#lisa sutton

A great deal has been written by far more capable and knowledgeable writers than me with respect to the indelible mark the Bradys have engraved in American pop culture. And though I revel in memories of Friday nights in our 1970s faux wood-paneled family room in my jammies at 8pm, bowl of popcorn in hand, I didn’t imagine I would have a whole lot to say about Fake Jan Day. That is, until last night.

(I’ve been trying to crystallize thoughts of much deeper importance to share on this blog, like the fact that I can’t yet speak the Spanish language in the past tense, or ruminations on the clown car that is the roster of Republican presidential candidates.)

Seth Rudetsky was playing in Provincetown, and I thought that would be a good value for my entertainment dollar. I was hoping he would deconstruct the 1968 Tony Awards performance of Turkey Lurkey Time – a YouTube favorite of mine – and was looking forward to Donna MacKechnie’s double neck snap and that infamous arm wind-up at the end by the cast. Alas, this was not to be, as I came to find out when I arrived at the Art House that it was Seth’s Big Fat 70s Show, the bulk of which was deconstructing The Brady Bunch Hour. Enter Fake Jan, so adeptly acted, danced, and sung by Geri Reischl.

I have to admit that while squarely within the era, The Brady Bunch Hour isn’t really in my zeitgeist, and my friend Peter K., who attended the show with me (and is almost exactly my age), agreed the same for himself. This realization made me feel less-than, as all my friends told me over the years that my job at TV Land was the perfect place for me. And here was a gaping hole in my classic TV expertise: this beyond tragic, train wreck of a polyester jumpsuit fest that gives camp a bad name and Cheez Whiz a run for its money was just a tiny blip on my radar.

At age 12 and a product of a three-network upbringing in a small town in Western New York, I’m not sure I had the artistic critical thinking ability to recognize just how “special” this show was. I imagine I sampled the show when it premiered, but as someone with a fierce loyalty and traditionalist streak, the show probably didn’t ring authentic to me, i.e. I didn’t want to imagine the Bradys anywhere but on the corner of Klump and Dilling in Studio City, mowing the Astroturf and dropping dimes in the payphone Mike installed in the family room. (Yes, I did use “Bradys” and “authentic” in the same sentence.)

Last night was 75 minutes of freeze-frame after freeze-frame and blistering commentary. Seth set up every scene -- each more head scratching than the last -- of half-drowning aquatic dancers, Susan Olsen’s lips moving but Maureen McCormick’s voice coming out of them, Robert Reed proving that white men really can’t dance, and the squirming-est of all, Florence Henderson signing Traces of Love in counterpoint to Barry Williams’ All By Myself as Greg contemplates leaving home to live on his own.

I got to thinking about how technology made this whole trip down Schadenfreude Avenue possible, and I thought of one of the most wonderful memories I have of my days at TV Land: an afternoon in 1998 at Sherwood Schwartz’s house. There I was with two co-workers, guests of the creator of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island in his lavish home in the Hollywood Hills. Now, Sherwood didn’t have much if anything to do withThe Brady Bunch Hour (other than perhaps to collect a check); Sid & Marty Krofft were the responsible parties for bringing The Brady Bunch Hour to fruition. But I distinctly remember Sherwood recounting with a bit of angst being a headliner at classic TV conventions in the 80s and 90s – well after the advent of VHS tapes – as hyper-fans ofGilligan’s Island scrutinized him about continuity errors, akin to “Why on episode seven did the Professor use this map with the lagoon on the left and the mountain on the right, and in episode eight, he used this map with the lagoon on the right and no mountain?” Sherwood said there was no such thing as a VCR in the mid-60s when the show was made, so shows of the era weren’t designed to be under the microscope like that. If they needed a map in the next episode, they drew another map. Net net, he imparted, “Get a life!” to the imaginary zealots in his living room.

I was lucky enough to score a rare interview with Jan #1, Eve Plumb, at the Television Critics Association twice-yearly dog-and-pony show in 2004 in Century City (I just may be inspired at some future point to dedicate an entire entry to the few minutes I spent with Eve). TV Land was celebrating 35 years of The Brady Bunch, and a chance to interview all six Brady kids was pretty exciting (I had already interviewed all but Eve several years prior, as well Florence Henderson). Of course I knew of The Brady Bunch Hour, but the assignment from a marketing and sponsorship perspective was to get as much dirt on the original Brady Bunch as possible before the cast was whisked off to talk to Entertainment Tonight or TV Guide. Had I really understood at the time just how, uh, electrifying the Hour was (I wish Love to Love You Bradys was available then -- an awesome, photo-packed retrospective about the Hour co-authored by my pop culture partner-in-crime at TV Land, Lisa Sutton), my line of questioning may have been very different. Same holds true for time I spent interviewing the Krofft brothers a year or so earlier. And to have heard directly from Eve Plumb as to why she had the sense to bow out of her role as Jan Brady for this infamous sequel would have been pure gold. But that could have ended the interview right then and there. Interviewing Eve was very touch-and-go.

So here we were last evening, a few dozen guilty pleasure seekers chortling as Seth froze the screen and laser-pointed folly after folly. I’m not proud that I laughed as much as I did. I always believed that my time and efforts at TV Land embodied some altruism to the extent that there are personal and societal benefits to mirthful laughter, as opposed to nervous laughter provoked by the likes of Snookie, Simon Cowell, and Larry David. But sometimes you have to call ‘em like you see ‘em. The Brady Bunch Hour, well, deserves a little chiding.

And with one hour left in Eastern Standard Time, Happy Fake Jan Day, everyone.