The Incredible Hulk: Introductory Montage

The Incredible Hulk (1978 - 1981) is a real rarity in cult-tv history. 

It is a comic-book adaptation that is completely unfaithful to the details of its literary source material, and yet remains beloved by fans. For example, the series presents a different origin for the Hulk, omits the comic's supporting characters, and features no comic-book villains whatsoever. 

Worse, the series adopts the tired, oft-recycled format of The Fugitive (1963 - 1967), about a man on the run from the law, with a hapless pursuer forever on his trail but never catching him.

Despite such obvious creative deficits, the stories on The Incredible Hulk, such as "Married" with Mariette Hartley, are enormously affecting and well-written. Similarly, the late Bill Bixby is remarkably good as David (Bruce) Banner, and Lou Ferrigno is the perfect living embodiment of the Hulk, no CGI required, thank you very much.

The carefully-crafted opening or introductory montage for The Incredible Hulk nicely reflects the series' virtues. At first blush, it may seem like an outright copy of the intro for its contemporary, The Six Million Dollar Man (1974 - 1978), since it features a voice-over narration explaining the main character's "accident" and then new predicament. 

Yet on close examination, one can see how adroitly and artistically The Incredible Hulk montage introduces the artistic and dramatic parameters of this revered superhero series.

The first shot is among the best and most critical of the entire montage. It is a close-up view of an indicator flashing red, reading in all-caps "DANGER." 

But, intriguingly, the framing of the word "DANGER" largely omits the "D" at the front of that word.  So, the first image we see is a red flashing indicator that says, basically "ANGER."  

And "ANGER," of course, remains a key concept for this interpretation of the Hulk mythos.  It is extreme anger, after all, that precipitates the transformation from mild-mannered scientist David Banner to gamma-ray-infused juggernaut, the Incredible Hulk.

Following a zoom back from the word "ANGER, we get a view of the high-tech scientific equipment being used in an experiment by Dr. David Banner.  The next several shots focus on the nature of the danger (an increase in "Gamma Units," and reveal that David is, himself, the test subject.

Two additional things to note in the following shots:  First, there is a frequent focus on hands throughout the montage.  

In this case, framing or featuring two hands in the shot represents or symbolizes "balance."  At this point, David's psyche is ordered and balanced, and so when we see both hands positioned are they are, we are to understand that this is, literally, Ground Zero, of the experiment.  David is starting from stability, and moving towards, alas, grave instability.

The second visual we see here is one of equipment being prepared for the dangerous experiment.

Several of the shots featured above generate suspense as they feature the "ticking clock," counting down towards the moment in which David will be rendered unstable, and changed forever.  

The next shot puts David in visual jeopardy, literally putting his brain in the cross-hairs of the experiment. Once again, we get an explicit shot reminding us of DANGER.

At this point, David is suffused with gamma rays during his experiment to "tap" the hidden strength he believes all humans possess, and the X-ray shot of a human skull suggests that his very body chemistry is altered.

In the next series of shots, we understand that the experiment has been carried out, and that David has been altered by the gamma rays.  We understand this from a view of his cells, which undergo transformation and change.

Next, we get a shot of lightning in the sky at night, an indication that David's experiment is unnatural. It has made God angry. 

Together, the following shots juxtapose inner nature (David's changed psyche and physiology) and Outer Nature, or Mother Nature.

Next, the narrator reveals that, post-experiment, when David grows angry or outraged, the change to the Incredible Hulk involuntarily occurs.  

We see one example of this happening. David attempts to fix his car on a rainy night, and again, we see two hands, representing balance, undertaking repairs.

Then, we see just one hand, as David is injured during his attempt to change a tire. The focus on one hand at this juncture suggests his imbalance, and we get a close-up of him screaming in pain and rage. Once more we see the x-ray skull and his altered cells, to remind us of Banner's transformed nature.

Next, as the change from David Banner to The Hulk commences, we move into our first opening title card, indicating performer credits: "Bill Bixby in...."

