FROM CLASSY TO TRASHY: AN INTRODUCTION TO THE MADE FOR TELEVISION MOVIE
BY AMANDA REYES
The seventies are considered the heyday of the made for television movie, and serve as an important benchmark in the landscape of our society. Although the first official telefilm, See How They Run premiered all the way back in 1964, this new version of the feature film didn’t really come into its own until a few years later.1 While TV movies appear in different shapes and genres, the medium, even in its most generic form, was a hit, and thousands of films were released on network television over the next few decades.
It is important to remember that in the earliest days of the television movie, there were only three major networks (four if you count PBS), and a lot of eyes were glued to the boob tube nightly. Network executives devised the TVM (TV movie) as an “event,” which is not an overexaggeration. Designed to air once or twice, or, if you were lucky, maybe a few more times in syndication, this was the world before time shifting devices like the VCR, or DV-R, and On Demand or streaming selections, giving people one shot to catch the program as it aired in real time. Nielson numbers were vastly different as well. If a program catches ten million viewers today, it’s considered a success, whereas, almost three times as many people were tuning into television shows in the seventies.
But aside from tailoring the TVM as event programming, it inadvertently served another purpose. For audiences who did not have the luxury of living in a major city, this particular era of the telefilm became a looking glass into the world of genre cinema. Largely considered the bastard stepchild of its silver screen counterparts, the made for television movie shared much with the drive-in and grindhouse theaters: TV movies also wrangled with low budgets, slumming film stars and tight shooting schedules. If not working outside of the rules, the telefilm still found ways around them, often creating stark messages about the changes in the world around us. However, at the time, exploitation cinema was mostly the reserve of urban meccas that could entice a profit-making audience. Those of us left out of this movement of independent genre film instead had three networks competing for our time and attention. In the decadent seventies mass appeal exploitation topics such as hitchhiking, satanic creatures and voyeurism kept audiences glued to their seats. Regardless of whether the networks were eager to cash in on controversial subjects or had a more commendable notion in mind, these movies reflect an era, and serve as a boob-tubed time capsule for a generation who recall many of these telefilms fondly.
The difference between the experiences of viewing a film in the theater as opposed to viewing a movie on television is fairly obvious. The theater is an all-encompassing and strangely community driven act, even though it takes place in the dark and among strangers, whereas the television movie (or even a theatrical film on TV) is seen from the comfort of home, and with the potential for a lot more distraction. The telefilm structure itself is made for commercials, and with an eye on Federal Communications Commission (FCC) regulations. Also, at least in the seventies, television was free, and the idea of diving into a TVM probably seemed like less of a risk than shelling out hard earned cash for a film the viewer might not like. And, did you really have anything better to do Tuesday night?
It is with the idea that mass audiences would eagerly tune into these films that the legendary Movie of the Week was born. In the seventies all three networks were producing television movies but it’s the ABC Movie of the Week that is the best remembered. In fact, “[in] 1971–72, eighteen of the twenty-three top-rated films broadcast on television were ABC [television movies].”2 A good portion of the most memorable films, such as Crowhaven Farm (1970), Killdozer (1974), Trilogy of Terror (1975), and arguably the most famous television movie of all, Duel (1971),3 aired on ABC between 1969–76. The television movie concept proved so popular the network began airing telefilms several nights a week.
In business terms, the profit to be turned from these often-minor potboilers was undeniable. Telefilms regularly cost under $1 million, and drew audiences of twenty-four million or more.4 There was no denying that the networks might not have the complete attention of a mass audience, but they certainly had the ratings. And, this new medium for television quickly arose as the form of programming, with genre movies advancing to the forefront. For instance, The Night Stalker (1972) remains one of the highest rated telefilms of all time, enjoying a ratings/share of 33.2/485 (which in laymen terms simply means that over thirty-three million households tuned in, accounting for forty-eight percent of the viewing audience)! Good numbers indeed. Most films were shot in as little as two or three weeks, and subsequently it became almost necessary for networks to reflect what was going on in exploitation cinema, at least in terms of production, just to keep up with the vast array of looming airdates.
