As I Knew Him: My Dad, Rod Serling

THE TWILIGHT ZONE AIRS its final show, after five seasons, in 1964. The CBS president James Aubrey says, “It has gone over budget far too many times, the ratings aren’t good enough,” and he is “sick of it.”

Although not in the top ten, Twilight Zone is still getting good ratings, and because of this, my dad’s agent, Ted Ashley, feels he might be able to sell it to another network. NBC is not interested, but ABC is. They won’t be able to use the name The Twilight Zone, which CBS, at the time, contractually controls, and so the title Witches, Warlocks and Werewolves is suggested. This was the title of a paperback anthology of classic chiller short stories edited by my dad in 1963. My dad, though, loathes this idea and suggests something with which he is more comfortable. It will be called Rod Serling’s Wax Museum. He proposes a series using the image of the castle built by George C. Boldt, a millionaire and proprietor of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

When my parents took boat trips to the Thousand Islands, they would pass this massive fortress situated in the St. Lawrence River along the northern border of New York State. Boldt shaped the island into a heart. As the story goes:

Boldt, the millionaire proprietor of the world-famous Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City, set out to build a full-size Rhineland castle in Alexandria Bay on picturesque Heart Island. The grandiose structure was to be a display of his love for his wife, Louise. Beginning in 1900, Boldt’s family shared four glorious summers on the island in the Alster Tower while 300 workers, including stonemasons, carpenters, and artists, fashioned the six story, 120-room castle, complete with tunnels, a powerhouse, Italian gardens, a drawbridge, and a dovecote. Not a single detail or expense was spared. But tragedy struck in 1904; Louise died suddenly. Boldt telegraphed the island and commanded the workers to immediately stop all construction. A broken-hearted Boldt could not imagine his dream castle without his beloved. He never returned to the island and left behind the structure as a monument to his love. For 73 years, the castle and various stone structures were left to the mercy of the wind, rain, ice, snow and vandals.

A helicopter shot of Heart Island with slow dissolves to a closer angle of Boldt Castle. The latter is the “haunted house” of the world. It is a vast multispired stone mausoleum with hundreds of bare rooms. The camera moves closer to the Castle in a series of shots until finally we’re inside its gigantic echoey front hall. Lining the long stairway is a row of shrouded figures that extend into the darkness. Down the steps walks Serling past these figures and ultimately past the lens of the camera to a vantage point (now we are on a studio set) where stands another shrouded figure. Serling removes the wrapping and we are looking at a wax figure of that week’s particular episode’s leading character.

Tom Moore and my father cannot reach an agreement, though, and so the concept goes no further. The Twilight Zone is officially done. The crew holds a “wake” on the MGM soundstage, complete with a tombstone and epitaph: “Twilight Zone RIP.”

At eight years old I am not aware of any remorse on my dad’s part at the series’ end. I believe he has no regrets. I have vague, fragmented recollections of his telling my mother that he is tired, ready to move on, and wants to try something new.

The Twilight Zone ran for five years and aired 156 episodes, of which my dad wrote 92. He is, for the most part, pleased with the show. “We had some real turkeys, some fair ones, and some shows I’m really proud to be a part of. I can walk away from this series unbowed.” He is thirty-nine years old.

In what may be the worst mistake of his life, my father sells the episodes to CBS. He makes the decision not just because he is tired and wants to move on but also because he really doesn’t think The Twilight Zone series will ever generate more money than what CBS is offering.

In April of that year—1964, my dad is elected president of the American Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, the younger counterpart to the Motion Picture Academy, taking over from universally respected CBS News correspondent and anchorman Walter Cronkite. Some people suggest that both Cronkite and my dad have been installed to lend an air of prestige and respectability to the shaky industry group, which does not enjoy the same status as its movie counterpart and its glitzy Oscar presentation. Their expectation is that my dad will make inspiring speeches, lend his celebrity to various occasions.

He is pleased and honored with the position and almost immediately plunges himself into substantive changes. He travels around the country giving speeches on his ideas of what television is, and could become, and is highly critical of the medium and stirring up some resentment. He wants to eliminate any traces or vestiges of the notorious blacklist that denied work to anyone even suspected of being a Communist. He is quietly advised not to open up old wounds and cause new trouble.

He also jumps into a controversy between the networks over how the Academy’s Emmy Awards are to be given out. There seem to be about a zillion categories, and no one is happy with the way they are judged. My dad feels that making an award in each category, regardless of quality, would cheapen the awards and cause the public to lose interest. With Cronkite’s help and backing, my dad proposes that awards should be given by craft—writing, directing, acting, for example—and that if no individual or program deserves an award for merit for the past year’s work, none will be presented. On the other hand, if two or even three works deserve recognition, then three awards will be made in one category.