As we wait for the title of the series (and are left hanging by the word "in..."), we get our first view of the titular character, the Incredible Hulk. Not surprisingly, it is an asymmetrical view: a view of one arm -- much like one hand -- indicating imbalance.  

Thus we understand, psychological and physical balance is lost as Banner's muscles grow, clothing rips, and the Hulk erupts.  The creature is revealed in all his glory, but not before demonstrating his strength by over-turning the damaged vehicle.

After the dramatic title card (above), it's onto the dramatic business of establishing The Hulk's back-story, and his hapless pursuer, reporter Jack McGee (Jack Colvin).

The following frames feature an intense conversation between prey and pursuer, McGee and Banner, that has become iconic, even a trademark of the series.  

David tells McGee not to make him angry, and, furthermore, that the reporter would not like him when he is angry.  

The word "angry" very clearly ties into the opening shot of the montage, which flashed "ANGER" at the audience.

In the next series of shots in the intro, we see fire and explosions, an indication that David has faked his own death, so he can look for a cure to his condition without being hounded by the police, or anyone else.  

Again, the visual of fire seems to symbolize the Hulk's nature too, the anger and rage burning inside. The creature represents a form of anger that burns out of control. 

Similarly, the scenes of fire seem to validate Banner's warning to the reporter.  Don't get too close to him -- or the flame -- or you''ll get burned.

Next we get our supporting performers credited...

The story continues below, as we see David visiting his own grave. 

His defiance of Mother Nature for the advancement of science and medicine has led not to glory or hope, but to the death of his life as it was, a death symbolized by the headstone and the locale.  

The inference? David cannot live a normal life so long as the monster boils and burns inside of him.  The man who he was is now dead.

Finally, a great split-screen shot that I absolutely love.  

In the graveyard, David looks up sadly from his own casket, and we see his face juxtaposed -- split in half, actually -- with the Hulk's face.  

This shot represents a different kind of balance than any we have seen in the montage thus far.  David has split himself, Jekyll-Hyde style, and he will know no peace until he is restored.

The Incredible Hulk opening montage does a terrific job, in 90 seconds or so, of establishing David's back-story, and the nature of the experiment that ruined his life.  

More than that, it highlights ANGER as the thing that he cannot contain, the quality that brings out the monster within. And again, that is a key concept of the series, going forward.

The House Between: "addicted" (Season 3 / Episode 2)

 

Saturday Morning Flashback: Land of the Lost: "Medusa"

The fifth episode of the third (and final) season of the NBC Saturday morning series highlights the mythological Medusa -- snake-haired Gorgon (sister in myth to Euryale and Stheno) -- as the villain of the week.

And indeed, if you are familiar with this bicentennial-era series, it may sound like a real stretch that the Gorgon Medusa would appear in the "closed" pocket-universe of the Land of the Lost. But 1976 was a year of significant format alterations for this series, as we've seen in the preceding weeks.

Specifically, star Spencer Milligan -- playing Dad, Rick Marshall -- left the program. On screen, Ron Harper (Planet of the Apes) took the lead as Uncle Jack, and behind the scenes, Sam Roeca, a veteran of CBS's animated Valley of the Dinosaurs, came aboard as writer and story editor. Also, writer/producer Jon Kubichan joined up.

"The first thing that Sam and I did was watch all the episodes," Kubichan reported when I interviewed him for Filmfax. "I wanted the series to be more fun, and to do something in every episode that was instructive in terms of science."

Roeca was on the same page in these desires and shared a mutual enthusiasm for mythology with Kubichan. 

Together, the new team sought to present in each third season installment "something from the past, from some literature or children's narrative."

This shift in narrative/imaginative focus resulted in a controversial third season that saw the Marshalls grapple with mythological creatures and beings such as The Flying Dutchman, a unicorn, a fire-breathing dragon, the Yeti...and Medusa.

"Medusa wound her way into the Land of the Lost because that actress is my wife," Kubichan joked with me.

"A writer that I knew came in, Greg Strangis, and came up with his story. He said, 'How'd you like to do a Medusa story?' and I thought it was a good idea. He went home, worked out a story, and I made some changes. He re-wrote a little, and that was that."

