it. (Interestingly, in James Braid’s experiments, entering hypnosis wasn’t about a person’s voice at all, but rather about fixing the eyes on a slightly elevated place until exhaustion of some of the relevant nerves took place. He also found bringing people out of hypnosis to be no trouble at all.)

For those who weren’t alive in 1984 or don’t remember what the technology was like, here’s the device they used to play it back (it was the same device as had been used by Joan to record it):

This works and the journalists all wake up. They are confused, having no idea what happened or why the police are present, and Lt. Bergkamp tells them that the psychiatrist will explain everything to them if they’ll just follow him.

The next morning Joan catches up with Jessica, who is jogging in her track suit and neck towel.

I can’t remember whether this was high fashion in the mid-1980s. I’m inclined to say that it was, but I was little at the time and have never been very fashion-minded. If I recall correctly, I had a shirt with similar horizontal stripes, though I remember this more from my mother showing me pictures than on my own.

They basically make small talk and it’s established that Jessica is interested and wants to investigate.

The scene then shifts to Dr. Yambert’s hotel. We get an establishing shot of his wall with his credential.

Yambert clarifies that the people did not have their memories erased, but blocked—by a powerful post-hypnotic suggestion. A memory lock, if you will.

His entire office is interesting, too:

Jessica doesn’t seem to believe in hypnotism, and Yambert offers to hypnotise her, just as a demonstration. Interestingly, he has her close her eyes and listen to his voice to enter the hypnotic state, which is kind of backwards from Braid’s method. Anyway, this goes about how you’d expect if you’ve ever seen a scene of a person who doesn’t believe they can be hypnotized who then is. (If you haven’t, the person believes that they weren’t hypnotized, then is presented with the evidence that they were and is comedically embarrassed.)

In the next scene the bodyguard shows up at Regina’s room and says, “Now that he’s dead, we have a little matter of money to discuss.” And on that bombshell, we fade to black and go to commercial.

For variety, here’s a denture cream ad from 1984:

When we come back, we start with an establishing shot of beautiful Lake Tahoe.

These establishing shots don’t last long, but they’re actually quite important to the show. They help to give us a sense of being someplace special, which makes the rest of the episode work. Murder mysteries are always a little far fetched and being someplace special helps in making the suspension of disbelief easier.

These establishing shots did, of course, also give people a moment to rush back from the bathroom or the kitchen when the person still in the room would call out “it’s back on!”

After wandering through the Casino portion of the hotel a bit—Lake Tahoe straddles the border between California and Nevada and the resorts on the Nevada side feature lots of gambling—Jessica finds Andy. Jessica asks Andy about Bud Michaels—he was visibly intoxicated. Andy said that it was weird, because Bud drinks like a fish but normally never shows it, and last night he was drunk after a couple of shots.

Andy thinks that Bud was faking it in order to give Andy a shot at a big story, the way that Andy’s father used to do for Bud (presumably the giving Bud a shot at a big story, not faking being drunk).

Jessica then visits the scene of the crime where people are making an enormous amount of noise while they do something or other to the walls. Lt. Bergkamp is upset that he heard about Jessica’s book from Joan, and Jessica assures him that the book is a figment of Joan’s imagination, though if she was going to write one he wouldn’t come off like a fool since she thinks he’s doing a fine job under the circumstances. This placates Bergkamp, who then talks about the case.

They have one lead, the hotel owner. Jessica agrees he’s got a great motive but it will be nearly impossible to explain him getting off of the elevator only seconds after she and Joan and the bodyguard heard the glass break. (Oddly, Jessica knows about the affair between Regina and Cagliostro and the owner’s public threats against Cagliostro.) When Bergkamp suggests the owner had an accomplice, Jessica raises the question of how the accomplice could have gotten out of the room, as the balcony seems like the only way to do that, and that doesn’t seem very possible.

After a scene in which Bud tells Andy to stop talking to Jessica because Bud wants to solve the crime, Jessica goes to see Cagliostro’s assistant.

Her name is Sheri Diamond. Jessica grills her about Cagliostro, and Sheri doesn’t mind answering questions.

She explains the history between Cagliostro and Michaels. Back in London, Michaels was trying to prove that Cagliostro was using hypnosis for blackmail, but Cagliostro tricked Michaels into printing provable lies and then sued Michael’s “wire service” for libel, winning a large award. Then Michaels and his bureau chief were fired. We also find that she didn’t like Cagliostro but a job’s a job and this is better than where he found her—she was a stripper. “A daring young lady who took it all off on the flying trapeze”.

Though she describes it as a worse job than working for Cagliostro, she seems to remember it fondly as she admires her own figure in the mirror.

In the next scene Joan learns this too, by overhearing Andy talking to Sheri’s former employer on the phone, though she only hears the trapeze part, not the stripper part.

Jessica then goes to see Bud Michaels. Oddly, he’s sunning himself on a lounge chair while reading a newspaper. In the shade while wearing a full suit.

I have no idea what this is supposed to tell us about his character. He jokes that he allows himself one hour of fresh air a day and still has another fifteen minutes as Jessica sits down beside him.

Jessica asks him why he pretended to be drunk the night before and didn’t attend Cagliostro’s meeting. He laughs and says that he “knew it would be a sideshow” and didn’t want to lower himself to Cagliostro’s level. Jessica asks him if he had an alibi and he asks how he was supposed to get into the room. Then both of them have their attention attracted by something high up on the hotel building. The camera shows us the building, then zooms in.

Bud Michaels says, “I’ll be damned,” and Jessica then decides to go investigate.

Bud watches her go with that kind of face that’s meant to make us suspect him:

That said, if you’ve been watching Murder, She Wrote for any length of time, this is a major tip-off that he’s definitely not the murderer.

When Jessica gets to the top of the roof, Lt. Bergkamp is there with some men and a climbing apparatus which is presumably supporting the man who is rappelling down. Also, Joan is there for some reason.

Sheri then shows up because Joan invited her.

It then turns out that Sheri has a fear of heights and leaves. Which Joan misinterprets as guilt.

Jessica then points out that Sheri had no motive—she gained nothing but unemployment—and also it took several men a great deal of time to set up the “contraption”. How was Sheri supposed to have done that in the half hour between Cagliostro’s invitation and his death?

On the one hand, these are fair points. On the other hand, it hardly seems necessary to use such a giant machine to rappel down to Cagliostro’s balcony. On the third hand, without such a machine it would have been very hard to get back up again. On the fourth hand, she could have lowered herself to the ground after the murder, and collected the ropes (or whatever was left above) before anyone thought to check for them.

Jessica then runs into the owner of the hotel and accuses him of the crime in her usual passive-aggressive way and he replies that he didn’t need to kill Cagliostro to get back at him. He talked with his attorneys and they realized that there was a morals clause in the contract which meant that he could kick Cagliostro to the curb without paying him a cent. He also, for some reason, denies that his wife killed Cagliostro. (He says that they were together in a conjugal way right before he went up to Cagliostro’s suite.)

Later, when Jessica is talking with Joan, Jessica summarizes the problem: those inside didn’t have motives, and those with motives couldn’t get inside.

Joan excuses herself to go call a friend of a friend of a friend who may know something about Cagliostro’s bodyguard, and as she leaves Jessica then sees Regina looking extremely suspicious. Jessica asks a man on a motorcycle where to find a taxi and he says one will be around in a minute. Jessica says that will be too late because she wants to follow the cream-colored car. The man says, “like in the movies? Get on!” And he gives Jessica a ride.

This is the second bit of humor in the episode. I find it interesting to include two comedic sections, though this one mostly happens with scarier music. They follow at a distance and see the payoff from Regina to the bodyguard.

And on that bombshell, we go to commercial.

Here’s a Green Giant commercial which you might have seen, back in the day:

When we get back, Jessica confronts Regina in her hotel room. It’s quite a nice room.

I think this set decoration does a good job of establishing how rich and important Regina is. Anyway, Jessica got there under false pretenses—she told Regina she had proof of her husband’s innocence. When Jessica says that she saw the payoff to the bodyguard, Regina assumes that Jessica is blackmailing her too. There’s some discussion, but basically it turns out that Regina couldn’t get out of the affair with Cagliostro and offered the bodyguard a lot of money to kill Cagliostro. They had a meeting to discuss the details, which it turns out that the bodyguard had recorded.

Jessica then discusses the case with Lt. Bergkamp and Joan. When Jessica objects to Sheri has having no motive, Bergkamp says that when the bodyguard was nabbed at the state line with the money, he told them everything he knew and it turns out that Sheri was in love with Cagliostro but was “too available to be interesting.” Joan thinks this is a great concept, and Jessica replies that it might be a great concept for a book, but not a great case for a Jury. It’s too far-fetched.

Bergkamp then complains that he’s got no case in spite of having six eye-witnesses and five suspects. The witnesses, he adds, were intelligent, competent newspapermen but can’t say a word and might as well have been deaf, dumb, and blind.

At that, we get the music that indicates a clue just happened and Jessica gets a flash of insight. For some reason she has Bergkamp repeat the part about how the witnesses might as well have been deaf, dumb, and blind. Jessica then says, “that’s it! I think we may have found a way of solving our problem.”

In the next scene we see Joan drinking with Bud. Joan tells him that they’ve solved the case and he asks who did it. She begins to tell him about Sheri Diamond then we cut to Lt. Bergkamp asking Andy for his help, because they’ve narrowed it down to one suspect but don’t have conclusive evidence. Andy is willing to help but doesn’t remember anything. Bergkamp tells him that’s not it. They found a hypnotist who thinks he can break Cagliostro’s memory lock. He’ll need to put Andy “under.” Andy says that’s great and asks who did it. Bergkamp says that he can’t say; for Andy’s testimony to be valid he has to tell them.

They meet in Cagliostro’s room in twenty minutes, where the hypnotist then hypnotizes Andy and tells him that he remembers everything with crystal clarity, then asks Andy what happened the last time he was in this room. Andy says that he heard Calgiostro’s voice, then heard someone at the window. Then suddenly… and we see a flashback where Sheri comes in in a black outfit and stabs Cagliostro, then smashes the glass with a poker from the fireplace then leave.

Lt. Bergkamp tells him to bring Andy out, as they’ve heard enough. The hypnotist tells him “when I snap my fingers, you will awaken and remember everything you’ve seen.”

Andy blinks and exclaims that he can remember everything that happened. It was Sheri and she escaped out that window!

Jessica then comes forward and says that it didn’t happen that way. They planted the story of Sheri with Bud Michaels since he would tell Andy about it. It couldn’t have been Sheri. After a severe fall last year, she’s been treated by a psychiatrist for a severe fear of heights.

Jessica then reveals that the hypnotist is Jake Callucci, the blackjack dealer from the casino nextdoor.

He doesn’t know the first thing about hypnosis. Dr. Yambert coached him in what to say. Andy wasn’t in a trance just now, and he wasn’t in a trance the night before. “You cleverly discovered how to outwit Cagliostro’s most powerful tool—his voice.” He put earplugs in his ears before he came up to the room, making himself temporarily deaf. (That’s why he didn’t hear Jessica calling to him during the comedy bit with the woman in the gaudy clothes.)

When Andy says, “no wonder you’re a writer, you’ve got one hell of an imagination,” Jessica replies that Lt. Bergkamp confirmed that he bought his earplugs in the giftshop. When she says that she’s sure that some digging around will turn up a connection with Cagliostro, Andy sighs and confesses. His father was Bud Michaels’ bureau chief. He OK’d the article that Cagliostro sued Michaels for, so his career was destroyed along with Bud Michaels’ career. He couldn’t face starting over again, so he killed himself. He’d wanted to kill Cagliostro for years, but could never figure out how. But when this thing dropped into his lap, the whole plan came to him, “just like that!” He snapped his fingers when he said that, then remembered the connection to hypnotism and says, sadly, “I forgot to count to three.”

We then go to a closing scene where Bergkamp is thanking Jessica as she’s leaving the hotel. He tells her that he’s probably going to call her the next time he has a tough case. After he leaves Joan comes running out and tells Jessica that the owner of the publishing house is ecstatic and the sales people are wild about the story. That is, if Jessica will write it. Jessica replies, surprisingly, “Oh, alright. I give up. Look, it’s an interesting puzzle.” Joan then says that there’s one slight problem. They hate “the new ending” and love it with Sheri as the killer. Would Jessica mind bending the truth just a little?

Jessica asks, “A little?”

Joan nods her head, then Jessica looks perplexed and we go to credits.

This episode is very difficult to separate from the subject of hypnosis. Hypnosis drives almost every aspect of the story and it’s treated largely as an effective, if limited, form of magic. I’m really not sure what to do with that, since it’s not what hypnosis is and it’s not symbolic of anything real, either.

Frankly, this episode has a lot of flash to it, but it doesn’t really hold together, even if we grant the magical nature of hypnotism. One of the big driving forces of the episode is Cagliostro’s mysterious past, but we learn nothing of his mysterious past. Moreover, given that he’s clearly demonstrated to actually be as powerful a hypnotist as he makes himself out to be, what mysterious past is he supposed to have had? There was a suggestion that he used hypnosis to blackmail people, but if so, that was just something he did and it had no bearing on anything in this story. We might as well have learned that he cheated on a test at school or had an affair with a woman who died in a plane crash or once put walnuts in brownies (culinary context: if one must put something in brownies it is acceptable to put milk chocolate chips in brownies, but never walnuts or any other kind of nut). None of this has to do with the plot because the reason Cagliostro gets murdered is about his non-mysterious, recent past.

This also brings up the issue of how Andy Townsend killed Cagliostro. One generally needs a great willingness to suspend disbelief when it comes to more intricate murders, but Andy’s method is more than a bit far-fetched. This isn’t so much of a problem to enjoying the story as a story, but it really is quite outside of the play-fair rules of mystery, which Murder, She Wrote generally presents itself as following. Hypnosis doesn’t work just by the sound of a person’s voice, and earplugs don’t completely cut out sound. There is, therefore, no way for us to know that this episode will treat hypnosis as purely about hearing the hypnotist and gift store earplugs as making a person perfectly deaf. Moreover, are we really to suppose that Andy managed to fake his way into the demonstration without being able to hear anything? Cagliostro clearly talked with him since he began by saying that it’s a pity that Bud Michaels wasn’t there, but Andy is his representative. These kill the play-fair aspect of it, but they’re not too important to just enjoying the story as a story. But are we really to suppose that Andy has wanted to kill Cagliostro for years and couldn’t think of a means? There was no obvious connection between the two men; had Andy shot him with a rifle from a few hundred yards away, it’s extremely unlikely he’d have been caught. He also could have sent him poisoned chocolates, supposedly from a female admirer. And all this could have been worked into the story; there could have been several failed attempts on Cagliostro’s life, which might also explain why he retained the services of a bodyguard.

I don’t think that we can just let the episode’s approach to hypnosis go, though. The fact that they treat it as magic is irksome. And just to be clear: they really treat it as magic. Cagliostro hypnotizes people purely with his voice, on stage, but of all of the people who hear him, only the people he means to hypnotize get hypnotized. Only the hypnotist who cast the spell on the journalists can free them from it—a fact Jessica takes advantage of in suggesting that they re-play a previous time he cast the “dispell magic” spell. At the end, they have a blackjack dealer from a nearby casino say all the correct words to hypnotize someone, but he’s not a real wizard so it doesn’t work. Hypnotist might as well be a Dungeons & Dragons player class.

Now, there’s nothing intrinsic that prevents a murder mystery from also being in the fantasy genre; with a careful design of the magic in one’s universe, as well as a design of the particular environment, one could have a viable murder mystery in a wizard school or other fantasy setting. The issue, I think, is that anyone setting out to do that would define their magic far more carefully at the outset because they would know that would be required to have an enjoyable mystery. This episode misuses the trust of the audience, since we assume that something so central to the plot is the thing we know in the real world if the writers don’t clarify. If the writer of a mystery wants to make arsenic a health cure or chocolate a deadly poison, that’s not the end of the world, as long as the writers lets us know early enough that we don’t make mistakes because we’re assuming the story is referring to the normal referents of words like “arsenic” or “chocolate”. Otherwise, it’s not playing fair. It’s not hard to fool a man who trusts you by lying to him.

The characters of this episode are fairly vivid, but I don’t think that any of them are great. For example, Bud Michaels leaps off the screen in his first scene as a washed up drunk. You instantly know the type. But then he falls apart. He tells Andy he wants to solve the crime before Jessica, but then does absolutely nothing to solve the case. When Jessica finds him, he’s sunning himself in the shade in a business suit, and after trying to look suspicious as Jessica walks off, his only other part in the episode is to collect some disinformation to feed to Andy. Joan is vividly an impetuous ingenue, but she has zero character development and character growth is the only way an ingenue is a satisfying character. Joe Kellijian is very vividly a jealous husband, but he’s never anything more than that single note. Regina Kellijian is more interesting, since she seems to actually want to be faithful to her husband and even partially achieves it. Finding out that she went so far as to try to hire a hit-man to kill Cagliostro would have added depth, if the scene where she reveals it weren’t treated simply as an exposition-dump to close out a red herring.

Something I’m really curious about is why Andy put the break in the glass so far away from the door handle. He wasn’t in a hurry until after he broke the glass and there was no discernible benefit to it—it didn’t lend itself to any kind of red herring. All it served to do was to cast doubt on someone coming in from outside. I can see no reason Andy would want to do that. And on some level the writers realized this since they never mentioned it again. I suppose it only existed to establish Jessica’s credentials with Lt. Bergkamp and, once it served its purpose, was discarded.

Looking for positives: the big thing that I think this episode has going for it is the setting. Lake Tahoe is an alpine lake with beautiful water and gorgeous surroundings, and the hotel they picked for the episode is delightfully luxurious. As I said in Fun Settings for a Murder Mystery, a fun setting can be a huge boost to a murder mystery, and in this case I think it is. The remote setting also has some of the benefits of the classic setting of a dinner party in a mansion—the closed set of suspects and a sense of community.

I think that they also had the potential for an interesting character in Regina Kellijian. A woman having an affair to wants to be faithful to her husband and will go so far as to hire a killer to get rid of her lover has the potential to be a very interesting character. And you don’t need magical hypnotism to achieve this. A far more traditional (and realistic) approach would be to have the man she’s adulterating her marriage with blackmailing her. Also traditional would be having the man have some power over someone she cares about, such as a brother or close nephew.

There were a few comedic bits in this episode, but they’re toning down the ridiculous stuff and I think after this episode things become more… grounded.

Next week we’re in Washington, D.C. for Capitol Offense.

Mediocrity Borrows, Genius Steals

In artistic works, I’ve heard, throughout my life, on the subject of how it’s not a good ideal to try to be totally original, “mediocrity borrows, genius steals.” For most of my life I had one interpretation of this, then recently realized another which was probably more in the spirit in which the phrase was intended. I’d like to share both because I think both interpretations have an aspect of the truth in them.

The interpretation of the maxim which I first took was that mediocre authors are overly worried about originality and so only take a little bit of an idea from an earlier work. This can pose a few problems. The most obvious is that they put the originality that they do have in the wrong place, such as where they’re not good at it. Suppose a man is good at writing dialog and characterization but not plot; if he takes the plot of a classic story and adds in characters that make sense to it in a different setting, he might write a story well worth reading. If he instead tries to come up with most of the plot it will probably be filled with plot holes and not be the sort of thing any good characters can be written within.

Another problem that this can have is that by not taking enough of the original idea, you may not have a viable idea. Imagine borrowing only Romeo from Romeo and Juliet, or Van Helsing but not Dracula. It would be comical to borrow Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride but for there to be no six-fingered man and for his father to be alive and well.

The moral of this interpretation is that if you’re going to take something from another story: commit. Take as much as makes for a good story in your story, then add what you’ve got to contribute. And this is quite reasonable. Human beings are not so greatly different from each other that no one ever does similar things, or similar circumstances never arise.

The interpretation of this maxim which occurred to me recently is very different, and is primarily about the effect of taking story elements from another story. When a mediocre story takes elements from an earlier story, it is said to borrow them because people primarily associate them with the earlier story and note the similarity as the later one being similar to the original. When the story which takes elements from an earlier story is genius, these elements come to be regarded as belonging to the later story. There are tons of examples of this in songs—whenever anyone things of the song Respect, they think of Aretha Franklin, not Otis Redding. When they think of I Will Always Love You they think of Whitney Huston, not Dolly Parton. You can see this in stories, too. There are all sorts of things historians attest William Shakespeare based many of his plays on and aside from those specialists who dig through ancient manuscripts, no one knows what they were, because it doesn’t matter.

Mark Twain once had one of his characters give the advice, “endeavor so to live that when you come to die, even the undertaker will be sorry.” In a similar vein, if you’re going to take story elements from another story, do such a good job with them that everyone is glad you did and the original author, if he’s still alive, is proud to have helped.

On Men Approaching Women

It is frequently commented upon how women, when it comes to meeting men with romantic ends in mind, prefer to be approached rather than to do the approaching. Very relatedly, when it comes to marriage most women prefer to be proposed to rather than to propose marriage. Much of the commentary on this misses some important considerations, which we can loosely call: Why and How. (N.B. the following is going to be oversimplified because I’m writing a short post, not a long book.)

When people talk about the Why of women preferring men to take the initiative in meeting and marriage, this is often discussed either in terms of women preferring male leadership or else avoiding the risk of rejection. While these are not things to dismiss out of hand and may be part of a woman’s experience of it, there is also a cogent reason not much talked about: women have tremendous power to get men to do things. Before the modern fairy tale that women were downtrodden chattel with less agency than a child’s pet goldfish, people generally recognized that women have an amazing power to get men to do what they want. (Consider, e.g., the story of Samson and Delilah.) This power isn’t magic and requires effort on the part of the woman, and therein lies the problem. Throughout having children and raising them, a woman will at times be busy or tired and need to rely on her husband but not have the time or energy to use her power to persuade him. If she only has him because she overpowered him during courtship, he may well leave when times get hard. It is, therefore, much better if “husband” is a volunteer position. How do you ensure that somebody is volunteering for a difficult job? Making them take the first steps is a pretty good way to do it. That is typical of most people and organizations who take volunteers.

This brings us to the How, because it clarifies the goal that the How is the means to achieve. The point of the man initiating romance is not really about women wanting things to just happen to them. A few probably do, of course—there are men who don’t want to make decisions or take risks. The point is to ensure that the husband is husband by choice and not because the woman steamrolled him into it. To achieve this, the woman only needs to leave the man steps which he has to take on his own. She can do all sorts of active things so long as she leaves him active things to do as well. And if you look at the advice which older women used to give to younger women, it was full of very active steps in courtship which had the characteristic of supporting a man volunteering for the role of husband rather than overpowering him into it. For example, it is full of things which suggest to the man that his approach would be welcomed. This can be things like smiling at all times when smiling is appropriate (as distinct from only sometimes, when it is an unconscious reaction), making sure to be seen laughing at his jokes, and making opportunities for him to conveniently approach by not always having friends too close. The reverse is not nearly so important; the only main consideration in getting rid of a man a woman is not interested in is avoiding causing actual offense. The reverse of the examples I gave certainly will accomplish those goals, though outright leaving for someone else’s company (within the bounds of ordinary politeness) are not out of the question since there is no great importance to whether “not-husband” is a volunteer position.

This aspect of Why also clarifies the ways in which the How can go wrong. One of the more common ways, according to what I’ve heard, is women turning making space for a man to volunteer into complete passivity. This is your classic “wall flower,” who sits on the sidelines doing nothing. In more modern times, this might even take the form of a woman staying on the internet and not leaving her house, which is even less likely to lead to a relationship with a man. There are really two aspects to this mistake: the first is that this results in half as much energy being put into a relationship forming, and all other things equal, twice as much energy being put into something happening makes it twice as likely to happen. The second thing it gets wrong is that men don’t hunt women. Well, some do, of course, but those are the men wise women avoid. Decent men want “wife” to be a volunteer position, too, so they are on the lookout for women who actually want them. The most pronounced form this takes is looking for signs of interest and receptivity from the woman. And, famously, many men aren’t good at picking up on these signs if they’re subtle. A woman who wants to be approached by a man, or who wants the man to escalate the relationship (including to marriage) needs to indicate this receptivity to the man, and moreover, needs to pay attention to whether he notices those indications of receptivity and increase the “volume” if he isn’t noticing them. This is quite active and, indeed, a fair bit of work. Once she is confident that he has noticed this receptivity, it then becomes time for interpreting his action or inaction to it. If he clearly understands she is receptive but he does nothing to progress the relationship towards marriage and children, he isn’t volunteering and it’s time for the woman to move on to find someone who will volunteer for the job. And it’s worth emphasizing that what constitutes clarity and what constitutes pushing varies very considerably and has to be adapted to the specific individual. A highly perceptive man might find only mild subtlety to be quite pushy, while a very unperceptive man might take at face value, “are you going to ask me to marry you? Because if not, I like you a lot but it will probably be best for both of us if we move on so you can find someone you will ask to marry you and I can find someone who will ask me.” There is an almost unbelievable variety in human beings, and when dealing with a particular human being you have to figure out their particularity. The only general rule is that it’s usually better to err on the side of “too little” and escalate than on the side of “too much” and pull back.

