Purity Kick

Many a network official was trying frantically last week to prove that (in the words of a popular commercial) he was Mr. Clean. So busy was the TV industry at its new purity kick that, according to the latest Madison Avenue gag, "CBS is about to move Church of the Air to prime evening time." NBC finally got around to bouncing the admittedly corrupt Tic Tac Dough, chose an apt replacement: Truth or Consequences. Still another lavish NBC giveaway, The Price Is

Right, slid under a cloud; its coproducer, Mark Goodson, admitted that contestants, until about a year ago, had been tipped beforehand not to bid over certain amounts (because bids over the right price are losing bids).

In the past fortnight, the networks have scrubbed four quiz shows worth an estimated $20 million in sponsors' fees--$5,000,000 each for NBC's Tic Tac Dough and CBS's Name That Tune, Big Payoff, Top Dollar. The number of quiz-panel-contest shows that survived was still 13 at week's end. If they are dropped too, the total loss in sponsors' fees will bulge to a bank-breaking $80 million.

Clear Conscience. Even more significantly, CBS moved last week to clip the wings of non-quiz shows. President Frank Stanton announced that he wants CBS to dump all "deceptive" TV practices (including canned applause and canned laughter) unless the audience is informed of them beforehand. Stanton even lashed out at CBS's own personal-interview shows, notably such tame and untarnished stalwarts as U.N. in Action and Person to Person, because the guests are vaguely rehearsed. In rage, P. to P.'s producers, John Aaron and Jesse Zousmer, resigned --but not before retorting that the show was so spontaneous that two flustered male guests had appeared on screen with their pants zippers open.

In London. Edward R. Murrow, longtime P. to P. interviewer and CBS vice president from 1945 to 1947, fired an angry blast at his boss: "Dr. Stanton has finally revealed his ignorance both of news and the requirements of television production . . . Surely, Stanton must know that [Person to Person's^ cameras, lights and microphones don't just wander around the home. The producers must know who is going where and when and for how long. My conscience is clear. His seems to be bothering him."

More Evidence. While not necessarily endorsing Murrow, many industry veterans wondered whether Stanton's definition of deception was not too broad. Said Writer-Producer Goodman Ace, whose opening Big Party earned Stanton's ire because it falsely purported to be a soiree at the Waldorf: "Does Mr. Stanton want me to believe that Rochester works for Jack Benny, that it was really George De Witt's own hair on Name That Tune?" Comedians moaned that without canned laughter they may well get none at all; politicians feared that they may have to tell when their speeches are ghosted. If absolute honesty prevails, observed New York Herald Tribune Critic Marie Torre, TV men may have to confess that Manners the butler is not a midget, that Lassie is not a bitch dog after all, and they may have to use real bullets instead of blanks on Westerns. ("This," she deadpanned, "we'd welcome.")

Behind the righteous indignation and nervous ridicule, evidence of corruption kept piling up. While waiting to testify before a House subcommittee in Washington next week, Charles Van Doren visited New York District Attorney Frank Hogan to make what Hogan called "substantial changes" in the story of innocence that he had earlier told a grand jury. Another Twenty-One whiz, Hank Bloomgarden ($98,500), also revised his testimony, and D.A. Hogan announced that other winners were calling in belated requests to alter prior statements because "their consciences were bothering them."

American BBC. The scandal had echoes even at the President's press conference. "A terrible thing to do to the American public," Eisenhower called quiz fixing. He said he had asked the U.S. Attorney General to look into the matter. Federal Communications Commissioners angrily debated how the Government could guarantee honest TV without boldface censorship. The Christian Science Monitor suggested that the U.S. could establish a BBC-like federal network in competition with NBC, CBS, ABC.

The last word, as usual, came from Moscow. Izvestia reported gleefully that the U.S.'s free-enterprise TV had sought out the shady quizzes simply to boost advertising revenue. For all those frustrated Americans who still hankered for a truly fix-free quiz. Moscow Radio had the answer. On its English-language propaganda broadcasts, it will pitch seven questions about the U.S.S.R. to U.S. audiences, then lace the answers through the program schedule. Any hard-eared American can spot the answers, mail them to Moscow, and possibly receive some prizes. Among them: four $200 Zorky cameras, a pack of English-language Russian books, and--in case anyone cares--countless Sputnik lapel pins.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.