One reason that humanoid mythological creations like Medusa appeared on the show so frequently in the third season involved matters of schedule and budget. "It was very difficult to do anything with the dinosaurs," Kubichan informed me. "It took a long time to shoot that stuff, so you can't have it done in a couple of days. It takes weeks..."

In "Medusa," Holly (Kathy Coleman), Will (Wesley Eure) and Cha-Ka (Philip Paley) are busy preparing a sort of emergency canoe on the river that the Marshalls explored in first season's "Downstream." Holly boards the craft, and when a dam down-river breaks, she end ups hurtling away from the others. She is rescued by a mysterious woman named "Meddie" (Marion Thompson), and escorted to Meddie's "Garden of Eternity."

There, in the Garden, Holly sees several very life-like statues, including a statue of one Jefferson Davis Collies, the Civil War soldier that Holly encountered with her Dad and Will in the aforementioned "Downstream."

Now, this is a really splendid and entirely unexpected bit of continuity in the series; a direct reference to a program two years previous. The statue of Collies is even seen with his beloved cannon, Sarah.

After Holly learns that "Meddie" has also turned the land's resident triceratops, Spike, to stone, she begins to suspect that she's in some real trouble. Meddie attempts to entice Holly to stay in the Garden by offering her a new, beautiful dress..

Elsewhere, Uncle Jack, Will and Cha-Ka, attempt to rescue Holly from Meddie -- Medusa -- but most grapple with the Gorgon's sentient mirror (!) and the ambulatory, crushing vines that crawl all over the Garden of Eternity. In the end, Jack defeats Medusa by forcing the monster to gaze upon her own horrifying reflection...

Today, Land of the Lost's dedicated sense of creative imagination and fantasy far outstrips the production's prehistoric special effects, which have not aged gracefully. The series is still incredibly enjoyable (the effects are no worse than Dr. Who's; or Blake's 7, for instance...), but "Medusa" is nonetheless hampered by some poor visualizations. 

For instance, when "Meddie" turns into the Gorgon, it's clear that the snakes in her hair are just rubbery, inanimate, life-less things. And her gray, monstrous face make-up doesn't extend fully down her neck. In other words, you can see clearly where the make-up stops and real flesh color begin.

But again, Land of the Lost remains a really terrific Saturday morning's kid show because it is so endlessly imaginative, and because many episodes tend to concern great concepts, whether from science fiction (like time-loops, for instance) or from mythology. Greg Strangis's fantasy story is actually grounded in reality too, and has two very notable themes.

In a very real way -- and this is probably why this episode was so frightening to children at the time -- the episode concerns our childhood fear of strangers. 

Here, Holly is alone and taken in by an apparently kind adult, but one with secret motives. She tries and tries to get away, but the adult is both demanding and apparently friendly simultaneously, and, well, it's hard for kids to go against the wishes of an adult. Here, the stranger is indeed a monster, and Holly must plot her escape carefully. So the story here, in veiled terms, is -- watch out for strangers.

The other sub-text in "Medusa" surely concerns vanity. "Meddie" is ultimately undone by her narcissistic obsession with her physical beauty. According to the teleplay, it is actually "ugly" to be too concerned with one's self. As Holly notes at the end, the problem with vanity is that you might -- like Medusa -- get "trapped" by it.

As a six-year old kid, Land of the Lost's "Medusa" terrified me to my core, but it wasn't just the Gorgon's appearance and frightening ability to turn people to stone that was so powerful; it was the idea that she was a dishonest, untrustworthy adult who was planning to do monstrous things to an innocent child. 

Yikes...now that's disturbing in a real life way; a way that, well, dinosaurs or Sleestak are not.

Today, it's probably hard to conceive that an innocuous Land of the Lost from the disco decade was ever something that was legitimately "scary." But even today, you can detect how the series always attempted to ambitiously present a lot on a very small budget. 

