As noted, instead of writing, for the months of September and October (and apparently August, as I look at the date of the draft), I have been marinating my brain in Perry Mason reruns. Well, “marinating” has something sharp about it—maybe it’s more appropriate to say gently simmering over many days—with resulting softening. (Like pot roast, a limp and characterless glop. Or maybe that was just my mom’s.)
Anyway.
When I was a child, I was fascinated by Perry Mason. And really, really, really wanted to watch it. But I was also a timid child. That amazing opening noir crescendo, which was thrilling, was also frightening. The two shocking, blaring notes that ended the intro, when Perry Mason looked up and straight at me, were too much. I had to snap off the TV at once. If you’ve ever run out of the room when the Wicked Witch of the West appears on the roof, you know.
Slightly older, I overcome that fear and watched reruns voraciously. And now, here he is on Amazon Prime.
This show may have seemed thrilling once, but now the only frightening or even suspenseful part is that music (still brilliant). The rest is the very opposite of my first experience—silly, charming, nepenthe to the overwrought brain. And they are very funny, though unintentionally—the “humorous” vignettes with which each show ends are in fact very lame. Very. But…
First, there is how stylized the series is. The formula cannot change; the action unfolds strict as a sonnet. There is a silent-film/kabuki quality about it all, from the heavy eye makeup and lipstick (on the men) to the outrageously faked punches—a good five inches between fist and face, and the awkward falling or flinching of a man who clearly hasn’t been hit and doesn’t know quite which direction to go. There’s not even a token attempt to use a camera angle to hide that gap—it’s intended to represent a punch, not to fool the viewer. Other shows of that period might be the same. But I’ll do no research. It pleases me to think that Perry Mason episodes are unique in this low-rent way.
Did men still wear bathrobes over a shirt and tie when in deshabille? They do in Perry Mason. Do mean wear overcoats and dress shoes when they go to a hunting lodge for the weekend? Perry Mason does. Do you put on a natty little yachting cap when you step into a motorboat? Perry Mason does. Do you order milk with your ham on rye? I can’t go there.
Back to low-rent. Really, they could improve the special effects without spending a bundle: The elevator doors open, but the floor continues without a break. Would it cost them to draw a line? There are a lot of shootings, but they’re very stingy (as in none at all) with blood. Someone gets murdered with a poker, and the two-inch wound has clearly been drawn on with a Sharpie (black-and-white is very useful for such things). Props show up from episode to episode—my favorite being a set of primitive masks that migrate from shabby apartments to upscale living rooms. (These would be weird even once.)
And the guns, my god. Everyone’s got a pistol in the glove compartment (cars are often convertibles for even easier access) or lying on the desk. People lend them to their friends as casually as novels. I think it took until the middle of the second series, and that’s over 40 episodes (I told you I’ve been a little obsessive) before the first exotic aberration (poison) appeared.
There are some ethnic surprises. If there are Mexicans involved (this is after all Southern Cal), they are really Mexican. And they speak Spanish to each other. Unlike the Greek man, who is pulled straight from a pantomime, has a heavy fake Italian accent, a suspicious moustache, and might as well be wearing clown shoes. Most bizarrely, there is one episode in which the paterfamilias of a white family is played by an actor who is clearly African American. No one seems to find this strange. His bio notes naively or worse that, career-wise, he played white characters because his skin was so light.
The most fascinating thing, though, is the time-lapse effect created by bingeing on so many episodes in so little time. Cars stretch out, fenders flare. Bras (or is that breasts?) start out aggressive little cones (slightly larger for the bad girls) under the tightest of dresses (those girdles must have been something), and then subside under weirdly inelegant, lumpy suits. Perry’s shoulder pads grow to enormous size, then shrink, then grow again (according to the dictates of his waistline, not fashion). Paul’s loosening up a little under the chin.
If I had to choose one word: sweet.
Now, in the declining years of the show (early sixties, I think), the cars are deflating again, women’s hair looks rather like a snail fastened by a headband. Psychological motives (tedious, very unconvincing) are being introduced. Maybe this is just the producers’ way of letting me down gently before the series draws to its close.