There’s quite a lot on the subject I’ve left off, of course. As I said in the beginning, this is a post and not a book.

Mary Poppins is an Unlikely Christ Figure

When it comes to Christ figures in movies, a British nanny with a talking umbrella in a musical for Children is not, perhaps, where one would first look. And yet, I think a strong case can be made that Mary Poppins is, in fact, a Christ figure. She’s not a complete representation of Christ, of course, but then most Christ figures aren’t. (Aslan in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe is the only one I can think of who is. And he’s not so much a Christ figure as, well, Christ, just in a different universe.)

If you look at the basic structure of the movie, the Banks’ home is in chaos. They do not value things in the right order, with the things of highest important at the top, and so the relations between all the people are in disarray and they do not get along. In this dysfunction Mary Poppins enters, literally descending from the heavens. She does all things rightly (she is practically perfect in every way), and calls all of the people around to live their life well. That is, she calls sinners to repentance. She demonstrates, with wonders, that she is no mere sage, but someone having authority beyond that of human authority. After restoring a right ordering to the things that the people value, which reconciles them to each other, she then departs, because if she were to stay they could not do the work they’re supposed to do. She departs by ascending back to the heavens from which she came.

As I said, she’s obviously not a complete Christ figure. For one thing, she doesn’t heal anyone. The blind don’t see, the lame don’t walk, and the deaf don’t hear. Also, she atones for no one’s sins. That’s kind of a big one.

None the less, this is an interesting lens through which to view the film, and I think it can help one to get true things out of it.

The Intellectual Collapse of Antisemitism

In his masterpiece Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton discussed at some length madmen, and how they are rational but with a very narrow rationality. As he put it:

Every one who has had the misfortune to talk with people in the heart or on the edge of mental disorder, knows that their most sinister quality is a horrible clarity of detail; a connecting of one thing with another in a map more elaborate than a maze. If you argue with a madman, it is extremely probable that you will get the worst of it; for in many ways his mind moves all the quicker for not being delayed by the things that go with good judgment. He is not hampered by a sense of humour or by charity, or by the dumb certainties of experience. He is the more logical for losing certain sane affections. Indeed, the common phrase for insanity is in this respect a misleading one. The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason.

He goes on to say:

Perhaps the nearest we can get to expressing it is to say this: that his mind moves in a perfect but narrow circle. A small circle is quite as infinite as a large circle; but, though it is quite as infinite, it is not so large. In the same way the insane explanation is quite as complete as the sane one, but it is not so large. A bullet is quite as round as the world, but it is not the world. There is such a thing as a narrow universality; there is such a thing as a small and cramped eternity; you may see it in many modern religions. Now, speaking quite externally and empirically, we may say that the strongest and most unmistakable MARK of madness is this combination between a logical completeness and a spiritual contraction. The lunatic’s theory explains a large number of things, but it does not explain them in a large way.

My experience of antisemitism is exactly this kind of madness. Antisemites are wrong that the Jews control the world, but the chief thing that strikes you, if you ever try to argue with such a lunatic, is how incredibly small the world he lives in is. They often play a kind of “where’s Waldo” game of spotting Jewish people in vicinity of important events, which they’re so caught up in that they never stop to ask what part the Jew they’ve identified played in the event. If they watched the movie Forest Gump (whose conceit was that a man named “Forest Gump” happened to be in the vicinity of every important public event in the lives of the baby boomers) and they applied the same logic, they would conclude it was a movie about the man who ruled the world.

There is a strange intellectual collapse that goes on when a man becomes an antisemite. I suspect that the causality runs from the mental collapse to antisematism; the man grows tired of living in a complex world and so retreats into the fantasy of the world being easily intelligible, and for various historical reasons the Jews make excellent fodder for this kind of fantasy.

I want to be clear, since this is the internet, that I do not explain the thing in order to excuse it. I’m interested in the explanation because understanding what has gone wrong is the first step in trying to help someone, if they can be helped.

Murder a Second Time

A thing which comes up in murder mysteries about clever murders (that is, murders which were cleverly planned and executed, as opposed to those merely covered up well) is the murderer using the same technique again and being sloppier the second time (or the third or fourth). There is an interesting psychological insight in this.

The first time a person tries something, they’re new to it and everything is scary. When it succeeds, they then evaluate how it went. Most people do this primarily to figure out how to improve, but one naturally also takes stock of where one spent unnecessary work in order to streamline the process. The same thing applies to murderers. They pay attention to what people noticed but couldn’t figure out and take extra care to not leave those clues. But they also can’t help but be aware of what no one noticed. Human nature being what it is, it will be very hard for them to put the same level of effort into covering up things that weren’t a problem last time, and they will likely leave these same clues again, possibly even stronger. Maybe no one noticed the cigarette butt that they forgot to pick up; they will be all the more likely to not remember to pick up the cigarette butt next time.

But what the murderer can’t know is why no one noticed. Perhaps they didn’t notice by accident. Perhaps they did notice but thought it didn’t mean anything because it could too easily be a coincidence. Perhaps they noticed and there was some circumstance the murderer didn’t know about that explained the clue away.

To continue with the example of the cigarette butt, in the first case, maybe the cigarette butt was dropped in a place where it blended in or it was disguised by a leaf falling over it or by rain distorting the paper and making it look older than it was. In the second murder, the cigarette butt might be dropped in a place where it stood out more and got noticed. In the second case, suppose it was a relatively common brand of cigarette, though not super common. Showing up in one place barely registers because it might have been anyone. But showing up in both places seems far less likely and attracts attention. In the third case, suppose that, unknown to the murderer, the first victim smoked the same brand of cigarettes as the murderer. He would have thought that the butt was not noticed, when in fact it was noticed and it was only a coincidence that it was not thought important.

The first and third of these may or may not apply to any given repeat of a murder technique, but the second of them necessarily does. Or at least it necessarily does if someone believes that they two murders are connected. When the detective believes that the two murders are connected, he will begin to look for similarities between them, which makes a different set of facts stand out than when investigating just one.

A very good example of this which comes to mind is in Three Act Tragedy. (spoilers follow) The murderer actually tried out his method of murder once in a condition in which he was very protected, which did show a kind of good sense in that, if there were flaws in the method, it would have been revealed to him when it was virtually impossible to bring home the crime to him. But what he didn’t count on was that the act of testing out the method of murder produced two instances of the method being used which could be compared; this produced clues which would not have existed otherwise. And, unfortunately for the murderer, one of the main connections between the two events was him. It’s true that he took pains to conspicuously not be at the scene of the second murder, but the second victim was so connected to him that the connection could not be avoided.

There is also, of course, the problem that murderers never count on the fact that the more times you try something, the more likely you are to eventually be unlucky. In Three Act Tragedy it is a pure accident that a doctor who recognizes the symptoms of nicotine poisoning happens to be present when the victim dies.

An interesting corollary to this is that a good way to use a “perfect” murder technique in a detective story that still allows the detective to catch the murderer is to have the murderer use it more than once. That lets you enjoy the cleverness of the technique without ruining it by making it done poorly or not actually that good. It allows the murderer to be brilliant—in devising the murder—and his flaw to be his bad judgement and/or laziness. Either goes well with the flaws intrinsic to a murderer.

Why Watch The Acolyte

I was recently asked by a friend why I watch Disney’s new “Star Wars” show The Acolyte. Owning, as I do, over $1000 work of Mystery Science Theater 3000 DVD box sets, part of it is that I enjoy laughing at bad movies (and movie-like TV shows). That’s a big part of it, though The Acolyte is very slowly paced, which makes it a lot less fun in that way than, say, The Least Jedi.

Another part of it is that there are things you can learn from bad art which you can’t learn from great art. Great art speaks to the human condition; it is universal and therefore transcends its time. Bad art is mired in its own time. Therefore, if you wish to understand a time period, you should look at, not the great art from that time period, but the bad art from it.

And I am curious to try to understand the kind of people who make The Acolyte. There is a sense in which Grand Admiral Thrawn is correct: if you want to understand a people, study their art.

Bad Writing Doesn’t Work With Mystery Plots

For some odd reason I decided to watch Disney’s new show, The Acolyte. I guess all the buzz about how bad it is got me intrigued. And it’s bad, to be sure. It’s not all that fun, though, since it’s very slow. Each episode could have five to ten minutes trimmed from it without removing any plot points, dialog, or important reaction shots. Which is not to say that they wouldn’t benefit considerably from trimming some of that, too. The episodes are about forty minutes long and with decent editing for pace, I think they could easily be twenty five minutes long without feeling rushed. Which would make enjoying the badness a lot more fun.

Anyway, the point I wanted to get to is that The Acolyte is, at its core, a mystery. It’s not detective fiction; it’s more like a suspense thriller—you don’t know who the good guys are or who the main character can trust. Everyone has a story, we only know parts of them, and we don’t know if any of these stories are true.

Now, when this kind of thing is done well, the fun is that you start to figure out who you can trust because there become cracks in the stories of the people you can’t trust. Things they say or do don’t quite fit in and though they have explanations, the explanations don’t quite fit.

Frankly, I think it’s quite rare for this sort of thing to be done well because it’s very hard to pull off. But what really doesn’t work in this genre is having gaping plot holes early on. For example, having a fire break out in the vacuum of space which gets put out by smothering it with a fire extinguisher. Later on, when a stone building catches fire like it’s made of paper soaked in gasoline, you can’t say, “That couldn’t have come from the fire Mae started because there was no way for it to spread so quickly in a stone building. It must have been the Jedi and they used Mae happening to set fire to a book as a cover!” You can’t say this because the idiots who wrote a scene with metal catching fire in the vacuum of space easily might not realize that stone doesn’t catch fire as readily as paper soaked in gasoline. Then again, for all we know, they did and the pointless scene of the metal-on-fire-in-outer-space was meant to prepare us to accept stone catching fire.

I think that the way you’re supposed to watch this kind of show (that is, what the makers of it hope you will do) is to turn off the rational part of your brain and just feel whatever the music and acting is telling you to feel in the moment with no reference to having seen anything before. Which really doesn’t fit into the suspense thriller genre, in which the primary pleasure (outside of the frequent action scenes, which The Acolyte is sparse on) is intellectual.

This also makes guessing the identity of the sith master (or whatever he’s supposed to be that’s t he obvious equivalent of the sith) no fun. My best guesses—based on the psychology of the writers so far, not the plot—is either master Vernestra, mother Kora, mother Aniseya, or someone we haven’t met yet. I think that the fourth episode is trying to set us up to believe it’s Qimir (the character that Critical Drinker refers to as “discount Ezra Miller”), which means that it’s almost certainly not him because it’s too early for it to be him. Now, in a well-written show, you could consider various bits of evidence presented within the episodes. In this show, that would be a waste of time because anything that you see could easily just be the writers being incompetent. And even my guesses about who the sith is are based on the assumption that a character being in the same scene as the sith means that they definitely can’t be the sith. For all I know, that’s not true and master Sol or Yorg is the sith.

This is one thing that, for all its flaws, I have to give The Last Jedi. Rian Johnson never wrote anything that depended on you remembering anything else he wrote or thinking that it made sense.

Colonel Sanders Is Real

If you go to any KFC (formerly, Kentucky Fried Chicken), you will notice the image of Colonel Sanders. Take this example from their website of a family meal:

It’s not just a drawing, though. Back when I was a child I remember commercials with the Colonel in them, like this one:

You never know how long YouTube videos will work, or if they will work embeded, but here’s a KFC commercial from 1980 featuring him:

As a child I had assumed that he was a fictional character, like Ronald McDonald or The Burgher King. But it turns out that no, he was very real. He was even a real colonel, if, granted, not a military colonel. He was a Kentucky Colonel, which is a title of honor bestowed on prominent citizens by the state of Kentucky, analogous to modern knighthood in Britain. He was even the guy who developed the KFC method of frying chicken using a pressure fryer and their secret “eleven herbs and spices”.

He led a curious life; he grew the facial hair and wore the white suit to play the part of the character of the Colonel in relation to his restaurant franchise. Apparently he wasn’t much of a businessman but actually was a good cook.

Murder She Wrote: Death Takes Curtain Call

On the sixteenth day of December in the year of our Lord 1984, the eighth episode of Murder, She Wrote aired. Titled Death Takes a Curtain Call it’s set in both Boston and Cabot Cove. (Last week’s episode was We’re Off to Kill the Wizard.)

Unusually, the title card above is from a minute or so into the episode. The episode actually begins with an establishing shot of Jessica’s house:

(The exterior of Jessica’s house was played by the Blair House Inn in Mendocino, California, as was the coastline and many other exterior shots since shooting in rural Maine was too expensive.)

Inside the house Jessica and Ethan are listening to the news on Jessica’s kitchen television as Ethan tries a slice of apple pie which Jessica just baked.

The news reporter says that police tangled with anti-communist protesters outside the venue where the Rostov Ballet was going to give a preview performance this afternoon. Ethan asks about the slice of pie with urgency but Jessica waves him away as she gets closer and concentrates on the TV. The news then shows a woman shouting that it’s the USA, not communist Russia, and they have a right to be heard saying that the ballet should be banned. Oddly she’s named, though she isn’t shown clearly. (Her name is Velma Rodecker, and she’s called one of the protest leaders.)

After she cries out that the ballet should be banned because we don’t want red culture here, Ethan remarks that it’s enough to spoil a man’s appetite. I never took Ethan for a communist sympathizer, but you never did know about people back then.

Anyway, it comes out that Jessica is going to that performance because someone by the name of Leo Peterson invited her. After a bit of small talk of her asking how the pie is and him saying, “delicious, as always. I’d have told you if it wasn’t” and Jessica saying that she’s sure that he would, we then cut to the Boston and the title card.

Jessica and a man we presume to be Leo Peterson walk into the ballet house and as Leo presents his tickets, his gaze is caught by a gruff looking man who is watching everyone. His name will turn out to be Major Anatole Karzof.

Leo looks troubled, and the man politely tips his hat.

Inside, they meet a young man by the name of Mr. Eddington who is both the president of the arts council and also handing out programs. Jessica met him a while ago and he’s delighted to see her again. She introduces Leo, who compliments him on the choice of the Rostov ballet.

After a little small talk he hands Jessica a program and then hands Leo a program from the bottom of the deck.

It’s not subtle, but they couldn’t have been subtle back then, given television quality. I can’t help but wonder how subtle they would be if they were shooting it now, with modern high definition and no static from radio broadcasts.

Anyway, Jessica notices this completely unsubtle gesture and they walk off.

We then meet a character backstage who tells somebody how to tie a rope, then goes and hits on one of the ballerinas.

He asks her to come with him, and about ten feet over from where she was, he asks her name.

It’s Irina.

Anyway, he hits on her in an absurdly clumsy way, including pawing her to her obvious discomfort, when he’s grabbed from behind by someone his own size.

Obviously a member of the KGB sent to guard the dancers, his name is Sergei Berensky and he warns the guy to not associate with members of the company. The jerk in the argyle sweater isn’t impressed, though, and walks off.

Irina then goes into the dressing room of the star ballerina and ballerino, Natalia and Alexander Masurov (husband and wife). She embraces Natalia and asks if she’s nervous.

She is because she and her husband are going to defect to America. Irina tells her not to be afraid and Natalia thanks her for being such a good friend and that their good wishes will be with her always. They both kiss her on the cheek and wish her well in the future.

Irina seems a little embarassed by Alexander’s kiss on her cheek, but this might just be fear of the KGB because she’s already been there for like thirty seconds. At the backstage call of “three minutes” she excuses herself and runs off.

In the audience Jessica asks Leo if he’s seen the Rustov ballet before and he says yes, many years ago. She asks if this was why he was favored with a special invitation to this performance and he replies, guardedly, “perhaps.” Jessica then notices something written in his program.

I’m not sure why the single number nineteen would be written down in a program when it could be easily worked into conversation, but in any event, the plot thickens. Something is clearly up.

Jessica sees it and tries to ask him about it but he hushes her because the ballet is starting. As the curtain opens we see Alexander and Natalia, so they’re clearly not defecting quite yet.

Backstage, Sergei warns the guy in the argyle sweater to stay away from Irina again, and again to no avail.

A bit later Jessica notices the arts director wandering off and Leo notices too.

Outside, Velma Rodecker, the anti-communist protestor, bangs on a door in an alleyway and demands entry. Presumably no one is actually hearing her.

In my extremely limited experience of theaters, it’s fairly rare to have back entrances manned during a performance, since they’re really only convenient ways of making certain kinds of deliveries. Though down this large a flight of stairs, it’s probably more of a fire escape than anything else.

Anyway, after a while she concludes that this won’t work and starts to leave, but on her way out notices a second floor window being opened.

Inside, this seems to have been done by the arts director, who may have been seen by Sergei.

A moment later, Leo excuses himself to Jessica, saying that he’ll be right back.

He’s still gone when the triumphant finale comes and the lights go down and the curtains close. When they come back up a moment later, as everyone is giving them a standing ovation, the ballerinas are in a line and bow.

Then the ballerinos come out and bow.

The older KGB agent (the one with the silver beard) speaks into a walkie talkie saying that Alexander and Natalia are not on stage, and to check on their dressing room. Sergei answers in the affirmative and goes off to do it.

Just then, Velma runs on stage, calling on the people to wake up because the Russian tour is only an excuse!

An excuse for what? To bring more communists into our midst. I’m not sure, but I think that this is meant to be amusing because, at that very moment, the communists are working hard to not permit two communists to leave and go into America’s midst.

Security guards then rush on stage and drag her off.

Leo then comes in and tells Jessica that they must leave and now. He rushes Jessica off. In the lobby she protests that the parking exit is not the way that they’re going, but he tells her to nevermind.

There’s then a scene of major Karzof looking down, as if having seen them, but he doesn’t look like he’s somewhere he could have seen them. Anyway, another KGB agent rushes in and asks what happened. He tells him to clover the exits and close down the theater, because Alexander and Natalia are missing. They walk off.

The argyle sweater guy then walks in and looks at where Major Karzof was looking and the camera pans out to show us what he was looking at.

Sergei is dead!

Oddly, we don’t fade to black. Instead, we cut to Peter and Jessica rushing off in a hurry to a car.

Somehow, Jessica manages to recognize their chauffeur, despite only having seem him on stage from a distance.

When she gets into the back seat, Natalia is there. Alexander starts the car and drives off, and we fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back, after an establishing shot of Chicago, the scene is of the car driving along is Boston in glorious rear projection:

Natalia is reaching across Jessica and saying, “it is wonderful to finally meet you, dear Uncle.” He kisses her hand and replies something in Russian.

Leo asks Jessica to forgive him for involving her; he thought that a single man—with an accent, no less!—at a ballet would arouse too much suspicion, so he invited her. Natalia thanks her, as they’ve been planning this escape since she was a little girl.

After Leo says that they must go to federal authorities to seek asylum for Alexander and Natalia, Jessica says that by now their absence must have been noticed and there might be news, so they have Alexander turn on the radio. Fortunately it’s tuned to a news station which is broadcasting the news of Sergei Berensky’s death (from stabbing) in Natalia and Alexander’s dressing room. They are being sought by federal authorities.

There’s some discussion, including Natalia translating the news into Russian for Alexander (who apparently speaks no English), and Natalia assures Leo and Jessica that they had no part in Sergei’s death. They never even went to their dressing room and never saw Berensky.

Jessica says that they should go to the police right now because if Natalia and Alexander are innocent, they have nothing to fear. For a bright, worldly woman, sometimes Jessica can be a complete idiot.

Leo points out how this is madness and if the KGB gets their hands on Natalia and Alexander they will drag them back to Russia and there is no such thing as a fair trial there.

Jessica says that if it’s a matter of delaying their surrender, she’s willing to be an accomplice to that, and says to take them back to Cabot Cove. She’ll telephone Ethan and explain the situation, then stay here and try to solve the murder (technically, she says, “find out what I can”).

Back at the theater, an FBI agent and Major Karzof are interviewing Argyle Sweater Guy when Jessica comes up and asks who’s in charge and the FBI agent and Major Karzof both reply, “I am.” The FBI guy tells Argyle Sweater Guy that they’ll talk to him later and he leaves.

The FBI guy walks up to Jessica and introduces himself. Chief Agent O’Farell of the FBI.

When he asks what he can do for her, she begins to explain that she was in the audience, and Major Karzof notes that she was with a distinguished gentleman. Anyway, it comes up that she’s J.B. Fletcher the mystery writer and Major Karzof is a huge fan. He’s delighted to meet her and introduces himself in full, Major Anatol Karzof, Committee for State Security. She corrects this to “KGB”, to which he replies “Well, if you prefer.” KGB was just an acronym for the Russian name, Комитет государственной безопасности, which is romanized to Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti (note the initial letters in the romanized version), so he was just introducing himself in English.

Anyway, O’Farrell interrupts to say that unless she has some relevant knowledge about what happened, he’s going to have to ask her to leave. Fortunately for Jessica Major Karzof is a huge fan and says that he would welcome her observations in the matter as she has remarkable powers of deduction.

O’Farrell is not pleased by this and says, hotly, that he wouldn’t welcome them and this is his turf. Karzof begins to shout back, “I would—” but then catches himself, moderates his tone, and finishes his sentence, “hope, in the spirit of cooperation, in this instance you might defer to my request, eh?” By the end of the sentence he’s quite friendly and charming.

O’Farrell gives in, says, “suit yourself, major,” and walks off.

This places Jessica in a very interesting position since she clearly doesn’t like the KGB but on the other hand is indebted to Major Karzof for being allowed to investigate. Karzof says to her, “I feel as if I already know you from the many hours I have spent absorbed with your books.”

Jessica says that he’s very kind, but it is unfortunate that Russia doesn’t see fit to pay authors royalties. Karzof laughs and replies, “that is a capitalist invention. Come, shall we investigate the scene of the crime?”

Karzof was the first to find Berensky. He was face down, with a jeweled dagger in his back. The dagger was part of Alexander Mazarov’s costume. He sent Berensky to find Natalia and Alexander, and apparently he found them. There was a struggle with Natalia and Alexander stabbed him. He knows that there was a struggle because there were nail marks on Berensky’s face.

Jessica then says that while that is sound, surely there must be other suspects. The major, for instance. Realizing that the dancers slipped away and nothing short of murder could prevent it, he might have killed his own man to prevent their seeking asylum.

Karzof is deeply amused. It’s wrong, but brilliant, he says. He then asks if she’s staying in the city and she says that she hand’t planned to, but under the circumstances she thinks that she will. He then recommends the hotel where he’s staying, and leads the way out.

In her hotel room, Jessica pleads with Ethan, over the phone, for Ethan to take the young Russians in. Despite having been established as a communist sympathizer—or perhaps, because of it—he’s reluctant, but he never really had a chance of having it his way, and eventually agrees. (Oddly, Ethan is taking this call from a payphone.)

Jessica says goodbye as she hears someone knocking on her door. The knocking is very loud and insistent. When she opens it it’s major Karzof, who apologizes for knocking so loudly and explains it’s an old habit from his days in the militia. Some people were reluctant to answer the buzzer. Jessica replies that she’s glad she opened the door before he kicked it down. He chuckles and this and tells her that the lab reports are in he thought she might like to come with him to police headquarters. Which she would.

At police headquarters, someone dumps out the stuff which Berensky had in his pockets and Major Karzof remarks, pensively, “Isn’t it sad how a man’s whole life can be reduced to a pile of trinkets?” No one replies, but Jessica, looking through the police report, says to him, “Now here’s something interesting, Major. The victim’s handkerchief was found in his pocket, stained with his own blood.”

Jessica notes that this disproves the Major’s theory that Berensky was scratched while struggling with Natalia as Alexander stabbed him in the back. Chief Agent O’Farrell isn’t impressed, but Karzof agrees with Jessica that it’s absurd that Berensky wiped his face with his handkerchief after having been fatally stabbed, so the face scratching must have happened earlier.

Chief Agent O’Farrell does not contradict this, and instead asks if the report mentions green fibers, as from a sweater, caught on the watch band. Jessica points out that Velma Rodecker was wearing a green sweater. She’s currently locked up “upstairs” and so a sergeant is dispatched to see if the fibers caught on the watch that the Chief Agent was inspecting match her sweater. Jessica adds, sotto voce, that the sergeant might as well check under Velma’s fingernails while he’s at it. Major Karzof chuckles approvingly at this.