For instance, "Medusa" features one or two very impressive high angle shots of Medusa's lair. These difficult-to-stage angles get across the atmosphere of danger and dread in a powerful way. A kid's show in a hurry likely wouldn't have found the time to pick out the right angle in moments like these, but Land of the Lost remains powerful (especially to the young-at-heart...) because its stories were conveyed with care both on the page and on the stage.

"Medusa" is a strong entry for the third season, which has been some rough sailing thus far.  It's imaginative and scary, even if certain questions about it persist.  Like, for instance how did Medusa get into the Land of the Lost, and how has she so long eluded the notice of the Marshalls (or the Sleestak, for that matter?)

Rod Serling's Night Gallery: "Fright Night"

“Fright Night” is a really fun, often chilling Halloween-styled episode from the third and final season of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery (1969 – 1973).  

In this story directed by Jeff Corey, a writer named Rick (Stuart Whitman) and his wife, Leona (Barbara Anderson) move into the home of Rick’s deceased cousin, Zachariah Ogilvy (Alan Napier). 

The house is completely furnished, but the former housekeeper, Mrs. Patience, won’t stay on the premises after dark. She also informs the couple that Ogilvy only left one instruction about their ownership of the home.  Rick and his wife are not -- for any reason -- to move the crate in the attic.  

“That trunk is not to be moved, and under no circumstances is it to be opened.  Someone will come for it,” she insists.

Rick and Leona settle in at “this very strange house,” but notice something odd.  One night, all the crickets stop making noises simultaneously, as if silenced by an unnatural force.

And on another night, Leona is certain she feels the presence of somebody in bed beside her, despite the fact that Rick is typing away in the attic.  An indentation on his pillow suggests that Leona is not wrong.

Then, one morning, Rick finds that a Satanic prayer has been typed (all-caps…) onto his manuscript. As Rick and Leona grow more accusatory about who may have typed that particular incantation, Halloween arrives -- the one night of the year the dead can walk the Earth -- and Zachariah returns for his crate.

A few simple genre ingredients and a strong 1970s vibe transmit a sense of menace in “Fright Night.”  The narrative makes extensive use of the haunted house trope, which is often a cover, at least subconsciously, for stories of marriages in trouble.  

Consider the paradigm: happy couples move into a new house together, but the honeymoon is over, literally and metaphorically. Despite their new locale, their relationship disintegrates.  Is it their fault, or the house’s? 

“Fright Night” follows that established pattern, but not too aggressively, and focuses on some good, if somewhat familiar horror touches. For instance, the audience is treated to fearsome shots of a portrait -- Zachariah’s -- that seems to stare right through you, and whose eyes glow bright red at one juncture.  

Meanwhile, the crate in the attic seems to move frequently of its own volition. At one point, the trunk is opened, and psychedelic lights and shadows dance across the attic wall, playing out some ancient passion play about demonic possession.  

You’ve probably seen horror stories of this type many times before, but the direction is good enough that a tense atmosphere is maintained nonetheless. For instance, the first time we see the dusty attic, Corey’s camera tracks across the room at floor level, going slowly past empty chairs and wooden floor boards. The shot creates a sense of menace about what will be found there, in a place that has gone untouched for some time. And the shots of the crate veritably bouncing on the floor -- demanding attention -- similarly, increases one’s sense of terror about the narrative’s set-up.

Alas, much of the carefully-constructed horror is diffused when old Ogilvy shows up at the door on Halloween night to pick up his luggage. The visual presentation of this old crone is pure pulp comic-book, and in some sense ruins the atmosphere of dread that the episode seems to have been working towards.

 “Beyond the grave there is no innocence,” one disembodied voice reports in the episode, and that seems abundantly true about “Fright Night.”  The episode generates suspense well, but seems frightfully outdated with the final appearance by its un-scary ghoul, who indeed resembles a trick-and-treater more than specter from beyond the grave.

The episode’s final bite -- that Rick and Leona have put the house on the market because Cousin Zachary promises to re-appear next Halloween for another crate -- is also anemic.  So “Fright Night” starts strong, due in part to its 1970s cinematography, but gradually loses its impact.  