Darren McGavin in The Night Stalker, one of the highest rated telefilms of all time.
Like its theatrical counterparts, the quickies were often genre films exploiting the audience’s love for anything potentially tawdry or exploitive. Dozens and maybe even hundreds of telefilms took its audience to task with varying results. One of the biggest road bumps for genre television films, of course, is working within the restrictions brought upon by the conservative whims of the FCC, which greatly limits the telefilm’s ability to use manipulative shocks. One creative method many TVMs still employ to perk up interest can be found in the salacious titles that bring with them a promise of an exciting night of television. TV movies like Weekend of Terror (1970), Shark Kill (1976), Mysterious Island of Beautiful Women (1979), and Vacation in Hell (1979), rarely live up to their sensational monikers, but when they do, they become instant and unforgettable classics.
Indeed, when the telefilm knocks it out of the park, it finds enthusiastic fans for life. There are several small screen movies that are widely considered bona fide cult classics. Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark (1973), Bad Ronald (1974), and Satan’s Triangle (1975) are now part of a familiar lexicon that represents just a small percentage of original films produced in the early years. The classics arguably brought viewers to their knees, but are still like much of the general telefilm output in that these films travel at a much slower pace than a theatrical release, relying heavily on the ability to sustain suspense without the use of visceral shocks. It was here that the art of genre movies made for television began to fall into the hands of a few skillful directors, producers and writers who took the small screen by storm.
Perhaps the most famous producer of television genre films is Dan Curtis who is also noted for his prolific directing career. After running the show at the popular gothic soap opera Dark Shadows (1966–71), Curtis moved to the world of the telefilm, unleashing the popular Night Stalker in 1972, which introduced Carl Kolchak to the world and spawned a sequel and subsequent short-lived television series. One of the reasons Curtis excelled in the art of small screen horror was his understanding of the medium as one of restrained terror. In an interview from 1973, Curtis remarked, “Some producers don’t care about the story. It’s just an excuse to get a couple of quarts of blood on the screen. That’s not what scares. It’s a mood, a feeling, a whole ambience.”6 And while not always wholly successful, Curtis would go on to produce and/or direct a flurry of entertaining television films, including Scream of the Wolf (1974), Melvin Purvis G-MAN (1974), Trilogy of Terror (1975), and the Supertrain pilot, Express to Terror (1979), eventually helming the epic and breathtaking miniseries Winds of War (1983).
Often working with Curtis was famed author Richard Matheson, who tapped into audiences’ fears like no other. Perhaps best known for penning the classic Duel (directed by a fledgling Steven Spielberg), Matheson created incredibly memorable telefilm fare that was brought to life by Curtis, including the two Kolchak TV movies, as well as Dracula (1974), and the Zuni fetish doll segment of Trilogy of Terror (1975). Sharing the same horror sensibilities, Matheson “preferred to be called a terror writer rather than a horror writer because he considered horror to be merely blood-and-guts gore.”7
With The Over the Hill Gang, the ABC Movie of the Week arrives!
With Curtis and Matheson churning out the more critically regarded genre films, another giant, but not necessarily a recognized face behind television films, is the escapist king himself, Aaron Spelling. In the seventies, Spelling made his own share of classics, and one of his most famous telefilms is the chilling Home for the Holidays (1972), which is the closest the older network TVM ever got to a pure slasher.8 Later, Spelling would grit his teeth over being called the “Cotton Candy King of TV,”9 but he was indeed fond of a lot of those early outings, stating the appeal of these projects: “They wanted different kinds of characters. Not everybody had to be a Marcus Welby-like hero. They wanted characters with flaws, ones that didn’t have to return the following week, and they wanted to attract actors, writers, and directors who didn’t want to commit to five years of a series.”10 True to his groundbreaking nature, Spelling’s The Over the Hill Gang was the first telefilm to go into production under the ABC Movie of the Week moniker, although Seven in Darkness would air first.11 Spelling would produce approximately 140 made for television films in his lifetime.