The scene then shifts to the hotel where Jessica and the Major are staying. While they’re in the elevator, the Major asks Jessica if this will be valuable material for a new novel. Jessica, I think aware that this research is her cover story, says that it certainly has the right ingredients. A murdered Soviet agent and the disappearnce of two world-famous ballet stars. Karzof asks her, smiling and laughing, to not forget the wise and venerable chief of state security who solves the murder and brings to justice the misguided betrayers of the homeland. The elevator stops at his floor and he asks her if she would like a nightcap. Jessica says that she’s had a very long day and needs to get to sleep, but she would like to take a rain-check. Karzof, ever-genial, replies, “You have a rain-check,” and walks off.

Jessica doesn’t go to her room, though; she instead visits Mr Eddington, the president of the arts counsel (the man who handed Leo the brochure from the bottom of the deck).

Jessica tells him about how she saw him deal with the program from the bottom of the deck, and he explains the importance of it not getting out that he was involved in the defection or the Soviets will never cooperate with the arts counsel again. Given her assurance of confidentiality, he explains that his father was the American officer who arranged for Leo’s defection from the Soviet army during the fall of Berlin in World War 2. He was, then, Leonid Petrovich, a dancer with a burgeoning reputation that was cut short by the tragic accident which gave him his limp.

This backstory doesn’t really have anything to do with the mystery, but it’s nice world-building. This kind of thing really helps to flesh out the world and make it feel more real, which helps the mystery to feel important.

His participation in the defection (which is relevant to the mystery) was relatively minor. He opened a window in the musician’s room and Leo was to bring a change of clothes for Natalia and Alexander and leave them in a locker—locker number 19, which was the significance of the number scribbled on Leo’s program. There was one small hitch—when he left the musician’s room, Berensky saw him from the far wing. He remembers because Berensky was holding a handkerchief to his face for some reason.

Jessica bids him adieu and, declining his offer of a lift, walks back to her bus. She’s followed, which she notices, and ducks into a doorway and catches up to the man following her. When he turns around she asks if he’s looking for someone, Major Karzof drives up and tells the agent to leave. He hopes she was not startled, and she replies she wasn’t and thanks him for the bodyguard. She wouldn’t have dared to walk the streets alone if she didn’t know that Mr. Nagy was following her. Karzof then tells her that it was a waste of time to interview Mr. Eddington. The fibers in his watch match those of Velma Rodecker’s sweater and traces of his skin were found under her fingernails, as Mrs. Fletcher suggested.

I don’t know how they could have confirmed it was Berensky’s skin under her fingernails, back in 1984—they didn’t have DNA analysis then. About the best they could say was that the blood types matched, but unless they gave Berensky an extremely rare blood type such as O-, that wouldn’t mean much. This may just be a matter of the writer assuring us of facts to save time over proving them, since he’s only got 48 minutes to work with.

Jessica asks if Velma has been arrested for the murder and Karzof says that she has. He adds that, while he has no sympathy for a neurotic anti-communist, he regards it as a most depressing development.

And on that bombshell, we fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back from commercial we’re in Cabot Cove.

Amos walks over to Alexander, who is in disguise. He asks if Ethan is around, and, after pausing for a moment in obvious panic because he speaks no English, Alexander says, “Ah, yup.”

Amos then introduces himself, and Alexander guardedly answers everything with “yup.” At that moment Ethan spots this and interrupts, explaining that this is his new deck hand, since the cod are biting so well. Ethan navigates the conversation, hinting to Al whether to say “nope” or “yup” for a bit until he’s able to maneuver Amos away by offering him a cup of coffee. There’s a cute bit where Amos remarks that “Al” seems like a nice sort, and Ethan replies, “a might too gabby for my taste.” This is a fun use of the stereotype of Maine fisherman as being very reserved with people they don’t know. Amos also asks if Ethan’s seen any suspicious characters around, and explains about the “Rusky toe dancers” who’ve defected but there’s a warrant on them because they murdered someone. Ethan keeps his reply to saying that he doesn’t know if he’d know a Russian if he saw one. Amos also spots Natalia, who’s helping someone elsewhere at the docks, and gives her a cover story of her being Niels Larsen’s cousin.

I sure hope that Niels is in on this, because in a small town like Cabot Cove news would get around fast if he’s not.

The scene then shifts back to Boston where Jessica is having breakfast with Major Karzof. He jovially reports that Velma Rodecker is deriving intense pleasure from her newfound notoriety. He does think that she is guilty, though. Jessica isn’t so sure—she has reservations about how Velma got the dagger. Karzof explains she had the opportunity because the dagger—part of Alexander’s costume—is not worn in the final scene, so it would have remained in the dressing room.

Jessica notices Irina, who is at a table with some of the other ballerinas, and the Major offers to introduce them. Jessica would like that, so he politely calls her over and she comes very sheepishly—which is, I assume, how most people come when the KGB calls them. She’s very sad about Natalia and Alexander, as well, and Jessica expresses her condolences because she, too, knows what it is to lose a friend. Major Karzof thanks Irina, and she meekly leaves. Jessica then says that, with the crime solved, it’s time for her to head home. Major Karzof says that it is farewell only, not goodbye. After Jessica walks off, a KGB agent comes to Karzof and tells him that Velma Rodecker has decided to talk.

Back in Cabot Cove, Amos meets Jessica at the bus and she gives him the news about Velma. She asks about Ethan and Amos says that he’s showing his new hand the ropes. Amos says that he’s a friendly fellow, who sounds like he’s from around Bangor. (While Cabot Cove’s location was never given, it’s generally depicted as being in the south-west of Maine and certainly on the coast. Bangor is about twenty miles inland in the north-east of Maine.)

Jessica rushes off to find Ethan and after bickering with him about how he hid the Mazurovs—Amos thinks that Natalia is a Swede from Minnesota—she discusses how they have to make new arrangements because The police, the FBI, and the KGB might descend on the town at any moment, since Velma certainly isn’t the killer.

That night at dinner they’re interrupted by a young man who knocked on the door. He was looking for Ethan, as he’d just put into the harbor with a blown gasket and heard that Ethan might have one to sell him.

Ethan doesn’t and suggests that he try Gus Harker over at Rockwater Bay. The young man is disappointed and asks if he can use Jessica’s phone to call over there to make sure that they have one before he starts hitchin’ in that direction. Interestingly, he’s got a Maine accent, unlike about 90% of the inhabitants of Cabot Cove.

He notices the places at table and asks if she’s expecting company. Jessica replies that they are a bit late—you know what babies can be. She points him to the telephone and asks if he’s from Down East. He replies that no, Ma’am, he’s born and bred in Maine, up near Bar Harbor. (Not that it matters, but Bar Harbor is, as the name suggests, on the coast, a little further north-east than Bangor.)

He makes his phone call while Jessica comes out and watches the TV with Ethan. It’s a news program which reviews what we already know, and shows a clip of the curtain call of the ballet where Natalia and Alexander failed to appear. They’ve shown us this clip of the ballerinas taking their bow after the curtain more than once, so it must be important:

I showed that clip before when it was from the audience’s perspective, but it’s interesting to look at it now, as shown on a TV. If you look, you can see how round the screen was. The screen curvature was a function of the distance of the screen from the electron gun in the cathode tube since it was helpful to have every point on the screen equidistant from the electron gun. That said, it distorted things as they were viewed, which you can see pretty well here. It helps to explain the closeups on clues.

A moment later the male dancers come out, but not a single male dancer other than Alexander is a character so it must be the female dancers that hold the clue. Since about the only thing we can see in this clip is the number of dancers, there’s a good chance that that’s the clue. Let’s compare to how many dancers there were at the beginning of the ballet:

It’s not super clear, here, but there aren’t many shots where it is. There are certainly six of them, though, meaning that not every ballerina in white was on stage during the curtain call.

Anyway, the young man comes out, saying that Gus does have the seal, so he better get headed on over there now. Jessica bids him farewell and Leo comes out as soon as the door is closed because this is television and we can’t spend the time to wait a realistic amount of time for him to no longer be within earshot. I think we should assume that, had this been a book, Leo would have waited for Jessica to give a signal that all was clear.

In response to Leo’s question if he’s gone, Jessica says yes, but not to Gus Harker’s. Down East is slang for Maine (or, more specifically, the coast of Maine, at least according to Wikipedia), and someone born and bred in Maine would certainly know that. He’s not who he says he is, so who, then, is he? Jessica says that we’ll soon find out, and she’s got a strong suspicion that he’s done something to her telephone.

And on that bombshell we fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back it’s the next day and Jessica is on the phone talking to Letitia (the local operator), saying that she needs to make a call to Boston. She’s interrupted by a heavy knocking at her door. When she opens it, it’s Amos, Major Karzof, and someone else.

(I’m sure it would be more obvious in the blu-ray if they ever make one, but even in the DVD version you can see that the backdrop is a painting. The interior of Jessica’s house is, of course, in a sound stage, so it must be this way, but I don’t think we’d have noticed in broadcast quality.) Amos mentions that it wasn’t him doing the knocking, but I think we all knew that. Major Karzof is not so jovial this time; he and his associate have a warrant to search her house.

While Amos and the KGB agent go on their fruitless search, Karzof explains why he’s searching here. Velma Rodecker had an interesting story to tell. After she struggled with Berensky he threw her out of the theater. She then discovered an open window in the musician’s room. She then saw Leo (though she didn’t know his name) slip in through the window with a viola case and take out of it two costumes which he put into a locker. He matched the description of “Mr Peterson” and a quick check with the soviet embassy revealed Leo Peterson’s real name, history, and relationship to Natalia.

Amos and the KGB agent come back to report that there is no sign of the Mazurovs and Major Karzof asks Jessica to give the Mazurovs a message, should she meet them, unlikely as that may be, that if they turn themselves in the Soviet government will give them a fair and just trial. Leo Peterson walks in at this point and finishes the sentence, saying, “after which they will be executed.” He then announces that he’s prepared to give himself up and make a full confession. He then says that he killed Berensky so that his niece and nephew would have time to escape.

Jessica tells the Major to not listen to him. It’s a noble gesture, but it’s not true. Major Karzof dryly replies, “Obviously. Arrest him anyway, Sheriff. He is guilty of obstructing justice.”

As he goes to leave (he is the last one out the door) Jessica asks him if that was really necessary. He replies, gravely, “Ours is a war of attrition, Mrs. Fletcher. That was a warning shot across your bow. Don’t be deceived by my gentle manner. I beg of you.”

Jessica, alone in the house, then makes her call to Boston, which goes to the argyle sweater guy, now wearing a pink short-sleeve button-down shirt.

Ah, the 1980s. Still not as bad as the 1970s, fashion-wise, but it certainly had its weird choices. He answers the phone, “stage manager,” which is about as close as we’ve gotten to his name. We don’t hear what Jessica says, then he merely answers, “yeah” and calls Irina, who is at the theater for some reason.

We hear the telephone call as an overlay to the young man with the Maine accent who didn’t know that “Down East” was a nickname for Maine in his boat is listening in to it over radio equipment.

This is some fairly sophisticated equipment, by the standards of 1984. Radio was quite advanced by this time, but an easily concealed transmitter powered off of a battery would require fairly sensitive equipment to pick up. Unless they’re meant to be using Soviet super-technology. In 1984 the Cold War was was still almost seven years from over and we had a tendency to over-estimate the state of Soviet technological prowess.

Anyway, Jessica tells her that Natalia asked her to call Irina and tell her that they’re safe. She adds that Alexander also sends a message (in Russian, of course, since Alexander speaks no English). She then tries to pronounce the Russian and adds she hopes that she said it correctly, she doesn’t know what it means. At this Irina perks up quite a bit. She says, “if only I could be there.” Jessica suggests that “Mr Flemming” might be able to be of some assistance. That might possibly be argyle sweater guy, though how Jessica would know his name I do not know.

The next day we get some ominous music as Jessica’s morning run is spied on.

He goes off to report to Major Karzof, who is at the Sheriff’s office becoming increasingly frustrated with, and disappointed in, Amos. Karzof then gets a phone call that Irina has gone missing, to his greater frustration.

That night we get a scene of Irina and Argyle sweater guy in a car. (They save on rear projection by having it be completely dark.) She calls him Mr. Flemming to his face, so that must be what his name is. When they get to Jessica’s house Irina gets out and goes to the door and Mr. Flemming follows. Irina declares that Natalia’s bravery has inspired her and she wants to joint Natalia and Alexander in living in freedom. Jessica says that this is great and that she needs to go make a phone call. Argyle sweater guy (I can’t get used to “Mr. Flemming”) asks what’s wrong with the phone in this room and Jessica answers, “Well, that phone isn’t bugged.”

This phone call is to Ethan. Jessica tells him to take Alexander and Natalia to his boat.

The pretend-Mainer radios to Chief Agent O’Farrell with the opening, “Flotsam to Sand Castle.” So I guess he’s American, not Russian, and the stuff I said about Soviet super-technology doesn’t apply. I guess it was FBI super-technology. (If this was the FBI, I wonder why they didn’t tap her phone at the phone office, since they would have the jurisdiction to do that and it would be easier and cleaner.)

Anyway, as Jessica is setting the table for Irina and Argyle Sweater Guy, the doorbell rings. It turns out to be Amos and Major Karzof. Jessica asks if they forgot to search her fruit cellar and Karzof cuts off Amos who was in the middle of saying “come to think of it—”. He briefly says that he was informed she has visitors from Boston, and goes to talk to Irina.

He asks her what she’s doing here and if she knows what the penalty for shielding a murderer is. Irina protests that Alexander didn’t kill anyone and tries to pin the blame on Argyle Sweater Guy. He killed Berensky out of jealousy because he wanted Irina for himself.

Jessica, however, isn’t buying it. Argyle Sweater Guy had nothing to fear from Berensky because Irina was in love with Alexander Mazurov. Major Karzof says that this is incorrect and that Alexander’s affair with Irina ended when he took up with Natalia. But Irina protests that this is wrong and Alexander still loves her. She then asks Jessica to tell him the message which Alexander gave her. Oddly, she doesn’t give Jessica a chance. She immediately repeats it in Russian, then translates to English. “I will love you always.”

Jessica then apologizes for lying. Alexander didn’t send that message. She only said he did. Leo gave her the words, so she could trick Irina into revealing her true feelings for Alexander.

As you might imagine, Irina is disappointed.

When Major Karzof asks why, Jessica explains that it was her motive for killing Berensky. This dawned on her when she finally realized what was wrong with the curtain call—it was asymmetrical because a ballerina was missing. She sensed that they were going to defect and when she saw them leave the stage, she ran after them. More specifically, she hoped to stop the man she loved from running out of her life. But she found their dressing room empty. Berensky came in shortly after her and told her that they were gone. There was still one way to prevent their escape. In her desperation she picked up Alexander’s dagger and—

“Stop!” cries Irina. “Stop. Please stop.” Through sobs she says that she just wanted Alexander back. She didn’t think and didn’t know what she was doing.

After crying a bit, she composes herself and says, resignedly, that it makes no difference anymore. She then looks at Major Karzof and says, “Take me back.” He merely looks at her, and Jessica says, “Child, he has no jurisdiction here.” She then asks Amos to be gentle with her. Amos gently replies, “Yes Ma’am. I sure will.” He escorts Irina out.

After a moment, Argyle Sweater Guy says, “Well, if no one objects, I’ll just get the hell out of here.” Jessica tartly replies, “I was about to suggest the same thing, Mr. Fleming. Goodnight.”

Major Karzof, who stayed behind, says, “So, J.B. Fletcher has wrapped up another mystery. Rather neatly done, I might say.”

Jessica demurs, since she did leave poor Mr. O’Farrell on an empty boat. But then, he shouldn’t have tapped her phone. Major Karzof laughs at this. And what of Natalia and Alexander Mazurov?

Jessica replies that they’re on their way to Portland to turn themselves in as defectors seeking sanctuary.

Karzof replies, “I thought as much.”

“You could have tried to stop them,” Jessica observes.

Karzof smiles and holds up his hands helplessly. “Well… I did what I could.” He chuckles then adds, “let them live in peace.”

Jessica asks, “and what about you, Major? Have you ever thought of living in peace?”

He looks grim and replies, “As a loyal citizen of the Soviet Union, I will pretend that I did not hear that.”

He then lightens his tone and asks, “Tell me, how is the fishing around here?” Jessica tells him that it’s marvelous and asks if he fishes. Of course he does, every chance he gets. Jessica suggests, enthusiastically, that perhaps he could stick around for a few days.

Karzof chuckles at this. “Hm. A few days.” He smiles, then sighs and says, sadly, “Unfortunately, days have a way of growing into years.”

He bids her farewell and says that he’s looking forward to her next novel. She says that she’d like to send him a signed copy, if it won’t compromise him in the Kremlin.

He laughs and says, “Sometimes, a man likes to be compromised. Eh?”

He then kisses her hand and we go to credits.

This was one of the great Murder, She Wrote episodes. A big part of that was William Conrad’s performance as Major Karzof. Conrad has a beautiful, rich, sonorous voice and if his Russian accent isn’t perfect, it’s plenty good enough for 1980s television. His performance is magnificent and he imbues the character with real depth. That said, the writers gave him a good character to play, which should not be overlooked.

Major Karzof is an ambiguous figure in a difficult position. On the one hand, you don’t become a major in the KGB entrusted with guarding performing artists in America without a decent record of being trustworthy. On the other hand, (if you’re not a fool) you don’t become a man in his sixties without developing a certain amount of cynicism of politics and human institutions. And in any event, but especially in the latter case, you don’t last into your sixties in the KGB in the Soviet Union without a reasonable amount of cunning. But, of course, you also can’t be too idealistic.

Major Karzof threads this needle well. His words, especially anywhere they can be overheard, are very officially correct. His manner is very genial, but he is also clear that this is a facade. Well, not precisely a facade. He certainly wants to be pleasant, but will not let that get in the way of doing his duty, however unpleasant that is. This reminds me a bit of Winston Churchill’s famous comment defending his politeness in the declaration of war against Japan he gave to the Japanese ambassador, that if you have to kill a man it costs nothing to be polite.

The mystery is good, though not perfect. A dagger is a weapon that can kill a man, and Irina is an athlete, not a sedentary older woman. Ballerinas, though thin, tend to be surprisingly strong for their size, and it’s quite plausible that Irina could actually kill a man with a dagger, provided of course that it was sharp. American prop weapons tend to not be sharp but it’s believable that Soviet props would be sharp. Irina’s motivation is a bit thin, of course—striking out in a moment of blind desperation to keep the man she loved in her life is unlikely, but of course murder is always unlikely. If you exclude organized crime and gang violence, murder is just extremely rare. But it does happen, unfortunately, and so all murder mysteries will be unlikely because they describe very rare events. Incidentally, that’s one reason mystery writers need to move their detectives around a lot. If you want someone to encounter a bunch of rare events, moving him around helps to make it more believable, since these rare events are still rare locally.

The solving of the mystery is done quite well, especially with the interleaving of the solving of the mystery with the hiding of the defectors. Making Major Karzof a fan of Jessica’s worked well, especially because he had his reasons to play this up in order to keep Jessica close in order to keep an eye on her, since he clearly has his suspicions of her friend. You never quite knew where you stood with Major Karzof, and he certainly liked to keep it that way. And so the mystery started off with the Mazurovs as the chief suspects, as it had to. (It’s a nice touch that it had to both because of the needs of the story but also because of the intention of the murderer, even if the intention was confused and panicked.)

Then Jessica visits the director of the arts counsel and gets evidence which she cannot share with anyone. That sets Jessica up in an interesting position because she cannot cooperate with anyone on the official investigation. Of course, at the time she doesn’t really want to, so this is no major inconvenience. But it also sets up the plot to come.

Then Major Karzof tells Jessica about the evidence pointing towards Velma Rodecker, which gives a big twist. But of course we know it can’t be Velma both because it’s way too early in the episode and because of the evidence given to Jessica by the arts counsel director. Jessica clearly knows this, but it makes a perfect excuse for her to go to Cabot Cove without looking suspicious. This is probably partially wasted because Major Karzof is habitually suspicious of everyone, but it still works very nicely.

And it gives Jessica time to prepare for when Major Karzof and his crew descend on Cabot Cove the next day.

When Major Karzof comes to Cabot Cove, we get a very interesting development of his character, and of his relationship with Jessica. Before, he had been purely genial and almost fawning on Jessica. Now, he acknowledges her as an adversary. To be fair, we got a hint of that with Karzof having an agent following Jessica and showing up himself when he said that he was going to bed. Here he becomes explicit, though he always preserves proprieties. I love, for example, his preface of the message he asked Jessica to give to the Mazurovs: “If you should, by some chance, happen to encounter the Mazurovs, as unlikely as that may be,” Of course, he knows full well that she’s taking part in hiding them. Moreover, she knows that he knows, and he’s well aware of that, too.

I also love the warning he gives her a few moments later, when she asks if having Leo arrested was really necessary: “Don’t be deceived by my gentle manner. I beg of you.”

He is a KGB agent who does not like to be cruel. But that does not mean that he will refuse to be cruel if it’s necessary. You don’t become a KGB major by being shy.

It raises the interesting question of why he brought Jessica on, and why he’s treating her as he is. They don’t spell it out—it would not be in the Major’s character to be unambiguous on the point—but my favorite theory is that solving the murder is his primary concern and he knows that he’s at a significant disadvantage in solving it here in America where the KGB is openly hated. Recognizing that Jessica is at least tied to the people hiding the Mazurovs, he knows that she’s in a position to solve the murder and that putting pressure on her about the Mazurovs will motivate her to get the job done.

Another aspect of this episode which interests me is how cruel Jessica is to Irina. Lying to her that Alexander said he still loves her in order to trick her into running to Cabot Cove so she could set her up and confront her. And whether it was her original intent or not, it was crushing Irina with the knowledge that Jessica lied and Alexander didn’t say this that got Irina to confess. She is as hard and willing to be cruel as Major Karzof. Yes, afterwards, she takes a comforting manner to Irina and asks Amos to be gentle with her, but how is this different than the gentle manner of Major Karzof? The two have more in common than Jessica would like to admit. And another point to Major Karzof as a great character, I think he knows it.

Though Jessica might know it; there’s a hint of it in her line, after she said that the Mazurovs are on their way to Portland to turn themselves in as defectors seeking sanctuary and Karzof replied, “I thought as much.” She says, “You could have tried to stop them.” There’s almost a hint of reproach in her voice.

And after this, and after he drops the mask for a moment and says, candidly, “let them live in peace,” she is genuinely affectionate towards the Major. So perhaps she does recognize having more in common with him than she’d care to admit.

Still, I think the best line is right before the end, when Jessica invites him to stay for a few days to enjoy the fishing and he is at first excited, then sadly sighs and says, “Unfortunately, days have a way of growing into years.” He does elaborate, but he has a family back home. He has friends and responsibilities back home. They would all suffer if he chose to stay. It gives Major Karzof an element of nobility and a great deal of depth.

Next week we’re in Lake Tahoe for Death Casts a Spell.

Reviewing Good Episodes is Harder

Recently I’ve been working on my review of the Murder, She Wrote episode Death Takes a Curtain Call. It’s a really good episode and has one of my favorite characters in it. Ironically, though I was excited to get to it, I’m finding it much harder to finish the episode review than I normally do precisely because it is such a good episode. There’s a lot to say, and praising a thing well is much harder than criticizing self-evident problems. There’s a lesson in there, I think.

This may be related to why C.S. Lewis said that he wrote The Screwtape Letters only from the demons’ perspective, which left the book unbalanced. The problem was that letters from an archangel to the man’s guardian angel would need to have all of the virtues that a perfect being of superhuman intellect would naturally imbue into them, and to do that Lewis would need to have an equal intellect and equal perfection. This was a wise choice for The Screwtape Letters, but I think that the difficulty in praising a thing well causes problems in the case when there is no requirement for the praise to be perfect. That is, it makes it very tempting for people to leave off praising things that they should praise. And that’s a mistake, because it tends to lead other people to have a distorted view of life. As Dale Carnegie rightly observed, any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain, and most fools do. As a result, there tends to be tons of complaining in life, while the better things often go unpraised. When the good things are praised, it’s often by people who don’t appreciate the difficulty of praising things well and in consequence give mediocre if not outright bad praise.

So next time you hesitate to praise something, give yourself an extra push to do it. It’s probably better for the world than keeping silent.

And I’ll get to work on that Murder, She Wrote review.

Calories In vs. Calories Out

When it comes to health and fitness, and in particular to reducing the amount of fat on one’s body, the dominant story within our culture, at least from the sort of people who present themselves as experts, is that fat gain or loss is just Calories-in-vs-Calories-out so just take however many Calories you burn and eat less than that until you’re thin.