It's funny to report, but the scenes that are so scary here involve those with no make-up or visual effects whatsoever, of that damn crate appearing where it has no right to be (and even after it has been locked away in the shed...). 

Rod Serling's Night Gallery: "Camera Obscura"

This tale was adapted for TV by Rod Serling and based on a short story by Basil Copper. Viewed now, this creepy 1971 segment boasts a high degree of relevance to our contemporary era; the age of big-business, bail-outs, bubbles, and economic inequality.

Set in London during the early 20th century, “Camera Obscura’s” morality play depicts a prissy money-lender named Mr. Sharsted (Rene Auberjonois) as he makes a collection house call on a “shrewd old dog,” Mr. Gingold (Ross Martin). 

Gingold is an eccentric collector, and his loan -- accumulating 13% interest -- has come due.

But Gingold wants to discuss something important with his creditor before he gets around to “payment.” 

Accordingly, he demonstrates for Mr. Sharsted an instrument called a camera obscura -- a device consisting of prisms and lenses -- that can view (and then broadcast…) the whole panorama of London on a circular table.

In particular, Gingold focuses this arcane instrument’s lens on the image of a foreclosed home belonging to a 76-year old man. Sharsted charged the old man “injurious interest” on a loan and when the sick man couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments, Sharsted re-possessed his house.

“I charged the legal rate!” Sharsted insists.

Gingold replies that “what is legal is not always just.” He bemoans Sharsted’s lack of humanity.

But Sharsted remains unrepentant. He notes -- in signature Serling cadences -- that “humanity applies to funeral eulogies and Valentine cards,” but most assuredly not to business.

Realizing that Sharsted has irrevocably forsaken decency, Gingold utilizes an occult camera obscura (located in a secret chamber…) to exact moral payment from this emotionally-bankrupt money lender. 

He uses the instrument to trap Sharsted in a Dickensian-style personal Hell, one depicted in a green, lurid lighting scheme.

This Stygian snare is the City of London as it existed in the 1890s. But more than that, it’s a twilight world populated by the greedy, the avaricious. The souls who congregate there have turned into monsters; their faces twisted by the greed and inhumanity they once carried only inside.

Sharsted attempts to flee these creeps, but no matter where he turns…he ends up right back where he started. 

Director John Badham deploys slow-motion photography and jump cuts to visualize the idea of an inescapable Tartarus, and the segment builds to a fever pitch.

Surrounded by the grinning ghouls, Sharsted finally begs for mercy, though he himself has never shown mercy to anyone. He insists to Gingold that these cretins are not his kind. 

That they are “ghouls and grave robbers, bloodsuckers and users…”

Gingold’s final comment on the matter is that, yes, indeed, Sharsted is correct. That’s exactly what they are. 

And so Sharsted is finally with his colleagues and peers. And there he shall remain for all eternity...

Rod Serling always boasted a real affinity for the “shadow people,” for the little guy who just couldn’t catch a break in an increasingly impersonal and heartless world. “Camera Obscura” is perfect material for the author since the outline of Copper’s story permits him to mete out cosmic justice against a man who preys on the weak, the desperate and the hopeless. 

As the script establishes, Sharsted “backs people into the corner of despair” and so richly deserves his nasty fate.

As is noted above, “Camera Obscura” pointedly notes that what is “legal” is not always “just,” an argument that some people still don’t seem to get, even today. If the rich and powerful are the ones who lobby for laws, and Congress is in their pocket…then how, truly, can a society arrive at “just” and fair rules?

In the news today, credit card company executives whine that laws favoring the consumer are unfair, or anti-business. We see price gouging at the pumps every holiday season, and then -- inevitably -- watch as gas companies brazenly announce record profits at the end of each quarter.

Maybe Mr. Gingold needs to pay those folks a visit too. 

Come on guys: smile and say cheese for the camera (obscura…).

