How 'bout those Oscars, huh? Were you amazed? Could you believe she won?
Okay, I admit it. I'm writing this before the Academy Awards. Haven't a clue what's going to happen. Let's move on.
There is something about revisiting your childhood that is both sad and exhilarating. You miss the old days, but you are given, from somewhere deep inside, an inkling of the feeling you had in those times, and that is a gift.
For the past week, I have been immersing myself, happily and completely, in the first season of The Man From U.N.C.L.E., and it has been a revelation. Joy is reclaimable. Innocence might be fleeting, but the memory of it is eternal and precious.
Nobody is ever going to tell you that UNCLE was the pinnacle of television achievement. It wasn't the revolution that was Hill Street Blues and not even the interracial milestone of the show that post-dated it, I Spy. But it provides, today, an optimism and almost cozy (you should pardon the expression) reassurance that none of the other espionage entertainments of its time or since could duplicate.
With outrageous character names (the "Man" of the title was called Napoleon Solo, and nobody ever blinks at that) and situations, UNCLE was clearly a TV reaction to the ongoing James Bond craze in 1964, and Bond creator Ian Fleming even played a small role in developing the show (including naming the main character--a man named "Solo" also shows up in Goldfinger). But it knew enough to include the audience in the fun.
The idea was that (at least to start) each week the intrepid agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement (don't think too hard about this stuff) would be seen with their special UNCLE gear, the badges that showed they belonged, their acceptance throughout the world as a force of good. But they would also, each week, need to recruit a "civilian," someone like... the audience... to help save the world.
In 1964, when UNCLE debuted, I was just about seven years old. The idea of belonging--of being part of the group--greatly appeals at that age, and there's nothing better than ID badges and secret signals to prove that you're accepted to the clan. So the concept of being pressed into service by the suave, resourceful (that was very important), smart and just incredibly cool Napoleon Solo or his even cooler friend Illya Kuryakin (David McCallum) was absolutely compelling.
We had our own plastic UNCLE badges and plastic UNCLE guns (back when kids could play with fake guns--mine was blue plastic and had a compartment to put... something... in) and UNCLE ID cards and just about anything else with an UNCLE logo on it. We pretended to be Solo and Kuryakin and we came up with out own secret signals and outlandish plots to pretend in our backyards.
Looking at the shows now, more than 40 years later, it's easy to see how silly much of the show was: Even though budding cinematic talents like Robert Towne and Richard Donner had a hand in early episodes, much of UNCLE was cliched and rushed. Guest stars often overplayed their roles with the relish of people who wouldn't have to work on this show again next week, and there was a considerable sexism at work all the while.
The dialogue was often punny and clunky, and just as often witty and breezy. The direction could be atmospheric or amateurish. The stories often bordered on parody of themselves. The acting ran the gamut--sometimes Robert Vaughn could be way too smug as Napoleon, and other times, he seemed like the charming, serious friend for whom one would rush into harm's way. McCallum was awfully cranky as Illya early on, but he was quick to show that much of that was Illya's joke; he was pretending, as any good spy would.
And yes, Solo and Kuryakin got to shoot more people in one hour than any NYPD cop would in his 20-year career. Violence and sexism--my lord, my mind must have been warped beyond all hope!
It must have been--I'm now a crime fiction author who kills people off for fun.
But watching UNCLE as a middle-aged man, I have to admit to a certain sense of that seven-year-old who devoured it all those years ago. Napoleon and Illya (I always identified more with Illya, who didn't always get the girl and often had to do Napoleon's dirty work) invited me to join them every week, and accepted me into UNCLE. They're still welcoming me, nine presidents later. And there are still the badges (alas, the DVD set comes with no such special doo-dads; it is simply four season-set DVD collections in a metallic-looking briefcase) and the gadgets and the invitation to come along on a great adventure with two guys who know how to get into--and out of--trouble. I'm still happy to join them, in wherever the MGM backlot is pretending to be this time.
They're old friends, after all.