Now, obviously there is something truth to this because if you stop eating you will waste away until you die, and you will be very thin shortly before your death. (Though, interestingly, if you autopsy the corpses of people who’ve starved to death you will find tiny amounts of fat still remaining.) Of course, the problem with just not eating until you’re thin is that starvation makes you unfit for pretty much any responsibilities and it’s also bad for your health. (Among many problems, if you literally stop eating your muscles will substantially atrophy, including your heart.)

So the big question is: is there a way to eat fewer Calories than you burn while remaining a functioning adult who can do what the people you have responsibilities to need you to do, which doesn’t wreck your health?

The good news is that there are methods that accomplish this balance. The bad news is that (at least as far as I can tell) there’s no one method that works for everyone.

Since this post is about the Calories-in-vs-Calories-out mantra (from here on out, Ci-Co), I’m only going to discuss moderate Calorie restriction—oversimplifying, aiming for a deficit that results in about a half a percent of bodyweight reduction per week, for a period of 6-12 weeks, before returning to maintenance for an approximately equal length of time. (This is a version of what bodybuilders do and they’re probably the experts at losing fat because bodybuilding can be described, not entirely inaccurately, as competitive dieting.)

Now, at first glance, this isn’t too far off what the Ci-Co people seems to be saying. However, it’s very different in practice, and those differences will be illuminating, because they’re all things that the Ci-Co people get wrong.

The first big problem with trying to implement Ci-Co is: what on earth is your daily Calorie expenditure? There are highly accurate ways of measuring this which are extremely expensive with most being infeasible outside of a laboratory. Apart from that, there’s no good short term way. The best way—which is what bodybuilders do—is to carefully measure your Calorie intake and your weight over a period of time, then see what your weight does, and calculate your Calorie expenditure from your intake plus what your weight did. For example: suppose you take 3000Cal/day and over 14 days lost a pound. A pound of fat contains roughly 3600 Calories, so your actual expenditure was 3000 + (3600/14) = 3257. From there you can refine your intake to achieve what you want. (Bodybuilders also have phases where they put on muscle, which means gaining weight, so they will have to eat at a surplus to provide energy for building the extra muscle tissue.)

This looks nothing like what the Ci-Co people suggest, which usually amounts to either taking the USDA random-number of 2000 or else using an online tool which estimates your Calorie expenditure from your height, weight, and some description of how active you are. These are generally accurate to +/- 50%, which is not obviously distinguishable from useless. Using myself as an example, entering 6′ and 215 pounds with high activity, it estimated my maintenance Calories as 2900 and a weight loss target of 2450. I’ve actually been using the MacroFactor app to track approximately 100% of what I eat and weighing myself every morning when I wake up. It estimates my maintenance Calories as about 3900 Cal/day and I’m losing a little over a pound a week with a target Calories of 3200 Cal/day. On days when I eat about 2800 Calories I go to bed hungry and am very hungry the next day. If I tried to lose weight at 2400 Cal/day in a week or two I’d be constantly ravenous, unable to concentrate, barely able to do my job (I’m a programmer), and miserable to be around.

Because here’s the thing: the human body can tolerate small (consistent) Calorie deficits without worrying, but if they become too large the body freaks out and concludes that something very, very bad is going on and the top priority for the foreseeable future is getting through it. That means two things, both very bad for losing fat:

  1. Spending all your waking hours trying to find enough food
  2. Reducing your Calorie expenditures as much as possible to conserve what energy we do have until the bad times have past.

The second point is probably the bigger deal. What the CiCo people don’t realize is that your Calorie expenditure is nowhere near fixed. If your body thinks it’s a good idea, you can maintain on a surprisingly large number of Calories. If your body thinks it’s a good idea, you can maintain on a surprisingly small number of Calories. The former looks like having a lot of energy and feeling good. The latter looks like being tired and cold all the time.

Even worse, there is reason to believe—though this is nowhere nearly as well established—that if you make your body freak out and think it needs to survive a famine too many times, it will start to prepare for the next famine as soon as food becomes readily available again, much as people who’ve been broke a few times and also had good times tend to live like misers and save money the next time things go well. (In the the case of your body, this means gaining the fat you will need to survive the next famine, just like bears put on a ton of fat in summertime in order to get through the coming winter.)

This is why the other critical part of how bodybuilders diet is that they only do it for 6-12 weeks at a time, then take long maintenance breaks at their new weight. (The variability because they pay attention to how their body reacts and if it seems to be starting to freak out, they stop losing weight and start maintaining so it doesn’t have to adapt to the diet—there are many factors which go into how long it’s possible to diet before the body starts to freak out.) This relatively short fat-loss window ensures that the body never goes into surviving-famine mode. And the maintenance Calories are not a fixed number, either. They can easily increase for a few weeks as your body gets used to the extra food and raises your metabolism because it seems safe to do so.

When you put this all together, it’s why the Ci-Co people give the laws of thermodynamics a bad name. It may be perfectly true that losing weight is the result of one number that’s not easy to measure being lower than another number that’s impractically expensive to measure and impossible to usefully estimate, but knowing that that’s true has no practical value.

For a much more entertaining take on a closely related subject, check out Tom Naughton’s post Toilet Humor And The HOW vs. WHY Of Getting Fat.


This post was about the problems with Calories In vs Calories Out, but I would be remiss to point out that everything I said up above about how bodybuilders reduce fat is predicated on having a reasonably well-regulated metabolism to begin with. There are all sorts of ways for the human metabolism to become disregulated and if yours is disregulated your odds of successfully reducing fat are much lower until you figure out what’s wrong and fix it. In my own case, I’m about 99% certain that at times in my life I’ve induced insulin insensitivity in my body through excessive fructose consumption. (I can eat a pound of chocolate for lunch if I let myself and there was a period back when I was in grad school when I was drinking full-sugar Mountain Dew and eating cake mix out of the box with a spoon. That stuff has more sugar and flour in it. This is during a period when I was unemployed and depressed as well as young and dumb, and I had yet shaken off being raised during the low-fat craze of the 1980s and 1990s.) I believe some extensive low-carb eating has allowed my body to mostly reset its relationship with insulin and at this point I’m only willing to eat candy/ice cream/etc. on Christmas, Easter, and my birthday. That said, when I’m cutting (reducing fat), I find it much easier and more successful if I go back to eating low carb or even keto.

That’s me; I suspect that many people are in a similar boat because fructose is way more common in processed food than people normally realize and it’s reasonably well established that extremely high fructose consumption (much higher than anything you’d get from any reasonable intake of fresh fruit, btw) can induce non-alcoholic fatty liver disease, which seems to have a causative relationship with insulin resistance/metabolic syndrome. That said, this is not everyone who’s got excess fat. There are tons of things that can go wrong to disregulate one’s metabolism/appetite, some of them dietary, some of them endocrine, and some I don’t even begin to have an idea. The human body is unbelievably complex and there are a lot of ways it can malfunction. There’s really no substitute for trying things and seeing what works. And at least we know that it’s a good idea to get regular exercise no matter how much excess fat you’re carrying. It may not make you lean, but it will certainly make you healthier and happier than if you don’t do it. After the first few months.

Oh yeah—and I’m no expert, so please do your own research and don’t take my word for it.

What Makes an Expert

I was recently re-watching the 2009 documentary Fat Head, mostly for nostalgia because I enjoyed it and it did me a lot of good back when I watched it circa 2010.

If you haven’t seen it and are curious, it’s available (officially, from its distributor) on YouTube. (Weirdly, it’s age-restricted so I can’t embed it.)

This was back when the documentary Super Size Me blaming McDonalds for people being fat was only five years old and people still remembered it. Fat Head was a response-documentary criticizing Super Size Me, but it actually spent more of its time discussing the lipid hypothesis (the idea that fat and especially saturated fat causes heart disease) and the problems with it. Throughout the documentary, Tom Naughton (the filmmaker and narrator) continually refers to “the experts,” by which he mostly means the people who give official advice, such as the USDA giving food recommendations or various medical organizations telling everyone to reduce their saturated fat intake as much as possible.

“Expert,” of course, ordinarily means a person who is extremely knowledgeable in a subject or very good at it. But “expert” is also a social designation for special people to whom ordinary people are supposed to defer, generally with the assumption that they are expert in the first sense. But this introduces a problem: how do you know that someone is an expert in the first sense?

The easy way to do this is to be an expert yourself. Expertise will generally be good at recognizing expertise, as well as recognizing what is not expertise. That’s great, but if you’re an expert yourself you don’t need to know who else is an expert so you can defer to them.

So what if you’re not an expert?

Well, it gets a lot harder.

You can, of course, punt the problem to someone that you trust, but that is a general solution: it works for literally every question. How do you calculate the circumference of a circle given its diameter? Ask someone you trust.

But let’s assume, for the sake of discussion, that you want to find an expert and aren’t going to just have someone else do the work. How can you do this—again, assuming that you, yourself, are not an expert?

It certainly cannot be in the same way that an expert would, that is, by evaluating how the person does what they do. There is something left, though it’s not nearly so efficient: you can see whether the person can achieve what only an expert could achieve.

In most of the places where this is possible, it’s fairly obvious. If you want to know if a man is an expert archer, you ask him to shoot at a few things which are very difficult to hit. If you want to know if a man is an expert lock pick, you ask him to pick a difficult lock.

There are some intermediate situations, which do not admit of demonstrations which only take a moment. If you want to know if a man is an expert painter, it is not practical to ask him to go to all of the trouble of painting a painting in your sight. But you can ask him to show you paintings which he has painted, and then after he shows you some impressive paintings you have only the ordinary problem of finding out whether he’s an honest man and really is the one who painted them.

But then we come to problems which are far more difficult. How can you tell if a man is an expert teacher? The only practical effect of a good teacher is a learned student. If you have access to the students to test them, you mostly can only tell in the negative—a student who obviously knows nothing—since the whole reason to seek out a teacher is to be taught. (There are exceptions for things such as being an expert in Greek but not in teaching Greek, and you want to find an excellent teacher for your child. Let us set that aside as a special case which is easier than the one we’re trying to deal with.) However, even in the best case this is not a pure evaluation of the teacher because the end results also depends upon the quality of the student. This is clear in the case of athletics. Some people have bodies which are proportioned exceedingly well for the sport and when this is married to a disposition which finds physical activities intuitive, they would come to be very good in their sport regardless of who their teacher is; an excellent teacher will make them better but a bad teacher will still make them good (unless he gets them injured).

Medicine is an interesting hybrid of this. It is possible to evaluate a trauma surgeon mostly based on results because how well one patches up a man after a knife would or a gun shot or a bear mauling does not depend very much on the constitution of the victim. It does depend on the wound, of course, but it’s not that hard to evaluate wounds based on criteria such as their rate of blood flow or the amount of the victim which is missing.

It is nowhere near as possible to evaluate an internal medicine doctor’s treatment of chronic conditions. The human body is an unbelievably complex thing—I mean that literally; most people can’t believe the complexity involved. Biology keeps on making new discoveries that things are more complex than previous believed. All of this complexity can go wrong, and there are far fewer kinds of symptoms. In short, we have no way of evaluating what is actually wrong with a patient or how bad it actually is. Not everything is fixable; how much that doesn’t get better is the fault of the doctor and how much is the fault of the disease? We have no way of knowing, certainly not for the purpose of evaluating the doctor.

So what about the kinds of experts who give health and nutrition advice?

The first thing to notice is that the time scales are not favorable. Being healthy over decades is a thing that takes decades, and that’s a really long time over which to evaluate someone’s advice in order to determine whether their advice is worth following. And we’ve also got a problem much like in evaluating internal medicine doctors: we’re talking about how to optimize an unbelievably complex system (the human body). Worse, though, is that this kind of advice is general, and the population itself varies. There’s absolutely no reason to believe that the same dietary advice is equally good advice for all members of the population. For all we know, Frenchmen do better eating baguettes than Germans do and Germans are healthier eating sausages than Frenchmen are. For all we know, there might be two brothers and one does well on pasta while the other will get fat and sick on it. At least internal medicine doctors treat individual patients; experts who give general advice on health and nutrition give the same advice to everyone. That might be fine—no one should eat uranium, for example—but it’s not obviously fine. For all we know (without be experts ourselves) universal dietary guidelines are intrinsically a bad idea that no true expert would do, just as no true fencing expert fences with reverse grip or by holding the tip and trying to thrust the hilt into his opponent.

But even if we grant the idea, for some reason, that a true expert would give general dietary advice, how do we evaluate the expertise of a particular expert giving it? The effect that we could measure would be the superior health and fitness of the people who follow this advice to what they would have had if they didn’t follow this advice.

OK, but how on earth do you measure that? How do you identify the people who follow the advice. How do you figure out how healthy they would have been had they not followed the advice?

That last part is important because it’s extremely easy for advice which does nothing to select for people who are generally superior. To give a silly but clear example: if you give advice on how to grow taller and it’s to dunk a basketball ten times a day, every day, and then measure the average height of the adherents and the average height of the non-adherents, you’ll find that the adherents are, in fact, taller. No taller than they would have been otherwise, but certainly taller than the non-adherents. Or if your advice for strength is to pick up a three hundred pound rock and carry it five hundred feet each day, you’ll certainly find that the adherents are stronger than the non-adherents, since only very strong people will even try to follow this advice. In like manner, if you recommend that people eat a pound of arugula a day, it’s quite possible that only people who are very healthy would even consider putting the stuff in their mouth given how much (if you don’t disguise its flavor with oil or sugar) it tastes like poison. (Because it is; the bitter taste of many plants come from natural pesticides they make in order to dissuade bugs from eating them. These are just poisons that have little to no effect on us since we’re mammals and not insects.)

The basic answer is that you can’t. Not to any important degree.

There’s a related issue to the question of “how can you tell if someone is an expert?” and that’s “how does someone become an expert?” It’s related because, oversimplifying, the way you become an expert is to evaluate whether you can do what an expert can do and then change what you’re doing until you can do those things. If there’s no way to evaluate whether you’re getting better at the things an expert could do, there’s no way to tell whether the things that you’re doing are making you any better, which means that there’s no way to actually become an expert. (I’ve oversimplified quite a bit; this really deserves its own blog post.)

So what does that mean for fields where it’s not possible to tell who’s an expert?

Effectively, it means that there are no experts in that field.

The Conan Stories and Civilization vs. Barbarism

Several years ago, in his series on the Conan stories, Mr. John C. Wright wrote about the theme of how barbarians were stronger than civilized men:

“Zaporavo was the veteran of a thousand fights by sea and by land. There was no man in the world more deeply and thoroughly versed than he in the lore of swordcraft. But he had never been pitted against a blade wielded by thews bred in the wild lands beyond the borders of civilization. Against his fighting-craft was matched blinding speed and strength impossible to a civilized man.Conan’s manner of fighting was unorthodox, but instinctive and natural as that of a timber wolf. The intricacies of the sword were as useless against his primitive fury as a human boxer’s skill against the onslaughts of a panther.”

As for me, I feel sorry for the man who is the most well-versed and skilled swordsman in the whole world being bested by a quick and strong adversary who is just born better than he. Hardly seems fair.

My own limited experience as a fencer gives a ripe and loud Bronx Cheer to the idea that natural talent can overwhelm trained skill with a blade. I have fought men stronger and faster than I, but less skilled, and have fought men slighter and slower than I, but more skilled. The victories are not just occasionally or even mostly to the more skilled swordsman, but inevitably. My stronger but unskilled foe could not land a single touch on me, no, not one. My weaker but more highly skilled foe did not let me land a single touch on him, no, not one.

On the other hand, if the reader is not willing to accept, as a given, that naked aborigines, scratching themselves with sticks, living in mud huts, drinking from mud puddles, and eating mud-worms are not stronger and faster than the Olympic Athletes or US Marines formed by training grounds or bootcamps of civilization, such a reader simply is not entering into the daydream of the noble savage, and into the spirit of a Conan story.

It is as stubborn as saying there is no such planet as Kripton, or no such thing as an Amazon, or that no orphaned millionaire fights crime in secret by dressing as a bat. The one unreal conceit to be granted the author is the ticket price for entering any fiction story. Anyone unwilling to pay is left outside, and will never get what this genre of stories are about, or what their appeal is.

Now, Mr. Wright is of course correct about the suspension of disbelief required, and how that is merely the price of admission to the fun. But there is one thing I would like to say in defense of the superiority of the barbarian over the civilized man, and that is, while Mr. Wright is certainly correct that the best that civilization has to offer will tend to massively overwhelm the best that barbarity has to offer, this is not nearly so true of the averages.

Barbarians—if by that we mean hunter-gatherers and not merely people who don’t speak Greek or else Germans—will be, on average, moderately strong and moderately athletic. They actually tend to be decently fed and decently healthy, since in the places where the hunter-gatherer lifestyle works it tends to work quite well and require quite a bit less work than agriculture does to meet one’s caloric needs without the same danger of famine as monocultural agriculture. They have very little in the way of refined sugars or alcohol, and often do a lot of walking and a non-trivial amount of climbing. (I’m painting with broad strokes, of course; there’s a great deal of individual variation.) This will not tend to make anyone nearly as strong as an athlete who trains specifically for strength and speed and who has access to great abundances of foods, as the cream of the crop of civilization has.

But on the other hand, civilized men in the age of mechanized farming, which was when Howard was writing and almost certainly what he was really writing about, could be almost unlimitedly soft and weak unless they specifically chose to be better. And even when they chose to be better than soft and weak, it was often a play form of it, like many modern martial arts.

Modern martial arts suffer from the same problem that all martial training has—you can’t actually practice killing people, so you have to practice the skill of killing people with equipment which prevents you from actually killing them. And, almost invariably, in addition to safe equipment you need to impose rules which prevent injury, too. These rules create an even playing field if everyone is following them, but they can create openings for people who are not following the rules.

The flip side of this, of course, is that experience can be easily misleading; generals of armies are known for often fighting the last battle, not the present one, and this will apply to fighters whose only teacher is experience no less than to generals. There are things you only learn by trying a thousand times, and no one survives a thousand fights to the death. Eventually you come across someone too tall, or too short, or just too lucky, for your previous experience to help you.

Howard’s solution in Conan is the raw fury of the barbarian; unmatched power produced by pure, bestial adrenaline. It’s nice in theory and even works if Conan is just a symbol for nature because hurricanes and volcanoes have orders of magnitude more power than any of the works of man. If Conan is just a man it may work in theory but it doesn’t work in practice—not against an expert.

But Howard isn’t really writing about experts, not real experts. Zaporavo is not meant to be a man who’s fought in a thousand real sword fights and is genuinely skilled at sword fighting because he’s practiced it. I mean, Howard literally wrote that, but I don’t think that he meant it. What he meant (I contend) was that Zaporavo knew the theory of sword craft, and had lots of experience in civilized sword fights, which were under rules because his opponents were also so civilized that they were detached from reality even in a duel to the death. That is, he had the virtues of civilization but also the vices of civilization.

Does that make sense for a long-experienced pirate who lived by his wits and skill? Oh heavens no. But the artistic point is that civilized human beings lost their contact with nature, which is far more powerful than our puny intellects.

And that was certainly going on in the 1930s. One of the curious things, if you knew people who grew up in the 1910s and 1920s, was that they were practically allergic to exercise. (Not all of them, of course; movements such as Muscular Christianity had been trying to get people to want to exercise since Victorian times.) This is a complex historical phenomenon I don’t have the space here even to sketch out with justice, but the short, short version is that a man in the 1930s could look around and conclude that his fellow men wanted to be weak and delicate while attributing to themselves all of the power of technology. They wanted, to use G. K. Chesterton’s phrase, “to sit on sofas and be a hardy race.”

Nearly one hundred years later, I don’t think that this can be appreciated as much because in the intervening decades professional athletes have become celebrated heroes of our culture. Laziness abounds, but the lazy will profess that they should be exercising.

There’s also the issue that the 1930s was the era of the Great Depression, when it looked to many like civilization was failing. I don’t mean failing to be perfect, as it is common to complain about now and in all eras, but failing to be even viable in the basic sense. It was failing to provide jobs for many and failing to provide food for some. (Under-nutrition was more common than outright starvation, but it was fairly wide-spread.) Under these conditions, it looked to many like the collapse of civilization back into barbarism was imminent. And, given what the second world war was like, there may even have been some truth to the expectation.

We have something a little similar in that many people were promised by schools and universities that they were becoming the elites of society when they weren’t. This has been described as “over-producing elites” and they are bitterly disappointed and mistake having been lied to for society collapsing. However, their anticipation of society collapsing looks very different, since they are (wannabe) elites, with at least pretensions to elite tastes.

I think that if we take this historical context into account, the symbolism of the tale rings a bit more true, and requires less effort to buy our ticket with the suspension of disbelief.

My Issue With Traveling

While there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with travelling or being a tourist, there is a problem with how it’s frequently done, and Chesterton summed it up very well in his chapter on Rudyard Kipling in his book Heretics.

The globe-trotter lives in a smaller world than the peasant. He is always breathing an air of locality. London is a place, to be compared to Chicago; Chicago is a place, to be compared to Timbuctoo.
But Timbuctoo is not a place, since there, at least, live men who regard it as the universe, and breathe, not an air of locality, but the winds of the world. The man in the saloon steamer has seen all the
races of men, and he is thinking of the things that divide men–diet, dress, decorum, rings in the nose as in Africa, or in the ears as in Europe, blue paint among the ancients, or red paint among the modern
Britons. The man in the cabbage field has seen nothing at all; but he is thinking of the things that unite men–hunger and babies, and the beauty of women, and the promise or menace of the sky.

If you want to know what it is like to be a Chinese peasant, you will learn far more about it by trying to grow some food in your own back yard, even if you grow plants no Chinese peasant has ever heard of, than by going to China, staying in a hotel, and watching the peasant every day for a month.

So much of what the Chinese peasant does he only does because of the accidents of where he is and would do quite differently if he lived, say, in your back yard. If you want confirmation of this, just look at how differently peasants act when they immigrate somewhere else. They haven’t suddenly become different people but they eat different food because different foods are now cheap and wear different clothes because different clothes are now cheap (and possibly better suited to the weather where they are now). The person who only learns the particular reactions to particular accidents learns only about the accidents of the peasant, not about his soul.

Of course, this may be by design; the Chinese peasant being a human being his soul will be much the same as that of other human beings. Well, not the same as the globe-trotter’s.

Murder She Wrote: We’re Off to Kill the Wizard

On the ninth day of December in the year of our Lord 1984, the seventh episode of Murder, She Wrote aired. It was called We’re Off to Kill the Wizard. (Last week’s episode was Hit, Run, and Homicide.)

There’s a man inside the car who is on a car phone talking to someone named Horatio.

For those who weren’t alive in the 1980s, a car phone was a cell phone actually build into the car. This worked better than hand-held cell phones for several reasons, but the primary one was that it had a better antenna and could be powered by the car’s generator. Cell phones in this era were analog devices, and not very different than talking over a radio only with private channels. They were also extremely expensive and pretty rare. This means that this guy is rich and important.

Anyway, the guy promises Horatio that he will do whatever it takes to bring Mrs. Fletcher back with him.

The scene then shifts to Jessica working on a bicycle while two kids look on.

The boy’s name is Billy. The girl’s name is Cindy. You can just see their mother in the background. She walks up a moment later, after Billy rides off on the repaired bicycle. (Apparently their father couldn’t figure out how to fix it and was ready to junk it. Jessica has one just like it back home in Maine. Given that this is a BMX-style children’s bicycle, I assume that the similarity is that her bicycle also has two wheels.)

Her name is Carol Donovan and she’s Jessica’s niece (her children share her last name). She says that Jessica’s flight to Kansas City has been confirmed, but won’t she consider staying longer?

Jessica replies that she won’t because a good guest is like Haley’s comet: seen and enjoyed seldom and briefly. Right after her lecture, she goes straight home.

This is interrupted by the car pulling up and the guy on the car phone stepping out of it. His name is Michael Gardner and he’s an ardent admirer of Jessica and her work. His employer, whose name is Horatio Baldwin, who goes by the stage name Horrible Horatio, desperately wants to meet her. Little billy is excited at the mention of Horrible Horatio. He runs theme parks throughout the country and today he’s got an opening of a new venture, Horatio’s House of Horrible Horrors (or words to that effect). Little Billy and his sister are so desperate to go that Jessica relents and accepts, despite obviously hating the idea.

It’s apparently medieval themed.

The scene opens with a monk in a cart being led to a gallows. The monk is Horatio Baldwin, and he protests that it’s all a big mistake. He keeps protesting as he’s led onto the gibbet and the noose is fitted round his neck. His cries for help are eventually answered by a robin-hood like figure standing on the wall.