Rod Serling's Night Gallery: "Caterpillar"

This classic Night Gallery episode concerns a "little beastie" called an earwig. This tiny insect from Borneo boasts a fondness for the warmth of a human ear...but -- as host Rod Serling reminds viewers -- it doesn't exactly "whisper sweet nothings" once inside. 

Nope. It does something...horrifying.

"The Caterpillar," directed by Jeannot Szwarc (Jaws II, Somewhere in Time) aired in March of 1972 and is based on the famous short story by Oscar Cook (1888-1952), a former civil servant who actually served in Borneo from 1911-1919. 

Cook's story is set in Borneo, but the old wives tale about earwigs burrowing inside human ears (and brains...) has been chronicled as early in history as 1000 AD. A quick search on the Internet will reveal a number of news and science sites debunking the gruesome notion that Earwigs can crawl through the human skull. But still...ick.

"The Caterpillar" (adapted by Rod Serling) follows the arrival in Borneo of one extremely prickly British civil servant, Stephen Macy (Laurence Harvey). 

This cruel, nasty, arrogant man moves into the home of two other Brits, sixty-sixty year-old Mr. Warwick (Tom Helmore) and his gorgeous young wife ("an absolute knock-out"), Rhona (Joanna Pettet). As you might suspect, Macy soon makes trouble. He is disturbed by the incessant rain in the tropical location, and -- battling cabin-fever -- turns his obsessive eyes towards Rhona.

Macy's attentions are unwanted, but that hardly stops him from making lewd remarks and undressing the married woman with his eyes. When asked if he is hungry for dinner, if he has an appetite, Macy stares right at Rhona and notes that indeed his appetite is "slowly growing." 

Later, Rhona advises a cure for Macy's loneliness and abstinence: a "cold bath."

But Macy is a prick, and isn't content with the status quo. He is convinced that Rhona should be with him rather than the kindly old man, and meets with a local rogue, Tommy Robinson (Don Knight), in a bar. Robinson suggests not an assassination, but rather an "act of destiny." 

For a price, Tommy will send one of his native friends to deposit an earwig on Mr. Warwick's pillow.

These bugs are so light, so small, that they are practically unnoticeable. And, according to Robinson, earwigs have this"decided liking" for the human ear. Once inside the ear canal, the odds of an earwig evacuating it are a thousand to one. They can't turn around you see, and so instead keep plowing endlessly forward...burrowing into the brain and feeding on grey matter as they seek an escape route.

The pain caused by these "stealthy chaps" is agonizing, horrible, and death is nearly always the result. Still, this sadistic plan appeals to Macy. He feels that after her antiquated husband dies, 28-year old Rhona will turn her affections to him. 

With little shame, Macy authorizes the plan. However, Robinson's thug makes a fatal mistake that very night...and puts the earwig on Macy's pillow instead of Mr. Warwick's.

Macy wakes up the following morning with a bloody ear and immediately realizes what has occurred. The earwig is inside his ear! In the ensuing two weeks, Macy undergoes agonizing pain as the earwig digs in. In fact, his hands have to be bound to his bed-posts so Macy doesn't claw his face apart in an attempt to get rid of the skittering bug feasting on his brain.

By some miracle, Macy survives the ordeal, which he describes as an "agonizing, driving, itching pain," and the earwig exits his ear. 

An unrepentant Macy tells the Warwicks that what he did, he did "for love," and that he paid the price with two weeks of Hell.

Unfortunately, those two weeks are only the beginning of Hell for Mr. Macy; a fact you will recall if you remember the segment's final punch-line before the fade-out (one revealed in intense, declarative close-up). 

I won't spoil the ending here, but suffice it to say that "The Caterpillar" boasts one of the nastiest and most macabre twists ever featured on Night Gallery (and likely network television, for that matter.)

Rod Serling's teleplay is whip-smart, witty and terrifying, but the episode likely belongs to Laurence Harvey, who plays Macy as a smarmy, monstrous bastard. You may hate Macy, but after witnessing his ordeal (again, in harrowing, unrelenting close-up...), you do feel some compassion for the man and his painful odyssey. 

