WRittEN By rosAnne WelcH The Monkees How a few writers changed the hair-length Hey, Hey, They Wrote (and face) of television. Early 1960s television characters came in a one-size-fits-all, squeaky-clean-cut style, from Dr. Kildare in his white lab coat, to Hoss Cartwright in his white Stetson, to Sr. Bertrille in her white habit. That lasted until 7:30 p.m. Monday, September 12, 1966 when four long-haired teenagers began dancing a Monkeewalk while singing, “Hey, Hey, We’re the Monkees.” Though it looked simple enough, the comedy was about more than four struggling musicians living in a beach house they couldn’t afford, without adult supervision, and hoping for success while engaging in Marx(Bros)ian humor. According to star Micky Dolenz, the only actor with previous television se-ries experience: “It brought long hair into the living room and changed the way teenagers were portrayed on television.” Dolenz’s opinion is backed up by psychologist and author Timothy Leary in The Politics of Ecstasy : “While it lasted, it was a classic Sufi[ism] put-on. An early-Christian electronic satire. A mystic magic show. A jolly Buddha laugh at hypoc-risy. And woven into the fast-moving psychedelic stream of action were the prophetic, holy, challenging words. Micky was rapping quickly, dropping literary names, making scholarly references.” Here’s a less-psychedelic example of what Leary is describing. A typical fourth-wall-breaking bit on The Monkees appeared in Season One, Episode 12, “Dance, Monkees, Dance” (written by Bernie Orenstein). In need of “a brilliant idea” to further the plot, Micky says, “I’ve gotta go talk to the writers,” after which he breaks the fourth wall by walking off the set of the band’s groovy pad and into a dingy writers’ room. The writers? Elderly Chinese laundry men. “We need something fast and groovy and hip, you know,” Micky announces. “Can you do it?” The laundry-writers type frantically on their old Underwoods, then yank the pages out. Strolling back onto the real set, Micky reads the pages, mumbling, “Man, this is terrible. Those guys are really overpaid.” From 1966–1968 The Monkees staff writers churned out 58 half-hours of what Time magazine contributor James Po-niewozik recently described as “far better TV than it had to be. During an era of formulaic domestic sitcoms and wacky come-46 • WG A W Written By NO VEMBER | DECEMBER 20 12 dies, it was a stylistically ambitious show, with a distinctive visual style, absurdist sense of humor, and unusual story structure that was commercial, wholesome, and yet impressively weird.” That distinctive style originated from co-producers Bert Schneider and Bob Rafelson (cowriter-director, Five Easy Pieces ). Prior to developing Easy Rider, the pair conceived The Monkees in response to the mockumentary style and popularity of the Beatle’s 1964 film, A Hard Day’s Night. Schneider and Rafelson created and sold a concept about a wanna-be rock band, but when British bands such as the Dave Clark Five declined their offers, they held an open cast-ing call. Their ad in the September 8, 1965, trade publications Daily Variety and The Hollywood Reporter sought, “Folk & Roll Musicians-Singers for acting roles in new TV series” (the ad described the characters as “4 insane boys”). After further audience research, relative unknowns Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork, and Mike Nesmith were selected to act, sing, play instruments and otherwise conjure up the charisma of the Fab Four. (The auditions are available on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63nhSFFFfJ4). Paul Mazursky and Larry Tucker wrote the pilot but moved on to other projects. (Mazursky evolved into a major screenwrit-er of such classics as I Love You, Alice B. Toklas ; Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice ; and Next Stop, Greenwich Village .) While most comedies of the day relied primarily on freelancers, again Schnei-der and Rafelson tried something different, making The Mon-kees one of the first comedies with a closed staff. Hunting Monkees 1 The hiring process for the writing staff was as eccentric as the casting. Treva Silverman, ultimately the sole female writer on the show, remembers going through a series of meetings while work-ing in New York. “We were told that the show was looking for ‘the New York head’—the quick wit of the New York personal-ity. They didn’t even want a résumé. The producers had told the agents they didn’t want ‘the same old trite Hollywood formula,’
Written By November | December 2012: Page 46