He swings in on that rope and wrestles with the executioner. Unfortunately for Horatio, in their tussle they knock into the lever which operates the trap door, and Horatio falls. The crowd is aghast, but then Horatio appears, laughing, at the top of the castle and assures everyone that he’s fine. The crowd applauds.

Michael Gardner approaches Jessica and her niece and grand-niece and grand-nephew and asks how they enjoyed the show. Jessica says that she found it appalling, I think because she’s morally opposed to fun. Or perhaps it pains her to see children enjoying themselves at something other than a founder’s day picnic. Anyway, Michael says that Horatio is ready to meet her and he’ll arrange for the rest of the family to tour the park.

Horatio meets her in an underground office.

He looked better in the robes, but then most people do. He also has a kind of British accent, which is never explained. He tells her that it was good of her to come and she replies, “How could I not? I had two loaded children pointed at my head.” She says that she doesn’t want to be rude but wants to get away as soon as possible.

When he says that it must seem odd to have an office complex beneath the park, she says, “perhaps you have an aversion to sunshine.”

Jessica isn’t usually this rude and I don’t know why she’s so desperate to get away from her niece, Horatio, and the entire city. It’s an odd choice for the writers because it’s just unpleasant without adding anything. I think this may be because of the idea many screenwriters had that there must be “conflict” which they took to mean everyone hating each other, rather than somebody having some goal that they can’t easily achieve.

Horatio is then accosted by Nils Highlander.

He doesn’t care that Baldwin is busy; he’s been busy for weeks but won’t be so busy if the city shuts him down for safety violations. This upsets Nils because it’s his name on the building permits and his reputation that’s at stake. I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works unless Nils is in charge of the safety situation and directly responsible for it, making the safety violations his fault. I suppose that they’re trying to set it up that Horatio personally intervened and forced the people who report to Nils to introduce safety violations in the rides in spite of what their boss was telling them. You know, like highly successful businessmen do. Because that benefits them somehow. They enjoy micromanaging operations in order to create fodder for lawsuits.

Horatio yells at Nils and he leaves. Horatio then directs Jessica to his office and she pauses and asks if he’s lured her here in order to offer her some kind of job. Why she thinks this I can’t image unless it’s because she’s read the script. Anyway, Horatio responds, “Mrs. Fletcher. Please allow me the seduction before you cry rape.” Jessica smiles at this and they walk off to his office.

Somebody sticks his head out of the door this was said next to.

The name on the door is “Arnold Megrim” so perhaps that’s this character’s name. I’m sure we’re going to see more of him later.

The way to Horatio’s office is through an antechamber with Horatio’s secretary.

Her name is Laurie Bascomb. Horatio instructs her to see that they’re not interrupted, though before they go into Horatio’s office she mentions that he had an important call from “Mr. Carlson”.

He replies, “I’ll be the judge of which calls are important, Miss Bascomb.”

The dialog isn’t realistic, of course; the goal is to paint the characters as efficiently as possible, not to scenes in which it’s possible to suspend disbelief. That’s a pity because it’s possible to do both and many Murder, She Wrote episodes do, but at least we’ve learned that Horatio is the scum of the earth.

Before they go in, Jessica spots one of her books on Laurie’s desk and offers to sign it for her. Laurie says she’d be honored if Jessica did and mentions that she’s trying to write a book herself. Horatio is impatient at this, of course, because his success up til now has been achieved by alienating everyone he wants something from. Or because we’re supposed to hate him. One of those two. Probably the first one.

The scene then shifts to a different office where we meet another character.

His name is Phil Carlson. Arnold (the guy who stuck his head into the hallway before) comes in and says that J.B. Fletcher actually came, but Phil is unimpressed. Arnold turns out to be worried, not impressed. This means another park, more red ink, and more falsified accounts. Phil tells him that if he doesn’t like the job, he should quit. Arnold says that he can’t quit, anymore than Phil can. Phil says that he doesn’t want to quit, though, since he’s going to be made a vice president tomorrow. Arnold replies that he was promised a vice presidency two years ago, before Horatio snatched it away.

This is definitely how businesses work, especially successful businesses.

To be fair, people do sometimes cheat and do illegal things, and murder mysteries will, by their nature, tend to focus on those cases because it provides more suspects (as the above was meant to do) and more intrigue. That said, the hurried pace and frank discussions where people are entirely open about doing illegal things feels cartoonish.

Anyway, as Arnold leaves he says, “he’ll do the same to you, Phil, just watch.” Given that Phil will find this out tomorrow, this seems unnecessary. Phil will certainly find out soon enough, one way or another. Phil considers this after Arnold leaves, though, and then we go back to Jessica in Horatio’s office.

Horatio’s idea is “Horatio Baldwin Presents: J.B. Fletcher’s Mansion of Murder and Mayhem.” He promises her a panoply of blood and gore, chills and thrills. The kids will love it!

Obviously, Jessica hates this because she’s a schoolmarm scold whenever it comes to physical violence, but I find this weird because it’s a complete misunderstanding of the murder mystery genre. Jessica may be a literary titan who’s work is known to three quarters of humanity and is to (almost) everyone’s taste, but the among the one quarter who doesn’t know her work is the majority of people who want to go to haunted houses for fake gore and jump scares. It just makes no sense at all to try to base a haunted house theme park on a mystery writer’s books. Horatio should be even more against this idea than Jessica is, since he has better reason.

There’s an interesting bit of conversation in which Horatio says that violence is money in the bank and Jessica is appalled. He asks her where she gets her moral outrage from. He’s read her books and they’re in the same business. She replies that she writes her books for people who read, while he stages his bloodbaths for tots who have not yet learned to differentiate his sordid charades from the real world.

This is idiotic, of course, but I’ve finally remembered that back in the 1980s there was a kind of woman (whom Jessica is meant to portray) that was deeply upset by portrayals of violence in the media, thinking that it would destroy civilization and debase everyone into barbarians. Tipper Gore comes to mind as one of the champions of this line of thinking. They were wrong, especially in their expectation that graphic violence would become pervasive. Graphic violence is not interesting to most people; even to the people who find it interesting it doesn’t tap into any strong instincts in the way that explicitly sexual content does. And that’s where I have a real antipathy to the people who were only against graphic violence. A particularly stupid catchphrase for this kind of idiocy was, “I’d rather a child watch two people making love than two people trying to kill each other.” Jessica never said it, but she might have; this is one of those aspects of Jessica’s character which I didn’t notice when I was a child but notice all too well now—Jessica wasn’t a good woman. She was a shrewish scold with no real principles except for a strong dislike of unpleasantness. It’s a real pity, but on the plus side it only ruins the occasional episode.

Anyway, this speech by Jessica is idiotic, in particular, because children so young they can’t tell that fake blood is fake don’t buy tickets to parks. In fact, Horatio’s parks almost guaranteedly have a minimum age for admission without a parent for simple practical reasons. He’s running amusement parks, not daycares.

This stupid exchange goes on for a bit longer, giving us an excuse to find out that Horatio has a button on his desk that locks his door. He had it installed to keep people out but uses it to lock Jessica in when she tries to storm off, but relents when she threatens legal action. This is obviously only here in order to establish its existence for later. I really wish that the writer for this episode, Peter S. Fisher, had tried on this one. He wrote Lovers and Other Killers and (aside from the scene with Jessica, the baby, and the nuns) it was much better written.

After he unlocks the door Jessica leaves and Horatio calls someone by the name of “Mickey” on the phone, telling him that they’re going to need his special brand of research in order to convince Jessica to agree to the mystery-novel-blood-and-gore theme park. This is so dumb I had trouble typing it.

Fortunately things pick up in the next scene, which is that night. A security guard at the park hears a gunshot and runs off to investigate. He’s joined by another security guard and they go into the anteroom to Horatio’s office. They wonder what Horatio is doing there this late at night and where Laurie Bascomb is because she never leaves until he does.

They check the door and Horatio has it bolted from the inside. They knock, but no one answers. The security guards wonder what to do and one recalls that (Phil) Carlson is still here and so they give him a call on the phone in Laurie’s office. Why they’re consulting the architect, I don’t know, but he directs them to break down the door, using the fire ax if necessary, and he’s on his way.

The guard does as he is bid and breaks down the door with the fire ax, then enters through it.

They don’t enter very far, though, when they see Horatio.

The camera zooms in so we can see the gun in his hand. The guards then walk up and take a look.

The one asks the other if he’s dead, and the other simply replies, “I don’t know.”

As they start to lean in to take a pulse, Phil calls to them from the door.

Phil walks in, looks at Horatio, then we fade to black and go to commercial.

When we come back from commercial break, little Billy is talking to his father about how great a day he had at Horrible Horatio’s Medieval House of Horrible Horrors. He’s telling his father about how everyone thought that the guy really got hung when Jessica interrupts to correct Billy that the correct word is “hanged.” Drapes are hung, people are hanged.

(The father’s name is Bert, btw.) This important lesson over, the phone rings and it’s for Bert. Apparently he’s been assigned to the investigation of Horrible Horatio’s Suspicious Suicide. Also, the Captain wants to talk to Jessica. Jessica expresses her conviction that it’s not a suicide since Horatio was not the kind of man to kill himself, and they’re off.

When we get to the scene of the crime we meet the Captain.

Played by delightful character actor John Shuck, the character’s full name is Captain Davis (he never gets a first name).

Anyway, while the physical evidence rules out murder, Horrible Horatio took a blow to the back of the head which was the cause of death, not the gunshot. So we’ve got ourselves a locked room mystery!

The Captain wants Jessica’s opinion on it because she creates such ingenious plots in her books. She has a way of creating “impossible” murders that are not really impossible. So he’s hoping that creativity will help here.

I don’t know why, but Jessica always responds negatively to this kind of request for help. Approximately as negatively as she does to police detectives who don’t want her to stick her nose in when she offers help unasked. I don’t know why the writers thought that this was a good idea, because it was a bad idea.

In this case Jessica isn’t as bad as she was in Hooray for Homicide; all she says is, “I’m sorry to disappoint you but I don’t have a clue.” No offers of help or anything, or even an expression of interest.

The next morning as Jessica comes back from her morning run in a full body sweat suit she finds the newspaper at the door and looks at it.

(The full headline is “Mystery Surrounds Baldwin Death.” I can’t really make out the text of the article but from the words I can make out it’s clearly got nothing to do with the episode. Presumably this was just stuff pasted over a real newspaper. Also, it’s curious that they used the actress’s head shot rather than taking a picture of her with the haircut she had in this episode.)

As an amusing bit of scenery inspection, here’s the front of the house as Jessica runs up to it:

Now, here’s what we can see out the door when Jessica walks in:

Let’s do that computer-enhance stuff of what’s over Jessica’s shoulder:

Not as good as in the movies, but it will do. We can clearly see that the interior, if it’s not just a sound stage, is very much not of the building that the exterior was of. If this is a sound stage, I’m impressed with how much they were able to make it look like there’s a real outdoors outside that door.

Anyway, when Jessica comes in, she immediately picks up the phone and calls the airport reschedule her airplane flight to a later one and then get a flight returning in the evening.

We then cut to the inside of one of Horrible Horatio’s rides.

The lips move a bit as a recording of Horrible Horatio’s voice plays, telling guests that they’ll have some moments of panic but they were warned. I’m not sure whether it’s Horrible Horatio’s face and voice because he was that much of a megalomaniac/celebrity or because it saves money on casting. Maybe a bit of both.

After a few lines, it begins to slow down and eventually stops. Phil and Nils come up to it and Nils says that it’s not the relays, he’s already checked that on another machine. They open it and begin to look into its guts when Jessica walks up looking for Phil.

Jessica asks Nils if he got his problem from yesterday solved and he sourly replies that he’s got no problems, he just does his job the best he can. A phone rings and he excuses himself, explaining that he programmed his phone to forward his calls here.

Jessica talks with Phil a bit and they discuss how literally everyone who’d ever met Horatio is a suspect, at least as far as motive goes. Phil concludes by saying that, personally, he thinks that Horatio did the world a big favor, but if not, let him know who to thank. He then excuses himself as having work to do.

Jessica then goes to the airport, where Michael Gardner intercepts Jessica. He’s armed and shows her his gun by way of persuading her to come with him. Jessica does, though she protests it’s not because of the gun but because her curiosity was piqued. This is weird because she says it insincerely, but it’s completely implausible that Gardner would actually shoot Jessica in front of dozens of witnesses, so it kind of has to be true.

They board a private airplane, where Jessica meets Horatio’s widow, Erica Baldwin.

There’s some small talk in which Jessica mentions that Erica has buried four husbands so far, according to her nephew, Bert. It also comes up that she used to be a showgirl. There’s also a bit where she asks if it would surprise Jessica if she said that she loved Horatio very much, and when Jessica assures her that it would, she replies, “then I won’t say it.”

Jessica asks about Michael’s attachment to her and she explains, “for the past two years, Horatio chose a celibate life. With Michael’s cooperation, I didn’t.”

Technically “celibate” means unmarried. What she actually meant was “continent” or “abstinent.” For some reason Jessica doesn’t correct her on this point of English.

Anyway, the conversation turns to the police suspecting murder and Jessica says that she’s concerned for Laurie Bascomb, and they’re very mistaken if they think that they can get her to stop investigating. On the contrary, though, Erica so much doesn’t want her to stop that she’s prepared to offer Jessica $100k ($297,766.38 in 2024 dollars) if she can prove that Horatio didn’t commit suicide. Eleven months ago he took out a life insurance policy worth two million dollars. This won’t pay if it’s suicide. He hardly seems the kind to have paid money which would only benefit other people, but life insurance policies are necessary to murder mysteries, so it’s fine.

Oh, and when Jessica says that she neither needs nor wants Erica’s money, Erica replies, “then give it to the starving orphans. They do.”

As everyone buckles up for takeoff, Jessica says that she doesn’t have the faintest idea how she can prove Horatio didn’t kill himself.

In the next scene Jessica returns to her Niece’s house via a taxi. After some apologies about them being worried and Jessica saying she tried to call the house which explains nothing that we saw, it turns out that they have company—Laurie Bascomb. She comes up to Jessica and says that she wanted to call her and doesn’t know what to do. Jessica tells her that it’s alright, but Laurie says that it’s not alright. “Horatio Baldwin is dead and I killed him.”

And on that bombshell we fade to black and go to commercial break.

When we get back, Jessica is pouring coffee for Laurie as we clear up that it’s not actually true that she killed Horatio Baldwin, she just feels responsible because she left her desk early. This absurd justification for the cliffhanger before commercial break feebly explained, we then get a flashback as to what happened.

Laurie wanted to quit because she couldn’t stand how Horatio used people, but he threatened her. He would reveal certain things about her past if she quit. She followed him into his office, then ran out back into hers and he followed her. He told her that she’d never work again but she didn’t care, she just wanted to get away. He laughed at her and went back into his office, shutting the door behind him. She heard the bolt slam into place at a quarter to seven.

Bert picks up on the blackmail and Jessica points out that if he was blackmailing her, he might have been blackmailing others. Laurie says that he had files on Phil, Arnold, Nils—all his key people. Laurie didn’t know where they were kept, though.

Jessica suggests in his office, given all of his security precautions. This is ridiculous, of course, since he has theme parks and consequently offices throughout the country—this one is only his latest—and that doesn’t even matter because the best place to keep something like incriminating evidence you probably won’t have to use would be in a safe deposit box in a bank, not in the office of your latest theme park. That’s not very convenient for a TV episode, though, so he will have kept it here as a character quirk.

Bert and Jessica go to Horatio’s office to search for a secret compartment for the blackmail files. Captain Davis comes in and asks why Bert didn’t arrest Laurie Bascomb. Before Bert can answer, Phil comes in and asks what’s going on.

The blocking of this is kind of interesting. I’m not sure why they’d arrange these people like this, especially with Phil coming between Bert and the Captain. It feels like it suggests something, but I’m not sure what.

Anyway, Bert answers and says that they’re searching for a hiding place. Phil says that no one could have hidden in here, but Bert says that they’re searching for files. The Captain asks what files and Bert explains about the blackmail. While this is going on, Jessica examines Horatio’s desk and finds the hiding place.

Well, not quite, but she’s on the trail. She wonders why Horatio has a builtin thermostat on his desk. She then notices that it is covered in soot. Jessica then strikes a match on the strange match-holder on Horatio’s desk right next to the thermometer…

…and holds it up next to the thermostat. When the thermostat reads hot enough, his desk slides open, revealing an empty compartment. Horatio was an inveterate gadgeteer, so this is in character! Also, the compartment is empty and the files are gone!

Phil is deeply skeptical of the murder theory, then excuses himself. No one asked him to be there so there was no need to excuse himself, of course.

When he’s gone, Jessica remarks, “for a man whose career has been steeped in illusion, Mr. Carlson has a very closed mind.” Jessica then suggests that they should find whoever did the research for Horatio, since Horatio was unlikely to do his own dirty work.

The scene then shifts to the airport where Arnold Migram is trying to board a flight to Mexico City. There is apparently a sting operation to catch him, for some reason, as the woman at the desk presses a special button to signal the guards that Arnold is there. The guards then apprehend Arnold, though not without a minor chase. As part of that chase, Arnold trips and his briefcase falls, opens, and an enormous number of bills pop out and start blowing in the wind. Some onlookers come to help, but Arnold rushes to it and starts scooping up bills, saying, “This is my money!” over and over again.

Back at police headquarters he swears at the money is his because Horatio owed it to him for ten years of servitude. In the briefcase there’s also the blackmail documentation of him embezzling money, though he says he never took it, it was his associate, Wanda Perlstein. Also, he has no idea how the blackmail documentation got there.

Jessica asks why he ran. He ran because he received a phone call saying that the police had Horatio’s files on him and would be around to pick him up. Bert notes that it was also a phone call that alerted airport security to pick Arnold up. He says this as if it being a phone call suggests it’s the same person, since normally you’d expect the airport to be told by a registered letter or by someone having rented an airplane that does skywriting. This, at least, explains the sting operation to get Migram, at least if we’re willing to believe that airports in the 1980s arrested people on the say-so of anonymous phone calls.

Migram asks if he can go because he’s worried about his cat, and Bert says that’s fine but he shouldn’t go anywhere they can’t find him. You know, like he just tried to do. But Migram says that he can’t anymore because they have all of his money.

After Migram leaves, Jessica looks through the blackmail documentation and wonders if it’s accurate. For example, the dirt on Phil is that he fled to Canada during the Vietnam Crisis, which is hardly a devastating revelation. Also, there’s one person who’s conspicuously absent—Michael Gardner, the business manager.

That night Michael Gardner, wearing a bright red robe over his pajamas, in hotel room on a high floor, hears a cat mewing from his balcony and goes to investigate. When he finds that it’s a tape recorder a figure dressed in black grabs him from behind and throws him off the balcony.

The figure then retrieves the tape recorder and leaves. We fade to black and go to commercial.

The next day Bert talks it over with Carol. As a curious bit of character development, they begin their conversation with him saying that she’s sexy in the morning and her saying that he’s finally noticed. She asks whether Michael Gardner really killed himself and Bert says that there’s no way to know. Interestingly (to Bert), his real name was Mickey Baumgardner, and he was a former private investigator who worked for Horatio digging up dirt. (I’d always thought that “Mickey” was a nickname for Michael, making this not much of an alias.) Also, he was apparently trying to dig up dirt on Jessica, which amuses Carol to no end. Bert asks where Jessica is and Carol says she went over to the house of horrors.

He wants to talk to Jessica so he’s sorry to miss her. There’s a private line into the office so he calls it. It actually goes to Laurie’s desk, and the security guard who had stopped in picks it up and transfers the line in to Horatio’s office where Jessica is.

After Jessica is done with the call she’s about to leave but then gets an idea and picks up the phone, takes off the back cover, and looks at it.

One of the red wires has been cut. Jessica then gets an idea. Talking with the security guard, she establishes that there are two lines, 1998 and 1999, and if 1998 is busy, the call is automatically kicked over to 1999. Like if you use 1998 to call 1999. She demonstrates, and on Laurie’s phone 1998 doesn’t light up and in Horatio’s office the phone doesn’t ring for 1999.

Ned (the security guard) asks what this is all about and Jessica says that she just figured out who killed Horatio and how it was done.

Ned then goes and visits Phil, giving him a note saying that Mrs. Fletcher stopped by and wants him to call her at her Niece’s house. He obligingly does so. She tells him that Michael Gardner had some microfilm that he had hidden. Her nephew thinks she’s bonkers but she knows exactly where it is and so does he—in the attraction that’s not quite working right. She asks if they can meet in forty minutes with the blueprints? It will take that long to get across town. Phil says sure.

This is silly, but since it’s clearly just a setup, it’s fine.

Phil then immediately goes to the ghoulish head of Horatio and turns it on for atmosphere, because when you’re trying to find hidden microfilm you want all of the circuits to be live. Anyway, he finds something he takes to be microfilm and as he does, Jessica, off to the side, says, “How wonderful, Mr. Carlson. You’ve found our prize.”

Jessica then explains that Phil killed Horatio because Horatio didn’t make him a vice president and also had some sort of really bad dirt on him which he replaced before planting the blackmail files in Arnold Migram’s briefcase. He used call forwarding to make it seem like Horatio was killed in a locked room, as Jessica had to seem forty minutes away. That and some misdirection.

Phil says that she’s clever and pulls out a gun. Jessica tells him that he can’t expect to get away with murder and he replies, “But I already have.”

He then shoots and a sheet of glass shatters. It turns out that it was just a mirror and Jessica was safely out of harm’s way. Bert, after cocking his pistol, tells Carlson to freeze and drop the gun. There’s an entire crowd who was watching, apparently, including armed backup.

Phil complies.

Jessica walks up and, after thanking Nils because the illusion was perfect, Phil says that she got lucky that he didn’t know about the microfilm. Jessica takes it from him and says, “Oh, this? No, this is just a roll of negatives from my trip last year to Spain.”

Back in Horatio’s office, Bert explains Jessica’s theory (he gives her credit).

After Laurie left, Phil came to Horatio’s office and Horatio and he quarreled because Horatio reneged on the promotion. Somehow Horatio was struck on the head, possibly when he fell. Carlson thought quickly. He got the gun he kept in his own office, then forwarded his phone to Horatio’s office. He disconnected the light under the line in Laurie’s office. He went into the office and bolted the door. He also disconnected the bell on Horatio’s phone. He then put the gun in Horatio’s hand and shot him in the head.

When the security guards called Phil, the call was forwarded to Horatio’s office where Phil took it. He then moved to the shadows next to the bolted door (there’s a cabinet there which is quite concealing) and pulled the black turtleneck sweater he had been wearing up over his head. There isn’t a great picture of this area of the room; the best one I can find is actually from a flashback when Laurie is telling the story of her fight with Horatio when she quit:

The cabinet is big enough and that corner of the room dark enough to make concealment plausible. When the guards broke in they were focused on Horatio. After they walked up to the desk and while their attention was on Horatio he quietly left the room behind them. In the corridor he got rid of his sweater (for some reason) and rushed back towards the office, calling as he did so.

Jessica remarks that it might have worked, had it not been for their medical examiner.

Later at the airport Bert and Laurie are dropping off Jessica. (Apparently, Jessica forbade Bert from bringing Carol and the kids to say goodbye to Jessica because she hates public goodbyes.)

Laurie tries to thank her and Jessica says that the best way to do that is to start writing that book she’s wanted to write. Laurie says that unfortunately she needs to find a job, and Jessica gives her the check that Erica Baldwin gave her for proving her husband’s death wasn’t suicide. Jessica has already endorsed it over to Laurie.

Jessica then tells Bert, “see you next year” and walks off to her flight.

There’s then a very weird scene where Laurie opens the check as Jessica leaves and is overwhelmed. She hugs Bert for some reason, and mouths “thank you” to Jessica, who is a bit far away to shout to. Jessica smiles and waves back, and we go to credits.

The mystery in this episode was pretty neat. Locked room mysteries only ever have so many solutions, of course—either the room wasn’t really locked, the victim wasn’t dead until after people broke in, or the murderer hid out and left after people broke in. Each of these has variants, though, and it’s in these variations that people can be clever, which this episode was.

It did play a little unfairly with us by not really showing the part of the room that could hide the murderer until late in the episode, but it did show us the guards being focused on the body in a way that might have let someone slip out behind them, so I wouldn’t go so far as to say that it cheated.