There are moments here -- with Macy tied to the bed, gasping for air -- when it looks as though Harvey's bulging eyes are actually going to explode out of his head. His pain is palpable, and you can just imagine what's going on inside; how that thing is probing and pushing its way through his skull.

There's no real gore in "The Caterpillar," and the titular insect is never glimpsed, even for a second. Instead, we simply see what the bloody thing does, a torture painted on Harvey's expressive, gaunt face. 

And we listen intently as a physician (John Williams), Robinson, and a survivor describe the pain experienced...and the pain yet to come. Despite a lack of horrific visuals, the episode proves utterly harrowing (and involving).  My wife, Kathryn, had to turn away from the last ten minutes because she felt the episode was so disturbing in nature.

"The Caterpillar" is probably Night Gallery's most famous episode; and for very good reason. Next time you have an ear ache, I defy you not to think of this episode. And of earwigs.

Rod Serling's Night Gallery: "Tell David"

In “Tell David...,” woman prone to jealousy, Ann Bolt (Sandra Dee) is caught in a terrible storm, and stops at the first house she can find in the deluge.  

There, she finds a loving young couple, David Blessington (Jared Martin) and Pat (Jenny Sullivan), but is baffled by the advanced equipment in their house, including a video phone, and closed-circuit TV monitors.

When David tells Ann about his troubled youth, Ann realizes she has somehow ended up twenty-years in the future and that the grown man is actually her own son.  David tells her about the mistakes she is destined to make -- caused by jealousy -- and begs her not to make them a second time.

“Tell David...” is a promising Night Gallery story that ultimately fails to achieve its potential. Rod Serling’s opening narration suggests that the story is about “jealousy” but that suggestion is ultimately off-point.  

Given the fact that Ann’s husband, Tony (also Jared Martin) is cheating on her with the family maid, all the discussion by Serling and by David about the “old green-eyed monster” is misplaced. 

Ann’s suspicions are actually right on the money.  Her problem is not jealousy, but rather poor impulse-control and defeatism.  

To wit, Ann knows that she is destined to shoot and murder her husband, because David has warned her that she will. 

No matter what, then, she should not take that particular course. Instead, Ann should tell her husband she wants a divorce, take David out of the house, and leave immediately.

But Ann doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she surrenders to a future that has not yet been written, but which she has the capacity to re-write.  She mindlessly lets fate take the course that she assumes is pre-determined, and commits murder. 

Then, we must assume, she follows through with the timeline David diagrammed, and commits suicide in prison, before going to trial.

Again, none of this is really about jealousy at all.  Accordingly, the episode’s whole tenor is off.  Sandra Dee’s character, Ann, has been manipulated grievously by her husband, and then her son blames her for that manipulation…accusing her of being jealous and claiming that said jealousy destroyed his childhood.

Talk about blaming the victim!  Didn’t his Dad’s lies and infidelity play a part in scuttling his childhood too?  

Why does Mom get all the blame?

The most intriguing aspect of Night Gallery’s “Tell David...,” perhaps, is its imagination regarding the future.  In the world depicted here -- of far-flung 1989 -- home security systems consist of CCTV.  And of course, if you watch British TV like Torchwood, Primeval and Doctor Who, you know that CCTV is now ubiquitous in the UK, if not in America. So that prediction seems spot-on. 

Secondly, “Tell David” imagines video phones in common usage, which we don’t have, and electronic music…which does exist, though not exactly like the weird, atonal tunes featured here.

Other than these interesting touches, however, “Tell David..” is pretty seriously wrong-headed.  It also fails the test of believability.  David and Tony are dead-ringers, and so it makes no sense whatsoever that Ann fails to recognize David as being related to him. Especially since her son’s name is David. It’s contrived that she can’t put two and two together sooner

So, “Tell David..?” 

Well, someone should “Tell David...” that his father is a cheating asshole, and that he is the one, ultimately, to blame, for David’s piss-poor childhood.  

Mom may be impulsive and self-loathing, but she’s not the cause of all his pain.  “Tell David...” shouldn’t suggest otherwise.