Throughout its most popular run, several journeymen directors lent a confident, if often workmanlike, hand to the genre telefilm. One of the most prolific is John Llewellyn Moxey. Moxey collaborated with both Curtis (The Night Stalker), and Spelling (Home for the Holidays), always reigning in the violence but making up for it with atmosphere, as well as pulling wonderful performances out of his stars, who were working on agonizingly short shooting schedules. He is behind dozens of other well-regarded titles, such as The Strange and Deadly Occurrence (1974), Smash-Up on Interstate 5 (1976), No Place to Hide (1981), and I, Desire (1982), among others.
Moxey was also the man who put out a telefilm that came the closest to emulating the exploitation genre. His gritty Nightmare in Badham County (1976) took complete advantage of beautiful women in violent situations, and overseas the film was released in a far more explicit theatrical version, brimming with T&A and violence. (See the chapter ‘Nightmare in Badham County and a Brief History of Small Screen Exploitation: Going Down South and Behind Bars’ for more).
Certainly, Moxey wasn’t the only person rolling out one telefilm after another. There are plenty of other television directors of note, and Gordon Hessler, Jerry Jameson, Walter Grauman, Robert Day, and David Lowell Rich are just a few of the names viewers will see time and time again. Some of them, such as Jameson would direct several telefilms per year!
However, most audiences did not tune in because of the behind-thescenes names; they were interested in who was appearing on-screen. In his book, Movies Made for Television, Alvin H. Marill blithely comments, “Ruth Buzzi (or James Arness or Kristy McNichol or Jack Lord or any of Charlie’s Angels) on television is a star; in movies, she ain’t.”12 Marill’s humorous but somewhat cynical observation reminds one of the age-old query, “If I can watch it on TV for free, why would I want to pay for it in the theater?” But despite the idea of such pigeonholing, the telefilm provides a space for TV actors to break the mold of a long-running series in which they were so often trapped.
Perhaps one of the most notable of actors to break out of a stereotype is Andy Griffith, who took on various forms of disillusioned characters in the seventies. Following his sinister performance in A Face in the Crowd (1957), Griffith continued to wow audiences with shocking portrayals of the cynical “modern” man on television. In The Strangers in 7A (1972), he was a poor man who’d given up on life. In Pray for the Wildcats (1974), he was an overbearing millionaire who victimized the struggling “suits” of Middle America (while giving us the great quote, “I’m a hippie with money!”). In one of his best roles, Griffith hunted the greatest prey—man—in Savages (1974). A far cry from Sheriff Andy on The Andy Griffith Show, America’s favorite country boy proved you could walk away from typecasting and sink your teeth into something meatier.
Both Bewitched’s Elizabeth Montgomery and the patriarch of The Brady Bunch, Robert Reed, used the telefilm to exercise some impressive chops. Montgomery fared a bit better critically (and was nominated for several Emmys for her television movie work), becoming the face of crimes against women with A Case of Rape (1974), and Act of Violence (1979), or switching gears to commit heinous wrongdoings in telefilms like the classic Legend of Lizzie Borden (1975), and The Black Widow Murders: The Blanche Taylor Moore Story (1993). Welcomed warmly by fans, Montgomery’s prolific television movie work allowed the actress to prove she was more than a button nosed witch.
Likewise, Reed really dug into dark and lost characters: They may have lost faith (Haunts of the Very Rich, 1972), lost hope (Pray for the Wildcats, 1974), or just lost their mind (Secret Night Caller, 1975). Whatever he was tackling, Reed was up to the challenge and truly broke out of the good-natured father role that he feared he’d be adrift in after life as Mr. Brady.
The telefilm was also a welcoming place for classic actors hoping to make a fast buck in a medium that was still calling for them. Although it is a respectable telefilm, much of the press garnered for The Screaming Woman (1972) concentrated on actors the media felt had already seen their best days. The promotion for Olivia de Havilland, Joseph Cotton and Walter Pidgeon revolved around “yesterday’s matinee idols”13 and de Havilland was quoted as simply stating, “I need to work.”14 However, the viewer reception of genre films starring classic actors was always a touch kinder, and the telefilm offered a comforting place for both the actor and the audiences who loved them.