In terms of locked-room solutions, I would say that this one is decent, though not brilliant. They do a fairly good job of piling on the evidence that Horatio was alone, or at least that Phil wasn’t in the room. In general they don’t stretch plausibility too much to do it. Phil’s hiding place was pretty concealing and if he chose his time well, he probably could have snuck out behind the guards. He was taking a big risk that they both came in but he didn’t have many options since he had never intended to kill Horatio. Probably the biggest risk was in firing the shot with no clear indication of where it came from. In an underground complex with neither of the guards nearby they’d have no way of knowing which office it came from and with Phil being the only person known to be working late one would expect them to check on him first. Him not being in his office would certainly be a problem. (And you can’t solve this by having the guards nearby since then you’d have expected them to hear Horatio and Phil fighting.) That said, since this wasn’t planned it works for him to take his best chance and the only reason that there’s a mystery is because it happened to work out. It’s fine for the murderer to be audacious and lucky… at first.

It’s also interesting that we’re seven episodes into Murder, She Wrote and have met two nieces and a (female, niece-aged) cousin of Jessica’s. (I didn’t start with the pilot, but that has Jessica’s favorite nephew, Grady, so we can bring the relatives up to four at the expense of considering this the eighth episode.) Throughout the twelve seasons of the show we would only get about twenty relatives of Jessica’s, which is an average of 1.67 relatives per season. We’re currently averaging just under one relative per two episodes. I think that this may have contributed to the perception that Jessica had hundreds of nephews and nieces, since with (around) 260 episodes, the current rate would give us almost 110 relatives. Obviously, the rate of new relatives will go down pretty quickly.

There are a few odd choices in this episode, such as having Horatio’s widow offer Jessica one hundred large to do what she was going to do anyway. It didn’t make her a suspect and I don’t know that else it was supposed to add to the story otherwise.

There’s also the ridiculous business stuff. I really don’t know what to make of it; it’s so absurd that it’s tempting to think it was meant as comedy, except that the serious part of the plot depends on it. A businessman who runs his business by hiring key people at reduced salaries because he’s blackmailing them is not, strictly speaking, impossible. But how much money could he save this way? If he pays his top people $50k instead of $100k, this isn’t much of a savings when you take into account the fifty people making $10k each for each person at the top. Amusement parks are labor-intensive, especially when you include maintenance, security guards, etc. And what sort of quality of employee will you get if you only hire people who’ve done blackmail-worthy things in their life? It would be one thing if Horatio took over a business he didn’t know how to run and was basically managing its decline, but that’s not what’s portrayed. Horrible Horatio is a celebrity who built an empire. Again, anyone can do any evil, but this is just not in character. Someone making money hand-over-fist on his way up would very believably over-extend himself then be desperate to try to cover things, but that’s not what was depicted. Horatio, as we saw him, was still on his way up.

Also, if Horrible Horatio was in financial trouble to the point of cutting corners on safety for his slow-moving flat rides past barely-moving animatronics, why did he go to the expense of building an underground office complex? Excavating enough ground to fit a dozen large offices and then putting a roof on top of it which can hold an uncovered dirt floor (that gets really heavy in the rain) and multi-story buildings would cost a fortune.

And getting back to the issue of character consistency, Horatio was simultaneously charming and went out of his way to pointlessly antagonize people. It is generally good advice to “never make enemies for free” and Horatio gave out being his enemy like he was Santa Claus, if you’ll pardon me mixing my metaphors. It was helpful in establishing suspects, but it felt very much at odds with the charming bits.

This episode was a bit rushed and a bit silly, but at least it was not wacky, so I think that we’re starting to see Murder, She Wrote settle in to what it would be for the main part of its run. It was common for TV shows to need a half dozen episodes or so to find its footing, so we’re not doing too bad.

Next week we’re in both Boston and Cabot Cove for Death Takes a Curtain Call.

Murder, She Wrote: Hit, Run, and Homicide

On the twenty fifth day of November in the year of our Lord 1984, the sixth episode of Murder, She Wrote aired. Titled Hit, Run, and Homicide, it’s set in Cabot Cove. (Last week’s episode was Lovers and Other Killers.)

After some pretty establishing shots of the California coast we’re pretending are the coast of Maine, the camera zooms in on Jessica riding her bicycle along the coast road into town. In town she nearly runs into another person on a bicycle who isn’t looking where he’s going. Jessica has to ring her bicycle bell and call out to him to avoid a collision. Despite having seen him coming from like fifty feet away and there being almost no one on the road.

The camera angles are cut very tight to ensure we don’t notice how easily Jessica could have avoided him. Anyway, his name is Daniel and he’s an inventor. He wasn’t looking where he was going because he has a ridiculous device in his bicycle which monitors his heart rate and blood pressure and tells him how fast he’s going. Unfortunately, it says 22 miles per hour while he’s stopped, so it’s not working.

We learn from this that he’s an absent-minded brilliant inventor. And from the ensuing conversation that the founder’s day picnic is coming up because actual founder’s day (which was last week) was rained out. Jessica wants him to come, but he has a house guest.

The scene shifts to the picnic. There’s various talk, including Jessica talking to someone about how the founder of Cabot Cove, Captain Joshua Wayne, was a pirate who fought on the side of the British during the revolutionary war.

This discussion is interrupted by some guy who runs up to the field shouting for help as a car chases him. He eventually tries to climb up a chainlink fence but the car drives into it (gently) and he falls onto the car’s hood. The car then drives off. A closeup allows us to see that it has no driver.

In the next scene, Captain Ethan Craig tells Sheriff Amos Tupper that there was no one driving the car but Amos thinks that Ethan was drunk. When Ethan asks if everyone at the founder’s day picnic was drunk, Amos responds that it was mass hysteria. Amos then goes into the Cabot Cove Hospital to see the victim and we meet the man who was chased.

His name is Charles Woodley and he came up from Boston to meet an old friend, Daniel O’Brian (the absent-minded inventor). According to the doctor he has no broken bones but he’s in traction for some reason. Anyway, Daniel used to work for his company, Wompco Electronics. Daniel invited Charles and his former partner up to visit. When he got to Daniel’s house Daniel wasn’t there and his cab had left, so we walked into town and a kid told him about the picnic.

In the next scene Jessica stops by Daniel’s house with a pie.

The woman’s name is Katie Simmons and she’s Daniel’s house guest.

We then meet two more characters:

His name is Tony. Her name is Leslie Alder. They just got in a few days ago, which is why Jessica didn’t know that he was in town. They’re going to get married and Leslie has read Jessica’s books and is a fan.

I love the size of her shoulder pads.

Leslie has some stops to make in Portland—she’s in sales—and will drop Tony off somewhere on her way. (They’re staying in town at the old Hanset place.)

As Jessica and Katie go into Daniel’s workshop, we get a view of it.

It’s interesting to consider what a high tech workshop looked like in 1984. Truth to tell, not that radically different from what it would look like now, at least by TV standards. Cathode ray tubes instead of LCDs in some places, and fewer circuit boards, but people still prototype with the kinds of stuff that they did back in the 1980s. Advances in electronics have tended to concentrate in production rather than in prototyping, though I don’t want to oversell this. Someone with money these days would have a high end oscilloscope and a computer-connected multimeter, not to mention small single-board computers lying about.

In the conversation that ensues we learn that Tony met Leslie a month ago and it’s been a whirlwind courtship. Given that there’s probably money in the family, this is, of course, suspicious.

Katie’s here to recruit Daniel for a job in Memphis, Tennessee. The topic shifts to the odd happenings earlier in the day and it comes out that Daniel hates Woodley and his partner Merrill. In his words, the only thing he’d invite them to was a hanging party, and only then if he had charge of the ropes. He storms out and when Jessica asks Katie what all that was about, we cut to another scene.

In this new scene, a man who we presume is Merrill shows up by a chartered boat and asks Ethan for directions to a taxi.

He’s got a southern accent and is looking for the hospital. Ethan helpfully points in the direction of the hospital, which is only a mile away (as opposed to the train station, where the taxis are, which is two miles away). I hadn’t realized that Cabot Cove was so big before, but, truth to tell, it probably won’t be so big again. This episode just wants Merrill to have to walk a long distance.

As Merill walks along the deserted road on the way to the hospital he sees the station wagon which attacked the founder’s day picnic. Once he’s sufficiently ahead of it, the driverless car starts chasing Merrill down at low speed and finally runs him over. Well, it’s about to when we fade to black and go to commercial. This is, of course, more sanitary and shows no blood, but I can’t help thinking that it’s convenient that it also requires no special effects.

When we come back from commercial, Ethan brings Jessica the news of Merrill’s death. No one saw it happen but later a kid saw the driverless car going north on a nearby road. Ethan asks Jessica to go help Amos and she agrees.

Jessica goes and talks to Amos and suggests some questions to ask in a round-about, manipulative way. (Though you could interpret this as helping Amos to save face.) She also points out that Woodley is into electronics and probably knows a lot about remote control, which is the only way that a driverless car could be operated.

(Of course, back in the early 1980s the TV showing the remote operator what the car saw so it would be possible to steer it would probably have been big enough to be seen, but I’m guessing the writers didn’t think of that.)

Also interesting to consider is that if Woodley is the killer, it means he had to have an accomplice when he had the car attack him. My top pick would be Katie, though Leslie is a definite possibility as well.

Anyway, Amos invites Jessica to join him in interrogating Woodley and Jessica agrees.

Back at the hospital, the nurse chides Woodley for having lowered his tension again.

I’m guessing that this is supposed to be him having his leg in traction. Why, I have no idea, since the doctor clearly said that he had no broken bones. That said, this isn’t at all how traction works, so I guess that kind of balances it out.

(Traction used weights on pulleys to pull on the limb on both sides of a broken bone in order to balance out the muscles contracting so that the parts of the bone, which were likely to be sharp, don’t get shoved into stuff that isn’t supposed to have sharp bone shoved into them.)

What they’ve got on Woodley is basically just a leg rest; all it’s doing is elevating his leg in the same way a stack of pillows would. If he had some sort of bruise or swelling, elevation might help (a little) to promote healing. I think that the actual purpose is just to make it look like a hospital room since there’s not much in the way of other props to convey that. Though why Woodley is even in a hospital room is a bit under-specified. Even in the 1980s I don’t think that they’d be very likely to keep someone overnight who has no injuries and just has some (unspecified) pain. I was going to say that they’d just give him Tylenol and send him home, but back then they probably would have given him opiates. They were still handing those out like candy in the 1980s.

The conversation doesn’t really turn up anything useful except that the technology for a remote control car has existed for years and in fact Daniel once built a remote control car for Woodley.

After Jessica and Amos leave, the nurse comes in. Woodley unpleasantly remarks, “Here comes little mammy sunshine,” whereupon the nurse pulls on the cord elevating Woodley’s leg further and he screams in pain. I’m guessing he has a pulled hamstring. Why he’s hospitalized for a pulled hamstring, I cannot say. I can’t even say for a story reason. Perhaps he’s the murderer and trying to distract us by giving himself an alibi. Except with a remote control car, being in a particular location isn’t an alibi.

The scene then shifts to another cookout, this time at Daniel’s house. According to Daniel, he designed a remote control car a dozen years ago. The discussion makes this sound like it’s actually an autonomous car, but I doubt it’s meant to be that. Katie remembers the car Daniel designed and it was great. Even had a built-in protection system against collisions. (Clearly the car that killed Merrill didn’t have that.)

In the next scene, Jessica talks to Letitia, who runs the local phone company, and gets Daniel’s confidential phone records (by asking Letitia to break confidentiality because trust me). Jessica then goes to confront Daniel. Instead she finds Katie and tells her about the phone records. In the last week Daniel’s house made two calls to Boston. One is just to a bank, the other was to Charles Woodley’s private office. Katie recognizes the number because she used to work for Woodley. Katie seems crestfallen that Daniel lied, but Jessica points out they only know that the calls came from the house.

Jessica then asks why Daniel was fired, and the explanation was that he was a futuristic genius. That’s not much of a cause for firing someone, but there can’t really be much of a cause that preserves Daniel as a successful genius. When he was fired, they tried to take all of his designs and Daniel hired a lawyer and lost most of his money suing to get his designs back. Katie then goes on about how Daniel couldn’t hurt a fly. To prove this point, Daniel brings out his latest invention—an ultrasonic bug deafener which is supposed to drive aphids into other people’s yards in order to protect his roses.

For some reason this ultrasonic noise makes a bunch of dogs run up and start digging around the roses, which is played for comic effect.

Later, Tony and Leslie are over at Jessica’s place for dinner with Ethan. They discuss the days’ activities, which was a large, fruitless search for the car which covered most of the area around Cabot Cove. Amos thinks that the car was smuggled out of the area in a moving truck. Jessica asks if they checked the stretch of woods just east of the old Gentry farm. Ethan is dismissive because it’s so overgrown you couldn’t hide a tricycle in it, but Jessica says that she jogs every morning and knows that there are at least a dozen ways in and out of it.

The next morning Jessica shows up at Amos’s office to argue over looking there. Amos is being a world-class idiot and refuses to investigate. Jessica decides to investigate on her own. Of course, she finds the car. In fact, she finds it riding in on a bicycle. Oddly, she’s signaled to the location by someone with a black glove using a mirror to catch Jessica’s eye.

(This screenshot was taken a moment after a blinding flash of light.)

The path Jessica is riding her bicycle on is wide enough to fit two cars side-by-side, so I have no idea what Ethan said that this area would be inaccessible even to a tricycle. Anyway, Jessica finds the car in a large clearing.

I think that this is meant to look like an artistic shot but I suspect it’s the best way to disguise that wherever this was actually shot was not an overgrown wood. As Jessica goes up to investigate, we see a black van pull up along some other, presumably nearby, road. Foolishly, Jessica gets in the murder car.

A mysterious figure with a black glove flips the “door” switch which closes the door.

I love TV control panels. This is a ridiculous user interface unless it was specifically designed to trap Jessica, in which case I wonder why it has separate door and lock switches. Anyway, the figure locks the car, Jessica finds she can’t get out, and the car starts up and begins to drive. The van follows like fifty feet behind. Jessica tries to overpower the wheel but fails. The car drives mostly at about fifteen miles per hour but we get tons of screeching tire sounds like it’s going sixty.

As Jessica is being driven through town Ethan spots her as he’s driving by in his truck, turns around, and begins pursuit. Eventually they come out the other end of town and are on the coast road.

At some point the car Jessica’s in starts driving off the road and towards the cliff by the light house. Suddenly, right as the car is about to drive off the cliff and the music has us at a fever pitch, the gloved hand in the black van flicks the brakes switch and the car stops. The gloved figure in the van turns everything off and they can open the car. The van drives off, but not before Ethan sees it.

At Sheriff Tupper’s office, Amos says that the remote control device is a lot like the one Daniel invented. They also found a bunch of Daniel’s papers in the back of the station wagon. Amos is afraid this obviously planted evidence means that he’s going to have to bring Daniel in for accusing questioning.

Back at Daniel’s house, he’s going through his files looking for the papers they found in the back of the station wagon. Jessica asks Tony if he and Leslie went directly home last night and they didn’t. They stopped off at Daniel’s house and saw Daniel and Katie. Jessica asks if they happened to mention Jessica’s idea about the location of the driverless car and he says that he did.

Daniel then finds the papers, which means that Amos has to bring him in because the device in the car looks exactly like Daniel’s designs. As Amos takes Daniel in and sad music plays, Leslie drives up.

That night Leslie tells Tony that Daniel has been acting strangely. She thinks they should arrange to have a psychiatrist examine him.

I’m really starting to think that she’s in league with Woodley and Katie is a misdirection by the writers. Leslie’s sales business is so vague it could easily be a pretense, but the problem is that the writers would be this vague even if it’s real so we can’t tell whether that’s a clue or just the writers being lazy. If she is in league with Woodley, pretending the clue is actually the writers’ laziness is pretty cheesy.

The next day Jessica discusses Daniel with Katie. We find out that Woodley and Merrill were in a 50/50 partnership where Merrill provided the money and Woodley ran the company. Now Woodley gets everything, though there are rumors that the company is in financial trouble.

Jessica visits Daniel in jail and they talk about Daniel’s troubles. Tony got him a lawyer who wants a psychiatric evaluation to try for a plea of temporary insanity. Also, they lay the grounds for a romantic sub-plot between Daniel and Katie.

In the next scene Jessica is walking her bicycle (which has a flat tire) along murder road (i.e. the same road Merrill was killed on) when Tony picks her up. They discuss the case a little, but then we get the real reason for this scene: Tony has to stop for gasoline. The gauge has been unreliable and he doesn’t know how much gasoline he has and with Leslie going back and forth to Portland, it might not be much. The gasoline only costs $7.08, which with a national average gasoline price in 1984 of $1.13 and the vehicle they’re in probably getting around 20 miles to the gallon, means that the car’s only been driven around 125 miles since it was last fueled up.

This could mean anything or nothing since Leslie might have refueled anywhere along the trip, but I think this is a clue against her and I suspect that Jessica thinks so too because she suddenly “has something in her eye” and asks if there’s a tissue in the glove box. This allows Jessica to look at the rental slip which has the mileage the car was rented at written on it.

Jessica then takes a tissue and pretends to get the pretend thing out of her eye.

Back at home Daniel looks over his workshop as sad music plays. Then Tony shows up to take Daniel to the psychiatric evaluation. Katie weeps as if he’s going off to be executed, and as they drive off we fade to black and go to commercial break.

When we get back from commercial break Jessica is buying groceries at the local grocery store. I can still remember when there were little grocery stores which looked like this:

It’s a distant memory and I far prefer modern supermarkets with their vastly better selection, but this does bring back memories of when I was a tiny child.

Anyway, there’s an arcade game in back which Ethan is playing and his loud complaining attracts Jessica’s attention. Jessica talks to Ethan as he plays and it comes up that the same van was seen at the picnic. By who, I don’t know—certainly not by us. Jessica works out that it’s the control van. I’m not sure why they have Jessica work this out so much later than we are shown it, but obviously Jessica is correct.

They then get in an argument over the video game and Jessica plays it. We see this from the perspective from the inside of the video game screen, which is a great shot:

They bicker like an old married couple as they always do. When Ethan says that Jessica should ease off the speed until she has the hang of it, she suddenly realizes the solution to the mystery and leaves.

In the next scene Tony and Leslie pull up in their rental car and ask the Sheriff “what’s this all about?” The this is explained to be a reconstruction of the events of the picnic. Mr. Woodley has agreed to help in the reconstruction. Leslie asks about this and Amos points out who he is—the guy with the cane.

Apparently they take hamstring pulls very seriously in Cabot Cove.

Anyway, the goal is to jog people’s memories and Amos thought that Tony should be here since he’s Daniel’s nephew (and Daniel is suspected of the crime). As Tony goes to talk to Jessica, the black van drives up and ominous music plays.

There’s a bit of chitchat then Amos and Woodley, who are walking over to take their places, are surprised by the driverless car coming onto the field and chasing Woodley again. He throws away his cane and runs as fast as he can away from the car, just as he did on the founder’s day picnic.

Leslie looks at the black van, then decides that she has to do something and runs over to it as Woodley is calling out to her to stop it. When she looks inside, Jessica signals to Ethan to stop the driverless car.

Jessica then asks Leslie why she rushed over to the car and Leslie said that she thought she might drive it onto the field and in the way of the driverless car to protect Woodley. She chose this one because it’s bigger than her own car. Jessica replies that it certainly is bigger, but probably doesn’t get the gas mileage of her car. Jessica then points out that she never went to Portland—the car mileage proves that.

Leslie begins to blame Woodley, who tells her to shut up because the Sheriff doesn’t have any evidence against them and they should keep it that way (he’s not quite so explicit). Leslie protests that if she goes, then Woodley goes too.

That night at dinner with Ethan, Daniel, and Katie, Jessica explains how she figured it out from the video game. She kept crashing into everything, even when she slowed down. Then she thought about the speed of the driverless car and how slow it went. Had the person remotely driving it wanted to kill Woodley, it would have overtaken him easily. While it is true that Leslie drove the car slowly so as to not hurt Woodley, Jessica’s experience with the video game actually suggested the opposite—that the driver went slow because it’s hard to drive a car remotely, not because they wanted to spare Woodley. All’s well that ends well, I guess.

Anyway, it was a simple plan motivated by money. Woodley would control the entire company with Merrill out of the way and Leslie would, as Tony’s wife, control Daniel’s estate once he was ruled insane for killing Merrill. While Daniel didn’t think the estate was worth much, there were designs in it which were the key to a multi-million dollar contract Woodley had just signed and he needed control of them. Also, it was Leslie who made the phone call to Woodley’s number in order to frame Daniel.

With everything explain, Daniel proposes marriage to Katie as Ethan and Jessica excuse themselves to go play the video game. There’s a tournament on and Ethan, as the reigning champion, feels obliged to defend his title. Jessica asks if she can join in, and warns Ethan that she’s been practicing. He asks how much practicing and we go to credits.

I really can’t tell why this feels like a stupid episode. The basic bones of it are decent—Daniel has a treasure he doesn’t know he has and Woodley and Leslie are acting in concert on a plan to get it. That’s a decent murder mystery plot worthy of a golden age mystery. I suspect that it’s the remote control car which is at the center of the story. I’m not entirely sure why, though.

I think part of it is just the high-tech nature of it doesn’t feel right. Murder mysteries are supposed to be about human nature, which doesn’t change over time. By introducing a high tech component, it breaks the feeling of universality. But I think that another part of it is that the technology wouldn’t have worked back in the day.

It’s not the remote control part—that was, in fact, doable in 1984. It would have been expensive, but it would have been doable. It would have been nearly impossible in the way that they portrayed, though, since what they showed was remotely driving a car just by looking at it from a distance. Translating vectors to frames of reference you’re not in is an incredibly difficult skill to master, especially in unfamiliar circumstances (very few people can drive toy remote control cars, which use that kind of control, without tons of practice). I seriously doubt that any normal person could accomplish it while driving their own car, as would have had to have happened when Jessica was being driven around. It’s almost a detail that it would be basically impossible to do when you can’t see the car you’re controlling because it’s around a bend, as we saw happening during parts of the scene in which Jessica is driven, or as had to have happened during the founder’s day picnic since the van certainly wasn’t following the car then.

Fun fact: at roughly the same time on TV there was a show called Knight Rider about Michael Knight and his intelligent, self-driving car Kit. The special effect for Kit driving himself around with no driver was accomplished, not with remote control, but by having a special version of the trans am they were using for Kit that had no driver’s seat and a stunt man driving the car leaning back and wearing a trans am seat cover. These days it’s really obvious on the Knight Rider blu-ray but back in the early 1980s TVs weren’t high-res or clear enough to tell. I have a suspicion that they did something similar for this episode.

I asked my teenage son why this premise seems so ridiculous, and I think he made a good point: buying a car where the license plate and registration aren’t traceable to you, getting it to Cabot Cove, and setting it up to be driven by remote control (to say nothing of sufficiently practicing controlling it) would be expensive and time-consuming. If you have this kind of time and money to commit murder, there are many better, more reliable methods. Even if you take into account the desire to frame an inventor, this should still shouldn’t crack the top ten on the murderer’s list of possible means.

Leaving that aside, there are, of course, some loose ends. How did Woodley and Leslie know each other? This plan required quite a lot on Leslie’s end—she had to marry Tony for years as well as murder Merrill. That’s a heck of a plan for two people to enter into. Woodley is the one who had the requisite knowledge to come up with it, while Leslie did approximately all of the work. I feel like it should come out that she’s actually Woodley’s daughter, or something like that. They needed some kind of strong connection in order to cooperate like this, and a romantic connection feels wrong for several reasons.

Another loose end is the question of how Leslie and Woodley knew the area well enough to hide the driverless car in a location that only Jessica knew was accessible, and only because of her jogging habits. This is so glaring a problem that it really should have been a clue. For example, Leslie having been around a lot since getting to know Tony could have explained how it wasn’t only Daniel who could have known about the hiding place. Or else that Woodley couldn’t have been acting alone, since he didn’t have time to find that hiding spot.

Their plan to kill Merrill was also a bit… improbable. I mean that even if we set aside the driverless car. The plan involved persuading Merrill to take a chartered boat into Cabot Cove and then waiting in ambush along a deserted road from the docks to the hospital. Had Merrill been able to find a taxi or even just gotten a lift from someone, they wouldn’t have been able to kill him. Again, I’m forced to wonder how they knew Cabot Cove so well.

Here, by the way, is the front of the Cabot Cove hospital:

There is about twenty five feet of building to the left of the door. This is established with a shot that follows Ethan and Amos as they walk-and-talk. This screenshot from a moment earlier might help to show this:

The bush (or small evergreen tree) you can see on the right in this screenshot is the same as the one you can see to the left of Amos in the shot with the door. It’s clearly not a big building. The way that they frame it, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually a single-story building and they’re trying to pretend that it’s a multi-story building. That blue thing on the left is a postal drop box. Here, by the way, is the very beginning of the scene, right before Ethan and Amos round the corner of the building:

I love the sign saying “NO PARKING DOCTORS ONLY” in front of some gravel.

I don’t really know why this hospital would be located a mile away from the docks, which seem to be the center of Cabot Cove. I suppose that this is just part of how the size of Cabot Cove changes radically depending on the needs of the episode. Sometimes it’s a small town where everyone knows each other and sometimes it’s big enough to support a high school with a full football team. In this episode they put the hospital a mile out of town along a deserted road; I expect that in some episodes the nearest hospital is going to be in another, larger own.

Another loose end is why Leslie lured Jessica into the car only in order to drive her to the edge of a cliff then stop. I can’t see how this benefited her at all and—though no one remarked on it—it probably gave Daniel an alibi since he was likely with Katie. For that matter, Katie could probably give him an alibi for the founder’s day picnic and the murder of Merrill, too, since they were constantly spending time together. Until it was revealed that there was a control van which had to be nearby, that probably didn’t matter much, but once that was revealed, that kind of alibi would be significant.

Technically it’s a loose end that they never so much as mentioned who the vehicle or license plate was registered to. On the other hand, I assume that Woodley and Leslie took the elementary precaution of not using their own vehicle for this, or at least not one traceable to them, so I’m inclined to overlook this as just saving time.

I really want to say some positive things about this episode because I think that the clues about Leslie were pretty well done and I feel like there has to be more positive things to say about this episode, but I can’t think of anything.

Well, I do like the Cabot Cove scenery. That’s always nice. The world-building of the small town where everyone knows everyone else is really fun. TV shows with recurring characters and locations leaned heavily into the parasocial aspect of television and for Murder, She Wrote that mostly meant the Cabot Cove episodes. The parasocial aspect of television is enjoyable, even if it’s not always the healthiest thing. But as long as we recognize it for what it is, I think it can be safely enjoyed.

So far, Murder, She Wrote is off to a pretty shaky start. Deadly Lady was solid, but every episode since then has featured something wacky. Lovers and Other Killers kept the wackiness to a few scenes, but in this episode we’re back to weird gimmicks. It’s been long time since I’ve seen the episodes coming up, but looking over the list I think that the show is going to settle down soon. I’m looking forward to that because wacky doesn’t work for Murder, She Wrote.

Next week we’re in Chicago for We’re Off to Kill the Wizard.

The Star Wars Hotel

Jenny Nicholson has an interesting 4-hour video on the Star Wars hotel (officially, Star Wars: Galactic Starcruiser):

It’s an interesting and entertaining video on the rise and fall of Disney World’s star wars hotel. If you’re in the mood for that kind of thing, I recommend it. If this is too long for you, the tl;dw is that the Hotel opened in spring of 2022 as a Star Wars sequel trilogy themed LARP hotel where there’s a running story with actors who sometimes walk around the “ship” and you, in theory, get to take part in the story. It seems like the taking part in the story is mostly theoretical, much of it being done with dialog trees on an app where characters are texting you, and after a few successful months interest faded quickly and the hotel was shut down permanently in the fall of 2023.

I just wanted to share a few thoughts on the thing.

Galactic Starcruiser looks very much like an idea which was going to be super cool and somewhere about three quarters of the way through implementation Disney realized that they couldn’t do it, and so scrambled to come up with something that could plausibly be considered a version of what they promised. They had wanted an interactive story, and that is doable if you have something like a 3:1 ratio of actors to guests. That would be expensive, but Galactic Starcruiser was. It was roughly $3000 per person for two days and two nights; that’s inclusive of food but still in the right ballpark to pay for a 3:1 ratio of actors to guests.

But for whatever reason, they didn’t go that route. Maybe they ran afoul of occupancy limits, maybe they couldn’t reliably hire enough actors. Whatever the reason, they ended up going more in the direction of a 1:20 actors to guests ratio. At that kind of ratio, it’s not possible to have any kind of interactive story where most guests are more than just extras. “Come pay a lot of money to be an extra in a star wars story that only you see” is not really a promise of “live out your star wars story,” so they had to come up with something. Enter the app.

Disney World has an app for using the parks and this was extended with gameplay for Galactic Starcruiser. Human beings can’t meaningfully interact in a dramatic way with 200 people, but a computer can. Well, not meaningfully, but it can interact with them, anyway. And so all of the interactions which had consequences consisted of texting back and forth with characters in the app going along dialog trees and doing miscellaneous activities which can be supported on a pre-existing phone app such as scanning QR codes on crates, ostensibly to help the characters you’re texting with. Of course, since the actors aren’t going to do anything differently based on how around 200 people interacted with an app, the consequences of these actions were mostly limited to scheduling you to appear at various scenes that would happen throughout the “ship” at different times. The actors’ dialog would be set up to be as compatible as possible with people thinking that their actions had affected the story, but that can’t be very much, at least for people over 8 years old.

Curiously, Disney didn’t even really commit to this approach. Most of your immersive experience being on a screen isn’t wonderful, but they didn’t even give you an exotic screen from the hotel. They just had you use your own phone. So you spent $3000 to go to a hotel where much of your time was taken up staring at your phone. I like my phone but I don’t go on vacation to spend more time with it.

It would have been easy enough to provide the guests with tablets that had star-wars themed cases (that beige metal with rounded corners which screams Star Wars, for example). That wouldn’t be a huge improvement, but it would have been an improvement and would have given guests something in their hands which is in-character and special.

It also wouldn’t have been that hard to make a recombining branching storyline. You can’t make it branch based on individual actions, but you could based on cumulative actions. For example, you could have guests on the First Order side look for hidden contraband, and depending on how much they find the resistance would smuggle some or most through, and the characters may have to do something different if it’s only most of the contraband. You’d still go to the next major story beat no matter what, but how you get there would be different and people would feel that they contributed to the outcome, much in the way that individual soldiers contribute to victory in a battle.

I find it weird that Disney did none of this nor anything like it, and relied on generic, ambiguous dialog to allow people to persuade themselves that they did something if they’re inclined to do that.

This weird course change also explains some of the really strange things, like how the hotel was quite small and everyone was expected to play the game that existed. This is an absurd design, since with a 1:20 actor-to-guest ratio it’s necessarily not a good game. It would have made far more sense to have a much larger hotel, with more things to do such as a pool, an arcade, etc. which cost a lot less and participation in the actor-driven game was a significant up-charge. That would make the cost structure far more bearable, make the actor-to-playing-guest ratio much better, and also make it more fun since there would be people watching the people who paid extra. And the people watching wouldn’t feel left out because they know that the people who are participating in the storyline paid like three times what they did for their stay. Plus most people don’t actually want to LARP anyway. If I, for example, was forced to stay at a hotel like this, I’d pay an upcharge for some kind of badge to wear which made the actors leave me alone.

There’s another really curious issue: did anyone like the sequel trilogy well enough to spend money to have a vacation themed with it? (The fact that the hotel closed does suggest an answer is no.)

I have a hard time believing that anyone could, or that at any time the answer could plausibly have been yes. This isn’t just about the sequel trilogy having been really bad. I mean, that certainly didn’t help, but apart from that the sequel trilogy wasn’t even coherent.

I haven’t seen The Force Awakens but plot synopses make it clear that the main driver of its plot is the search for the map left by Luke Skywalker in case the galaxy should need him. The Last Jedi simply throws this out. Luke Skywalker is a depressed old loser, the Jedi are terrible and should die out, etc. Love it or hate it (and there’s something wrong with you if you love it), this story simply doesn’t go with the first one. Worse, by the end of the film it is clearly established that there is no hope left in the galaxy and the Resistance has been so destroyed that it now fits on a single small ship. If you like this tale of incompetence and defeat, I don’t see how you can also like The Force Awakens, which is a hopeful story about main characters who are at least competent and striving to make the world a better place with some success. Yes, it is normal for the second movie in a trilogy to be a setback for the heroes, but not for it to be a complete defeat, due in no small part to their radical incompetence. Those are just dissonant, unless you pay no attention.

Then we come to The Rise of Skywalker, which again throws out a bunch of stuff from the second movie. Luke Skywalker straight-up says that he was wrong about stuff he said in The Last Jedi, and the galaxy is established to not be hopeless, and the good guys win through gumption, courage, and competence. Oh, and while the second movie claimed that Rey was no one—gutter trash whose parents sold her for drinking money—The Rise of Skywalker establishes her as the granddaughter of the Emperor. Again, this is just dissonant with the second movie. It also has minimal continuity with The Force Awakens, though I am on shakier ground, there, since I didn’t see the first one and only read detailed plot synopses. There is the redemption of Kylo Ren, so admittedly that is one through-line in the two movies. Turning Rey into a Palpatine is absurd and quite at odds with the first movie, but then so is Palpatine being alive. Again, these movies don’t really go together unless you pay no attention.

And the problem that I see, when it comes to marketing, is that people who don’t notice that movies don’t go together because they pay no attention don’t seem like a promising place to look for people who want to pay $3000 for a two-day vacation filled with stuff related to these movies.

The timing of the hotel with the movies is also a bit odd. They want Kylo Ren, and they want him in his Darth Vader knockoff mask because that makes casting easier, so they are forced to set the hotel inbetween the first and second movie. Except they can’t do that, because there was only about a day between the first and second movie and they also want Rey and she was off on Achtung at the end of the first movie. And Kylo had destroyed his mask halfway through the second movie and was dead by the end of the third movie, and had only rebuilt it for a little while during the third movie. So really, there’s no plausible time to have set Galactic Starcruiser. Now, this fits in with people who pay no attention and don’t care about details, but again that seems an unlikely place to look for people who will want to pay $3000 for a two-day “immersive” experience. What’s the point of immersion if you’re not going to pay any attention to it? Why pay $3000 for something you don’t intend to remember?

It would have been different had the movies been good, or even if they were just coherent with each other. I’m not in the target market for this, so I can’t draw on my own intuitions, but I can at least imagine someone who loves a trilogy of movies spending a lot of money for a day or two of pretending that he’s in them. But other than that one who who did the trailer reaction where he was crying at the beauty of everything equally causing many people to question his manhood and most people to question his sanity, I can’t imagine someone loving these movies. They just don’t cohere enough for that to be possible.

And given the spectacular failure of Galactic Cruiser, I guess I’m not going out on much of a limb.

There Was No Time in Which Most People Were Great

I’ve noticed in the last decade or so something of an increase in people complaining about how awful so many people are now. The intended implication is generally that society is doomed, but the real implication is that you can’t just pick anyone as an employee/wife/husband/whatever. The thing is, it’s always been that way.

There never was a time when it worked to hire just anyone. There never was a time when it was a good idea to marry just anyone. Yes, society can be organized in such a way that the pools of people from which it would be reasonable to pick were larger, but there was no time in which it was the majority of people.

I suspect that in many cases the defeatist attitude is the real point—quite a few people prefer explanations for why they can’t possibly succeed to a realistic plan for succeeding, or at least for maximizing their chances of success.

Having acknowledged that, I think that it’s still worth pointing out that in anything important involving people where you get to choose who you associate with, it’s very important to choose carefully. People find it comfortable to talk about compatibility of personality, and there is something to that. Far more important, though, is to find people who are seriously committed to being virtuous. Not merely people who have some decent principles, or who generally behave well, but who are actively trying to live up to their principles.

This is important precisely because, unfortunately, we all fall short. With extremely rare exceptions, looking for people who have never done anything wrong is mostly looking for people who have never done anything. (This is one of the reasons why it’s so easy for young people to pick girlfriends/boyfriends badly; they’re far more likely to mistake someone who’s never failed because they’ve never been tested for someone who’s never failed because they’ve always done well.) Looking for people who are committed to being virtuous solves the dilemma of how to sift through the people who have failed—the ones to pick are the ones who keep trying.

And the thing is, realistically, this is a minority of people, and always has been. And as long as you’re looking for a person who is in the minority, it’s going to be a long, difficult process to find them. So we’ve got to do the same thing that people always had to do—cast a wide net, be selective, and live in hope.

That and realize that the cross we may be given to bear is not finding anyone suitable.

Murder She Wrote: Lovers and Other Killers

On the eighteenth day of November in the year of our Lord 1984, the fifth episode of Murder, She Wrote aired. Titled Lovers and Other Killers, it is set in a university in Seattle. (Last week’s episode was It’s A Dog’s Life.)

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The opening is unusual for Murder, She Wrote; it begins with a burglar dressed all in black and with a flashlight (that’s the bright spot in the opening card above) rummaging around. Then the burglar goes into a room with a large safe that he starts trying combinations on when a rich older woman walks in.

The burglar hides and the woman goes up to her nightstand where we get this shot of her telephone and some pictures next to it:

Presumably that’s her son, but the camera spends some time on it, possibly to give her backstory before she’s murdered in a minute. She tries to call someone but doesn’t get them. She then notices the rummaging (opened drawers and crumpled clothes) and investigates it. She picks up a very sentimental music box, whose song tinkles as the burglar creeps up behind her, waits for her to turn around and notice him…

…then strangles her with her pearl necklace.

When the old woman falls dead to the floor, we cut to an establishing shot of the Seattle airport. (The unusual thing about this opening was its length—it was over two minutes long. Well, that and actually having a murder within the first ten minutes.)

We then cut to the interior where Dr. Edmund Gerard (played by Peter Graves) is talking on the phone with his assistant, Amelia.

The subject is Jessica, who Edmund says was not on the plane. He asks her if there was any call about it and gives the background that Jessica said she was definitely going to be on this flight and might be coming with someone. He then spots Jessica and tells Amelia to ignore the call.

We then get to see Jessica and who she brought:

It’s then revealed that the person she was going to bring was Marylin Dean, her editor. The child is named Buddy, and Jessica then hands Buddy to two Chinese nuns.

At least, they’re dressed as nuns and Jessica speaks Mandarin Chinese to them and they respond in Chinese. When she introduces Edmund to them, in English, they greet him in Chinese. They then say goodbye and leave. Edmund calls off to them, “Sayonara” and Jessica scolds him that they’re Chinese, not Japanese.

I cannot imagine what the point of this scene is or how it was supposed to work; why on earth are there Chinese nuns in an airport in Seattle with a baby, and why did they randomly hand that baby to Jessica for a few minutes as they are getting off the airplane? Why would they show us something this strange with no explanation? When did Jessica learn to speak Mandarin? Why do the nuns understand English but not even attempt to speak it? Leaving aside all of the questions of how this is supposed to have happened, what on earth is it supposed to tell us about the characters? Are we supposed to believe that Jessica speaks most languages? Is this supposed to establish that Jessica has such a trustworthy face that random strangers will just hand babies to her and trust her with them to meet up with them later so that they can… I can’t even imagine what two nuns would have to do such that they can’t take turns holding the baby while the other one does it. This is just bizarre.

I suppose the best thing to do is to pretend that this didn’t happen. It’s still early days in Murder, She Wrote and perhaps they were just trying out wackiness. (Perhaps this was meant as a reference to the 1980 slapstick comedy Airplane! in which Peter Graves played the captain who got food poisoning.)

Jessica and Edmund leave and look for Jessica’s luggage. On the way to her luggage we get some backstory. Jessica is in town to deliver a lecture at the university and Edmund knows her from before she was famous. He’s now the Dean of Students at this (unnamed) major university in Seattle.

We then shift scenes to Edmund’s office at the university, where Jessica and Edmund talk with his secretary, Amelia. Apparently Jessica needs a secretary at her hotel, and while Amelia offers to help her, she explains that she needs a full time secretary and Amelia clearly has her hands full. According to the conversation which ensues, she handles Edmund’s personal bills as well as his school work. To prove this, she asks him if he really bought an inflatable raft, and he stammers that he might want to go camping some day. When she tells Jessica that it’s a wonder that Edmund has any money left, he remarks, “There she goes, acting like a wife again.”

Then we get this reaction shot (which will also serve to introduce her):

This distresses her, but then she notices Jessica and she starts laughing as if it didn’t sting. She covers by telling Jessica that she’ll post the secretarial job and one of the grad students will jump at it.

The scene then shifts to outdoors where Jessica and Edmund walk and talk. We learn that they used to hang out in the basement of Kappa Gamma Chi, which suggests that they went to university together. She spent most of her time with Frank, though, and Edmund jokes that she chose the wrong one. Jessica replies that Frank said the same thing—he had a morbid sense of humor. She also asks Edmund if he realizes that Amelia is in love with him, and he dismisses this as nonsense.

The scene shifts to Jessica’s hotel room at night, when there’s a knock on her door. She opens it, but with the chain still on. His name is David Tolliver and he’s here about the job as secretary.

Jessica is taken aback that he’s a young man; he asks if he can come in and she says no. Then she thinks better of this and lets him in. He is bold and presumptuous and apologizes for the late hour by saying that he wanted to beat the crowd and walks to her typewriter and gives a sample of his skills—he types very quickly, accurately, and without looking at the typewriter. He’s a smooth talker and takes the angle that people tend to be prejudiced against male typists.

Jessica humors him, but says that she would feel more comfortable with an older woman. Given that the actor who plays David was 29 at the time of the episodes and he certainly looks no younger than 24, I’m not sure how much older the woman was supposed to be than David is. This job was posted at a university. Did she expect one of the professors to take the job?

Anyway, he smooth talks her and she gives him the job. As he’s about to leave, she asks a curious question: “wouldn’t you rather attend the lectures?” He replies, “Well, actually, Mrs. Fletcher, my tastes in literature run from Vonnegut to Hesse.” Jessica looks a bit taken aback and he wishes her a good night.

Vonnegut is best known for Slaughterhouse Five, while Hesse is best known for Steppenwolf. If you’re not familiar with them (I had to look up Slaughterhouse Five on Wikipedia) they’re nothing at all like murder mysteries and generally quite dark. Which raises the question of why on earth David wanted the job.

Oh, David is also the guy in the pictures in the scene of the old woman getting murdered, so presumably that was his mother. This is our first glimmer of how that opening scene ties in with the rest of the episode.

The scene then shifts to the next day, with Jessica giving her lecture.

In fact this isn’t so much a lecture as a performance; she’s performing a dialog (with voices) between two characters.

We then get one of the most famous moments, or at least one that was included in the credits very memorably:

The crowd laughs, and we got a shot of the crowd. It’s large, as we might expect, though not quite the packed auditorium I had expected:

I guess we can chalk that up to extras being expensive.

Jessica then goes on for a bit explain some ludicrously complicated plot where Little Nell wasn’t deadly because she (Nell) was in a wheelchair and the victim was shot in the temple, the bullet coming out of the base of the skull, a downward trajectory.

This makes it slightly odd that Jessica points, not at her temple, but at her forehead:

She then asks the audience to say, all together, who the killer is, since it couldn’t have been Little Nell, and there was a confused bunch of different answers, to which Jessica answers, “by George, I think you’ve got it. At least some of you.” At which point she looks like she’s done and everyone applauds enthusiastically.

It’s a great showcase of Angela Lansbury’s acting talent, but it’s bewildering if you take it seriously as a lecture. Are we actually to believe that the university invited a guest lecturer to walk them through the plot of a murder mystery, acting it out as she went? This is really more of an act to be put on as student life entertainment, not an academic lecture. While it’s true that universities will give a lot of leeway on what counts as an academic lecture to famous people, even so, it’s not generally a straight-up theatrical performance.

I get that TV needs to be lively but they had the option of opening the scene with her closing remarks, rather than giving us part of the lecture. Realistically, they had a ton of options. And even TV audiences of the 1980s could stand a single relatively dry sentence which sounds sufficiently erudite to establish the lecturer’s status as an intellectual giant. Like the Chinese nuns at the beginning of the episode, this just doesn’t make any sense.

By the way, a downward trajectory through the skull ruling out the killer having been in a wheelchair doesn’t really work because the head is movable. You can get the same trajectory through the skull if the victim was looking down and the murderer was below him. Which you could easily get from a person standing in front of a person sitting in a wheelchair. (This could, of course, be excluded by the bullet having struck the ground shortly behind the victim, but she didn’t say that.) This is kind of just nitpicking, though I do have a point: TV writers of the 1980s were really lazy. Somehow, this worked for them, which I’m still trying to figure out.

And, of course, right after she’s done a bell sounds and the students start to leave. I’d say that the writers had never been to college—or perhaps the editor—but it was also a hallmark of 1980s TV that they thought that the average viewer was an idiot so they would get things wrong just because they thought that the idiots watching would expect it to be wrong.

Speaking of idiots, some guy by the name of Todd Lowery walks up and tells Jessica that her lecture was mind-boggling.

With that jacket, there’s nothing he can be but a professor, which he turns out to be—of English. He tells Jessica that he and his wife are both big fans—and his wife is very tough to fool. Jessica replies, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to try harder.” This is weird since he was complimenting her, implicitly saying that she managed to fool Emily.

Todd’s eye is then caught by a young woman who just came in the door waving at him.

Both Jessica and Todd notice this, and Todd excuses himself. Edmund walks up and congratulates Jessica, saying that her talk was a triumph.

This interests me more than it would most people, I think, because I was quite young when I first saw this and didn’t know to take it as exaggeration. A line from Tom Francis’ parody script for an episode of Murder, She Wrote might help to explain:

JESSICA’S LOVELY FRIEND:
It’s so lovely to see you Jessica! How is your book tour going?

JESSICA:
Very well, thank you. I am a literary titan known to over 75% of humanity and my work is to everyone’s taste.

When I was less than a decade old, I thought that this was an entirely realistic characterization of a novelist’s popularity. Further cementing this was how much the family I grew up in loved books; my mother, in particular, had a fierce love of (good) novels and so this kind of general love for an author just seemed realistic to me. It was only much later that I realized that, with incredibly rare exceptions, this isn’t even slightly realistic. J.K. Rowling may have had success like this, and maybe a few authors like Stephen King or Tom Clancy did. Jessica doesn’t seem nearly as exceptional as they are, though. For one thing, she’s in the mystery genre. It’s popular, but it’s only back in the golden age when someone might be literary-titan-popular in the mystery genre. And that was mostly just Agatha Christie.

I guess part of the problem is that we see Jessica too closely and she’s portrayed as too normal. She never has to deal with being famous, or with being popular; she only gets the benefits of it when it’s relevant. She never concerns herself with what people like in her books; she just writes whatever she likes and everyone loves it. She doesn’t even promote her books. There are no writers in this universe who are not as popular as her. None of this is really a criticism of Murder, She Wrote—Jessica’s being a writer was not really the point of the show. It’s just interesting for me to consider what led me as a child to conclude that this was normal for successful authors and thus the yardstick by which to measure one’s own success as a novelist. And to be clear, I’m not trying to blame Murder, She Wrote. It wasn’t a children’s show and children get all sorts of strange ideas when they watch stuff made for grown-ups. It’s mostly just interesting to see how sub-ten-year-old me misunderstood structures in the writing that were mostly there as excuses to get Jessica involved in the mystery or access to clues.

Anyway, I have a great deal of trouble believing that this talk was a triumph; very few lectures in the history of the world have been triumphs and I simply can’t believe that one which ends with play-acting a scene in which a character mistakenly accuses another of murder and then Jessica points out what’s wrong with the accusation and part of the class figures out who the murderer is with no analysis as to why could be a triumph of anything, whatever exactly the lecture was supposed to be about. (How to write murder mysteries, how to make money with murder mysteries, how to enjoy reading murder mysteries—we’re just never told what the basic subject of the lecture was.)

She asks Edmund about their dinner appointment but he has to beg off because of a faculty meeting. The idea of a same-day emergency faculty meeting is completely absurd. This could easily have been written as Jessica asking if they could do dinner and him saying that he couldn’t, or even explaining that he wasn’t able to get the faculty meeting moved because everyone’s schedules conflicted and they couldn’t find an alternate date. This is just sloppy because the writers were lazy. I suspect that part of this is that they expected that in a TV show no one would pay attention anyway, but at some point people should do their craft well just for the sake of doing it well. God sees a thing done well, even if 99% of the audience doesn’t.

The scene then shifts to Jessica getting home, where David is sitting on a couch reading a book. I wouldn’t normally bother with a screenshot of the book, but this one is very interesting:

Of course, this being television in the 1980s, everything has to be huge to be visible on most TVs. As I’ve discussed elsewhere, the resolution of less expensive TVs wasn’t great and a lot of people had to deal with static due to atmospheric conditions since the TV signals were all broadcast over radio waves. So details like the back cover being entirely a picture of Jessica rather than text meant to sell the book works to make sure that everyone understands that this is Jessica’s book. The fact that it saves trouble writing a back cover that most people wouldn’t have been able to read is purely secondary, I’m sure.

Anyway, it has to be said that The Corpse Danced at Midnight is one of the all-time great titles for a murder mystery. It’s richly suggestive and just sounds great to say. I do fear that it would be very hard to pay off in a book, so it’s good that we never get read selections from the novel or a plot synopsis, but man is it a great title.