Other actors followed suit, many of whom, like de Havilland, were celebrities from a golden age of show business, whose work was drying up. Even Bing Crosby got in the act in Dr. Cook’s Garden (1971), managing to find a leading role as an older actor, while breaking away from his (then) perceived gentle demeanor. It is also a fine example of the type of strong writing that aging actors could find on the small screen.
Even with a handful of exceptional filmmakers and eager actors working hard to churn out quality product, most television movies resorted to TVPG related sensationalism to make up for a lack of cash, resources and/or time, and are too often considered throwaway projects. Unfortunately, while several of these small screen films have reached a cult status, few are available. The phenomenon of the television movie, while fairly well-known, still struggles for recognition and remains one of the most overlooked mediums. Why TVMs are relegated to a mere footnote of modern American culture is anyone’s guess. Certainly, the telefilm format may be more in line with factory movie making, but these small screen features crept into our living rooms night after night, and left indelible marks on many a childhood memory. Oh yeah, and that Zuni fetish doll is terrifying.
This book is split up into several sections. The first portion offers a selection of essays exploring a variety of topics ranging from Wes Craven’s telefilm outings to a retrospective on the USA Network’s original movie history. The next section is dedicated to Stephen King and his small screen films and miniseries, followed by a handful of reviews of some of the more popular standalone genre miniseries. Finally, the bulk of the book is comprised of capsule reviews, covering the 1960s–90s, which are split by decade and alphabetized within each section. These reviews provide director and cast credits, network listings and original airdates. There is also an appendix featuring a variety of reviews for films released after 1999 and/or for cable television.
While it would be a great pleasure to give you a review of every made for television movie produced between 1964–99, it is an impossible task. Even some of the most well-known movies remain at large (why isn’t Richard Lynch’s Vampire on DVD yet?). Therefore, we put together the best guide we could with the resources we had at our fingertips, VCRs and so forth.
This book presents many different schools of thought; there are articles and reviews that dig deep into cultural anxieties, while other submissions are simply about relishing in the fabulous fashions, sideburns and general nostalgia presented in the telefilm. The act of movie watching is an individual and intimate experience, and that is no different with the telefilm. The contributors to this book span the globe, from the United Kingdom to the United States to Australia. Much like the films presented here, their opinions and writing are as varied as the telefilms they discuss—and, in my honest opinion, just as fabulous!
So, please adjust your antenna for the best reception.
1The first made for television movie was actually slated to be Don Siegel’s The Killers, but was eventually released theatrically due to its violent content.
2Billy Ingram, “A Short History of the Movie of the Week,” TV Party website.
3Technically, Duel aired as part of an ABC Movie of the Week offshoot: The ABC Movie of the Weekend.
4Kerry Segrave, Movies at Home: How Hollywood Came to Television, pp.113–114.
5Cobbett S. Steinberg, TV Facts, p.181.
6Associated Press, “TV Horror Film Director Ready to Drive the Stake,” Ocala Star-Banner, May 20, 1973.
7Jeff Thompson, The Television Horrors of Dan Curtis, p.15.
8Indeed, Home for the Holidays is often noted as a “proto-slasher” because of how accurately it mimics the slasher subgenre before it was even a subgenre.
9Aaron Spelling. A Prime Time Life: An Autobiography, p.115
10Ibid., p.80.
11Ibid. Spelling offers an erroneous synopsis for Seven in Darkness, stating it is “a drama about people trapped on a subway,” although the film is about a plane crash.
12Alvin H. Marill, Movies Made for Television: The Telefeature and the Mini-Series 1964–1979, p.9.
13North American News Alliance, “Senior Actors Enjoy Renaissance on TV,” Sarasota Journal, Jan 7, 1972.
14Associated Press, “Veteran Glamor Actresses Returning to the Sound Stage,” The Telegraph, Mar 4, 1972.