Borrowing from the fact that I have actually seen this episode before, the character of David makes my skin crawl every time he’s on screen and he’s supposed to. The actor does a great job of making him both charming and impatient for reciprocation in a way that makes him seem predatory. This is particularly good at setting him up as a suspect in the murder of whoever it is who’s going to get killed, but it does make him an unpleasant character to watch and so I’m going to summarize the parts with him more briefly than usual.

He finished the work hours ago and doesn’t explain what he’s still doing around. He then invites Jessica to dinner, which she declines since she’s uninterested in college student food. He suggests something much fancier, and when Jessica asks if he can afford that he replies, “no, but you can.”

Somehow this results in Jessica taking David to dinner, where he romances her.

As they’re about to leave, and as Jessica tells David that it’s a very nice car he drives and replies that it’s a reflection of the man, Lt. Andrews of the Seattle police walks up and asks David if he would mind coming down to police headquarters because they would like to ask him some questions about the murder of Allison Brevard several nights ago. When David says that he does mind going to police headquarters, Lt. Andrews asks if he would like to come voluntarily or if he would prefer to be placed under arrest, and on that bombshell we go to commercial.

When we get back from commercial break David and Jessica are walking out of the police station. David assures her that it was routine questioning but Jessica objects that two hours is not routine questioning. David says that they are questioning everyone who knew Allison Brevard and he was number 48 on a list of 50. Apparently she surprised a burglar and was killed in a struggle; there were black wool fibers under her fingernails, presumably from the murderer’s sweater.

Here, by the way, is the car he drives:

A reflection of the man, indeed. He assures Jessica that it’s nothing to be concerned about and drives off. They’re followed by what I assume is an unmarked police car.

The next day Jessica goes to the police station and runs into Lt. Andrews, who she was looking for. He’s amused when she says that David said that it was merely routine questioning, but stops being amused when she says that of course it wasn’t, since he’d soon run out of unmarked police cars if he put surveillance on every casual suspect.

He says that she looks like a nice lady and warns her to stay away from David. She’s surprised that he thinks that she’s romantically interested in David and explains she’s only been in the city two days and hired him as a secretary. Notwithstanding, she doesn’t think that he’s a killer. There’s some arguing back and forth in which it comes out that David had been seeing Allison Brevard for several months and she’s the one who gave him the car. After some more bickering, Lt. Andrews angrily drives off, saying that he doesn’t know why David killed Allison, guys like that play by their own rules.

Jessica goes back to her hotel room, where she is surprised and disconcerted to discover David. He gets to the typewriter and asks if she’s ready to start and she says that they should skip today. He explains about Allison Brevard—he has a story where everything she gave him was innocent, largely paid back, and the extent of their relationship was that he found her company delightful, but that’s it. (Jessica doesn’t know about the photos of him on her nightstand, so she doesn’t ask and he offers no explanation about that.) Jessica is noncommittal and still wants to skip today. When asked about the next day, she says that she’s not sure. He asks if he should call first and she says yes. As he leaves, she asks him to never let himself into her room like that again. He replies, “Word of honor.” It is, of course, very doubtful that his word of honor is worth anything.

In the next scene she’s talking with Edmund. When they get back to his office David is waiting to talk to him. He says that he knows that the police have been to see him and he wants to assure the Dean that he had nothing to do with Allison Brevard’s death. Edmund says he’s relieved to hear it, but it’s a pity that he doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder. David protests that he was home, alone, studying all night. He asks for the benefit of the doubt and Jessica says that he has it as far as she’s concerned. Tonight, she’s going to do a ton of writing so the next day he’s going to have scads of typing to do.

I really wonder how that’s supposed to work, given that Jessica notoriously composes on a typewriter herself. I don’t think that we’re supposed to ask what she’s doing with a secretary given that she never uses one at home. Nor are we supposed to ask why David would bother to talk to assure the Dean of Students at a large university that he had nothing to do with the murder. It’s not like they’re going to have a personal relationship, or even have met before unless David had been in trouble.

Anyway, David thanks her and leaves, and Edmund says that that was a mistake. Jessica says that while David is obviously something of a con man and perhaps a liar, she doesn’t think that he’s a killer. If he had killed Allison, surely he would have set himself up with some kind of alibi?

In the next scene Jessica receives a phone call from the pretty girl who waved at Professor Lowery after Jessica’s triumphal lecture. She’s in a bar and says that she’s an anonymous friend of David Tolliver’s and she can prove he had nothing to do with the death of Allison Brevard. She is, supposedly, taking a hell of a chance just making the phone call and doesn’t want to give her name, but she will meet Jessica at 10pm tonight at an abandoned warehouse by the docks, number 33.

When she hangs up an angry looking man walks up and asks her who she was talking to, and if it was “that man” again.

It turns out that his name is Jack, her name is Lila, and they’re still married, though from the sound of it, not for long. They fight, then the scene ends.

That night, despite protesting that she had no intention of meeting anyone anywhere, Jessica shows up, alone, at the abandoned warehouse in a taxicab. As Jessica enters the dark warehouse, a car, off in the distance, starts up and drives away as very ominous music plays. We get more ominous music as Jessica walks through the abandoned warehouse filled with stacked boxes until she finds the body of Lila. Actually, I got a little head of myself. Lila is still alive when Jessica finds her, walking towards Jessica with a very surprised look on her face, but then she falls down dead and we see the bloody wound in her back.

And on that bombshell, the screen fades to black and we go to commercial break.

When we come back, after a few seconds of walking around to make sure that the viewer who stayed behind called to everyone else that the commercials are over and the show is back on, Lt. Andrews tells a detective named Lou to go pick up David and find out where he’s been for the last few hours. He then hands Jessica a cup of coffee and asks if she heard anything. Jessica thinks that Lt. Andrews isn’t making sense in thinking that David did it since this would mean killing his alibi. Lt. Andrews counters that David may not have had an alibi, got the girl to say that he did, then killed her so she couldn’t say otherwise. Jessica is impressed by this theory, but unfortunately for Lt. Andrews Lou comes back and says that the surveillance team say that David’s been home all night and never left.

The scene then shifts to the police station where David, in a magnificent sweater, is saying that he told Lila to not call Jessica because of her jealous husband.

Sweaters in the 1980s were amazing things. Anyway, David claims that he and Lila had been seeing each other off and on and it was finally turning into something, which is why the talk of him and Allison Brevard was so much nonsense. This, of course, presupposes that David was the kind of man to not string an old rich woman along for gifts while also seeing a young, attractive woman for her body. Which he clearly was.

The next day Jessica goes to see Edmund but he’s not in. Amelia is quite cold to her and she takes the opportunity to tell Amelia that she’s not competition. She and Edmund are old friends, but that’s it. Amelia tries to demur but Jessica points out it would take a blind person to not see Amelia’s feelings for Edmund. She asks Amelia to let her be an ally and thinks that all Edmund needs is a nudge, and encourages Amelia to give it. Amelia thanks her and says that she’s sorry about David Tolliver, she’s always liked him. Jessica advises her to not write him off just yet; she thinks he’s innocent.

Jessica then goes to see Lila’s husband (now widower). In the course of Jessica impolitely grilling him, it comes out that David and Lila were just friends. There’s also a great exchange where he says, “You ask a lot of questions,” and Jessica replies, “I’m nosy.” He then asks her if it isn’t time for her to be in class, she looks at her watch, and runs off. How on earth he knew when her lecture was, I have no idea, and I doubt that the writers do, either. This is especially weird because he’s the kind of guy to say, generically, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” which would have served just as well.

At the lecture, Jessica says that she wants to do something a bit different. Let’s put ourselves in the shoes of the murderer. This is, of course, highly necessary for someone who wants to write decent murder mysteries, but in this case it’s just a ploy for her to thinly veil grilling professor Lowery. I guess this is supposed to make Jessica look clever but it really just makes her look cruel. If she had any decency, she’d have waited for a private moment to do this.

When she gets home she gets a note from David that she got a phone call saying that professor Lowery wants to meet her at 9pm—it’s urgent and confidential. That night at 9pm, as she’s going through the dark, abandoned building, taking the stairs because the elevator is out of order, a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs pushes her down.

This is another scene which shows up in the opening credits. It looks cool, which is a good way to mask the switch to a stunt double to get pushed down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs Jessica is groggy, but hears David’s voice, then sees him, but blurry, and passes out. We cut to an ambulance, where David is with her as she’s being taken to the hospital. David heard about her thing with Lowery after he left the note and she was gone by the time he got back to the apartment, so he went to follow her. He got to the English building just as she screamed. He didn’t see who pushed Jessica—he didn’t see anyone.

In the hospital room, Edmund and Lt. Andrews show up. Edmund accuses David of having attacked Jessica and he denies it. He swears that he didn’t do it. Edmund asks if he’s telling the truth, just as he’s telling the truth when he said that he was with Lila the night that Allison Brevard was murdered. When David protests that he was, Edmund replies, “No, young man, she was not with you. Because that night she was with me.” And after a few startled reaction shots, on that bombshell we fade to black and go to commercial.

The next day Jessica is with Edmund at breakfast. He summarizes. A few months ago Lila came looking for a job and Todd Lowery needed a teaching assistant so he put her in touch. (This isn’t at all how teaching assistantships work, but whatever.) After a while Lila wanted to get out of the affair but Todd wouldn’t let her—whatever that means. In an affair with a married man, it’s not the married man who has the power in the relationship. No one considers this, though. Edmund thinks that Todd Lowery is more subtle than Lila’s husband, but just as dangerous. She came to Edmund for help and somehow this turned sexual. Eventually they met at the Lumberjack Inn, which is out of town and not exactly a campus hangout. They were there on the night Allison Brevard was killed. He remembers because they were almost run off of the road by a speeding car. It was almost as if the driver were trying to threaten them, or to warn them. When queried, he doesn’t remember the color; something dark like blue or black. He was confident that they weren’t followed. Lila was so scared of her husband she was always watching to make sure that they weren’t followed.

Incidentally, he pays the check for breakfast and the camera draws our attention to the fact that he paid by credit card.

Here in the year of our Lord 2024 this would hardly be worth mentioning, but it was far more unusual back in 1984. Incidentally, I love the generic credit card, “BankMaster”. Very similar to MasterCard at the time, but just different enough for legal reasons. Incidentally, this suggests he was very likely to put the hotel bill on his credit card, which means that Amelia would have seen it. It was established early on that she read his credit card bills very carefully. Anyway, Edmund says that his affair with Lila was foolish but that it did serve a useful purpose, which is to expose David Tolliver for the liar and the killer that he is. Jessica doesn’t question the liar part but it doesn’t escape her notice that this is hardly proof that David killed Allison Brevard.

Jessica then goes and pays a visit to professor Lowery. He asks how she’s doing and says that he had nothing to do with the phone call, which Jessica says she was already sure was the case. He thanks her for her little charade the day before because it knocked sense into him and he was up all night talking with his wife and next week they’re going to go on vacation together and try to patch things up. (This is an unusual university indeed if professors can just take vacations in the middle of a semester.) Jessica is delighted for him. She asks the color of his car by way of lying that she saw a student nick his blue sedan, but his wife dropped him off this morning and they drive a yellow station wagon.

On her way across campus she’s accosted by Lt. Andrews, who tells her that David has been released. The burglary division got some leads on the jewels that were stolen from Allison Brevard. They backtracked these through a fence to a “three-time loser who was on parole.” This tree-time loser gave a complete confession to the murder.

When Jessica gets back to her hotel room, David is there, waiting for her.

Andrew Stevens, who played David, is an impressive actor. He combines so many things, here, but more than anything looks amazingly like a shark about to eat her.

Jessica is not pleased to see him having let himself in when she wasn’t there. They fight a bit, but at one point he protests that the note really was because he got a call and the person who called asked him to take a message, said it was urgent. This catches Jessica’s attention. He said, “Person” not Lowery, or even “he”. This suggests something to Jessica.

Jessica then goes to Edmund’s office. He’s not there, only Amelia is, and Jessica tells her that she needs to speak to Edmund as soon as possible. She just got back from talking with Lt. Andrews, who is going to get a warrant for Edmund’s arrest for the murder of Lila Shroeder. He has no alibi. She tries to trick Amelia into acknowledging she knew about Edmund and Lila but Amelia feigns ignorance. She does get Amelia to admit that she drives a dark blue car but she denies knowing where the Lumberjack Inn is.

Jessica stops trying to get Lila to confess and starts presenting evidence. She tells Amelia that she’s lying. She had to know about the Lumberjack Inn because she pays Edmund’s credit card bills. When she first met Amelia she was confronting Edmund about a charge on his credit card bill. She then asks why Amelia called her hotel with a disguised voice, luring her to Lowery’s office. Was it to kill her?

Amelia says no, she just wanted to frighten her. That’s why she dressed in black, to make her think it was David. The police were satisfied but Jessica just wouldn’t let it alone. She then recounts the night of the murder—she had come to confront Lila but Lila was just leaving when she got there so she followed her, all the way into the warehouse. Lila spotted her and laughed. She knew why Amelia was there and threatened to tell Edmund. Amelia flew into a rage, grabbed a longshoreman’s hook, and lashed out at Lila, apparently after Lila turned her back to Amelia for some reason. Her story is interrupted by spotting Edmund, who had silently walked up.

Edmund quietly says, “Amelia, for God’s sake… why?” Amelia almost whispers back, “because I love you.” Edmund is stunned and says, “I had no idea.” Amelia replies, “No. None at all.”

It almost looks like they’re going to go to closing credits but instead the scene shifts to the Seattle airport. As Jessica is looking at postcards David shows up with a stuffed bear for her. There’s some back and forth where he tries to push for a relationship and Jessica turns him down. He has the wits to try to part amicably and says, “even casual acquaintances find a way to say goodbye.” So Jessica says, “Goodbye, David. And I do wish you well.” He replies, “And I, you. You know, I was enjoying the writing. Send me a copy of the book when it’s finished?” She replies, “I may do better. You may end up being a character.” He laughs at this and asks, “And what would I be? A victim? A Suspect? Killer?”

Jessica replies, solemnly, “I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind yet.” She then turns and leaves. As she walks off David’s smile is replaced by an angry stare and we go to credits.

The actor who played David Tolliver did a masterful job making him look like a manipulative psychopath (in the clinical sense). And, structurally, it was very interesting to run two concurrent mysteries—one, the mystery of David Tolliver and whether he killed Allison Brevard; the other the mystery of who killed Lila Shroeder. The only real problem with this is that a manipulative psychopath makes my skin crawl and I can barely stand to watch the scenes with David in them. In some cases I resorted to skipping a few seconds at a time with subtitles on.

I’ve got to say, that as much as the episode did have its plot holes, it had an interesting structure which suggests answers for at least some of the plot holes. For example, how did David Tolliver hear of the job posting before everyone else? Amelia thinking of Jessica as a rival and wanting to do her harm explains this beautifully. If she knew David Tolliver would try to prey on Jessica, tipping him off about the job posting—and perhaps not even making the posting public until Jessica had time to say that it was filled—makes perfect sense. It also deepens Amelia’s character nicely.

Another example of something that the structure solves is the weird fact of Allison Brevard having pictures of David on her nightstand but him being completely unmoved by her murder. At first that helps to make it look like he’s guilty, but since he’s a psychopath who tries to seduce older women, it explains both that he was successful with her and also why he was unmoved by her death despite not being involved—psychopaths, by definition, don’t have feelings like that. Further, it makes sense why he would downplay his relationship with Allison so much rather than acting shaken up by her tragic loss—he had moved on to trying to seduce Jessica and the last thing that you want, when trying to convince someone that you’ve fallen in love with them, is another recent lover.

That said, there are things which have no obvious explanation, such as why Jessica wanted a secretary at all given that she famously composed her novels on her typewriter or why she just accepted David rather than interviewing anyone else.

I have a bunch of questions about Lila, too. For one thing, what on earth qualified her to be a teaching assistant for Todd Lowery? Teaching assistants are normally grad students who work as teaching assistants (in their field) in order to pay for grad school. We have zero indication that Lila has a degree in English, and while being young and married to an ex-olympian-hopeful doesn’t rule it out, it hardly makes it more likely, either. But that’s not an arrangement that will pay her in cash—teaching assistantships are pair for by remitting tuition for grad school. Setting that aside, how on earth did she just show up to the office of the Dean of Students, and why did he know about an opening for a teaching assistant? The Dean of Students isn’t Dean of the college. He’s Dean of students. Setting that aside, how did she start an affair with Edmund when she went to him for help in breaking off an affair with Todd Lowery? “I’m trying to get out of a sexual relationship with a controlling older man” is not exactly sexy. Setting that aside, given that she had broken off the affair with Lowery and had started an affair with Edmund, why did she show up after Jessica’s first lecture and to make eyes at Todd Lowery?

Also—and this one is not at the level of plot hole—how on earth were Lila and David friends? People can happen to be friends and in a TV murder mystery we have to be ready to accept some level of coincidence, but it would be nice to have some sort of backstory explaning how the wife of a swim jock and a grad student studying unspecified studies when he’s not romancing older women ever ran into each other.

Obviously, we’re not going to get answer to those questions, so it is what it is. Leaving those things aside, I do really like the plot construction that the manipulative psychopath turns out to be totally innocent of all of the crimes in the story. He seems sinister, of course, and is the sort of person who certainly could have committed the crimes. But he didn’t need to, and in the end, didn’t. There’s a nice kind of commentary in this on human nature, that we want evil to be perpetrated by someone easily recognized as evil, when in reality evil is often done by people who look very innocent.

Not literally by fifty year old secretaries with longshoreman’s hooks, of course. In the 1980s it would have been the extremely rare fifty year old female secretary (i.e. office worker) who had the upper body strength to kill someone with a hook. It’s a great tool for lifting things but an incredibly awkward weapon, making it require far more strength than a purpose-build weapon would need, and given that they were not, generally, needle-sharp, it would require quite a lot of force to plunge it deep into a human body through clothing. (In the 1980s, an older female office worker would almost certainly never have stepped foot in a gym with dumbbells or the kind of strength training equipment necessary to develop the upper body strength required to kill a person with a longshoreman’s hook.) This isn’t as bad as the episode where the victim was killed with a tuning fork through a sweater by a middle-aged woman whose arms weren’t much thicker than the tuning fork, but it’s still well outside the realm of the probable.

But if fifty year old female secretaries very rarely kill people in a way that a twenty five year old male dock worker would find difficult, they do sometimes hate people enough to do it if they could (and get away with it). In reality they’re far more likely to use poison, and far more likely still to use passive-aggressive techniques like reputation destruction, but nice people can wish to do great evil and sometimes go fairly far in their attempts to make it real while staying safe. This is the fundamental truth that this episode gets at. If evil were limited to obvious psychopaths like David Tolliver then we’d all be safe because people like him are pretty easy to spot. He was very smooth, but not subtle. Amelia was subtle.

Next week we’re back in Cabot Cove for Hit, Run, and Homicide.

The Problem With Stopping Bullying

A little while ago, I was watching a Chris Williamson podcast with a guest who studies bullying. One interesting thing about it was the finding that bullying is primarily among popular people. Which makes sense, if you think about it, because they are actually a threat to the status of others and so putting them down can actually accomplish something. But the thing I found really curious was the discussion of how to get people to stop bullying, because both of them didn’t seem to notice that within a secular framework, this is basically impossible.

It’s impossible for the simple reason that bullying works. When you are vying for social status with other people, bullying can discourage them and get them to stop trying to be popular too, paving the way for you to be popular. This isn’t the thing one typically sees in movies where a big guy picks on some small kid. It’s not that that never happens, but it doesn’t usually happen like in the movies. That kind of thing really is just simple theft—you don’t threaten to beat a kid up for his lunch money because it brings you a warm glow of satisfaction or makes you popular with others, you do it because you want more money and don’t want to put in the effort to get it honestly. In movies, mostly the bullies are just externalized versions of a person’s own conscience, and pick on him for his vices or at least the things he doesn’t like about himself because Hollywood writers are bad people and their consciences frequently bother them so they want to externalize their conscience so that they can eventually beat it up to the cheers of onlookers.

In real life, bullying is primarily done among popular kids because they have something of value—social status. Bullying them makes them feel bad and retreat from the things that make them popular. This kind of bullying is covert—in real life you don’t get crowds cheering for you when you bully someone, so you have to do your best to keep anyone from knowing what you’re doing. (Or else tell them stories which justify what you’re doing as protecting yourself or, at the worst, justice for what was done to you.)

In this context, bullying works. You can, through bullying people, make them feel bad. People who feel bad are not as charismatic. They don’t always show up to parties. People stop liking them as much. When you’re around and as charismatic as ever, your popularity goes up.

Worse for the people who want to stop bullying, bullying is one of the more subtle activities human beings engage in. If you try to have any kind of official anti-bullying campaign, some of the first people to use it will be the bullies. They will accuse their victims of bullying them, or the more sophisticated ones will provoke their victims into some kind of retaliation then bring that retaliation to the anti-bullying authority to get the victim punished.

All of this is especially true of female bullies, since females tend to take advantage of other females’ extreme sensitivity to rejection by females. Skilled girls and women can be artists with this kind of subtle signaling which is virtually undetectable to anyone else.

For these and other reasons, bullying is something that authorities (for the most part) can’t directly stop. But what you can’t directly stop you may be able to indirectly stop—you can try to persuade people to not bully others. The problem with this is that bullying works. Asking people to not bully others amounts to asking them to forgo a benefit. Why should they do this?

Within a secular context, now that quasi-religious feelings for nations have been discredited and no one cares, the only viable way of getting people to change their behavior is to show them why it’s to their own benefit to do or not do whatever it is you want them to do or not do. Hence, with drugs, you clearly communicate all of the many side-effects of drug abuse. To try to stop kids from having children out of wedlock, you try to persuade them that having children will suck and tell them in detail about every STD you can think of.

But bullying works and, if the bully isn’t caught, it has no immediate side-effects for the bully. All you can do is to ask them to forgo a benefit to themselves for the sake of another. But the idea that you should love people who can’t give you anything is a religious proposition; it stands or falls on the truth of metaphysical propositions such as God loving us and creating us to love each other (where love is defined as willing the good of the other for his sake). That’s not exclusively a Christian idea, but it is very far from a universal idea.

Two Different Takes on The Same Tweet

I recently put up a tweet which said:

In case Twitter ever stops working, the text is:

It’s easy to not notice when people exercise self control and don’t say things, especially critical things.

It’s healthy for your relationships to develop the skill of noticing anyway and appreciating them for it.

Then, out of curiosity, I asked my friend Ed Latimore (who, at the time of this writing, has over 200,000 Twitter followers) how he’d have written that tweet. Here’s his response (published with permission, obviously):

It’s important to notice what people *don’t* say…

Especially when tempers run high and it’d be understandable if they said anything wild.

I found the differences to be quite interesting, which is why I’m sharing it.

One obvious difference, of course, is that Ed’s version is more streamlined and easier to read. That’s partially because it’s a skill he’s worked hard at becoming good at and partially because complicated grammar is a weakness of mine. My first sentence involved a double-negative, while Ed rephrased to a single negative, which has an easier flow. The second sentence does flow more easily than the second sentence of mine, but more interesting is how much it diverges. In mine I had in mind the fairly tame, if quite common, case of people complaining or criticizing.

Ed went for the more vivid case of people being angry. The tradeoff is that this is less common—for most of us, anyway—but this makes sense to me as something that will grab attention better, which is important on Twitter since the dominant mode of reading is doomscrolling—or whatever the term for addictively scrolling while skimming to find things to interest one is. There is also an element of Ed’s brand on Twitter, which involves having grown up in the “hood” and in rough circumstances. I suspect that’s less that, though, and more about catching people’s attention.

There is still very much the same idea of noticing what a person prevents themselves from saying; one thing about the context of tempers running high is that it intrinsically suggests people doing what Dale Carnegie famously said most fools do (criticize, condemn, and complain). This does give the benefit of economy of speech, since in Ed’s version there’s no need to spend extra words. The use of “it’d be understandable if they said anything wild” also interests me because it requires imagination on the part of the reader. Exercising that imagination will predispose the reader to sympathy with the other (hypothetical) person. That’s something which was lacking in my version.

Ed’s version also makes greater use of cadence. There’s the emphasis on the word “don’t” followed by an ellipsis, indicating that the reader should take a moment to think about the implication of the sentence. Then there is the specific example; beginning it with the word “especially” serves to emphasize the first sentence as well as shape the the thoughts that the reader had on the first sentence. I can see how that would create greater sympathy between the reader and Ed, as well as making the reader feel greater ownership over the specifics that Ed then gives.

It’s very interesting to see skill at work.