If you’ve watched classic TV and full-on belly-laughed at sharp zingers and expertly crafted punchlines, it’s a foregone conclusion that Bruce Vilanch has written more than a few of them.
In a career spanning six decades and a list of credits as long as your arm, the comic legend has cemented himself as a go-to writer to punch up projects and give them added zest. A shaman of joke-telling, he has been trusted by the likes of Bob Hope, Robin Williams, and Lily Tomlin, just to name a few. In fact, since nearly the beginning of her career he has been the trick up Bette Midler’s sleeve, helping her to hone her brash, witty comic persona.
Many remember him fondly from the late ‘90s version of TV’s Hollywood Squares where he was Whoopi Goldberg’s on-screen foil. For many years he wrote patter for the Academy Awards as well, often saving the day and making presenters seem far funnier than they actually are.
Vilanch has been unapologetically gay from the outset of his career, long before Ellen and Queer as Folk changed the conversation. Along the way he has been a tireless advocate for LGBT rights. He is a familiar face at Pride events and has worked to great success raising money in the fight against AIDS.
Still, they can’t all be hits. Many projects Vilanch undertook were disastrous at worst and underwhelming at best, often steering straight into the world of camp.
The world of YouTube has seen to it that no one is allowed to forget many of these it’s-so-bad-it’s-good clunkers, with some gaining cult followings and prompting questions and curiosity from new generations.
With his new book, It Seemed Like a Bad Idea at the Time: The Worst TV Shows in History and Other Things I Wrote, he answers those questions and more besides with the fizzy, lighthearted wit that has become his calling card. It is essential not just for fans of Vilanch but all lovers of sitcoms and showbiz lore. It’s also a welcome slice of levity delivered at just the time our community could well use a laugh.
His timing, as ever, is impeccable.
Vilanch called me from California to discuss the impetus for the book, reflect on his career, talk about the importance of Pride month and much more.
Hello, Bruce!
Bruce Vilanch: West Coast, checking in. Where are you in New Jersey?
I’m in South Amboy right now, not far from Staten Island.
BV: Oh, yes. I’m from Paterson, I know the area well.
We’re especially happy you’re calling from the coast because we could really use a shot of levity this Pride season.
BV: Tell me about it!
They all asked the same questions: How did this happen? Who said yes to this? And have they paid their debt to society?
You’ve had a long list of successes in your career. What made you think to focus on the flops and fumbles for this very amusing book?
BV: It started during COVID when everybody was on lockdown and there were all these podcasts happening. A friend of mine was booking a lot of them, and I was sitting at home, so I did them too. And they were all hosted by people way younger than I am. They were often asking me questions about shows I had done in the ‘70s that were real disasters. I mean, not on the level of the Titanic — but they were disasters.
I thought, how do they know about these things? Well, they’d seen them all on YouTube. I thought we had buried them — but evidently the graves were too shallow. They had all bubbled up.
They all asked the same questions: How did this happen? Who said yes to this? And have they paid their debt to society?
Hah!
BV: I thought — I’d already been toying with the idea of a memoir because I’m at that age – well, I don’t want to write a real memoir. But this was a way into a book about all of these bad ideas, these terrible shows that have resurfaced, that have survived, just as I have survived. And I thought the title was perfect — It Seemed Like a Bad Idea at the Time — because they all did seem like bad ideas at the time.
But, you know, when they come to you and pitch you something and you think “This is terrible!” The next thought is “How much are you paying?! Well, I think I can find a way to make that work…”
Cut to a shot of me in quicksand.
A paycheck is a paycheck.
BV: Exactly. And then you end up deep in the mire. But they’re so entertaining to look back at. I started with work stories about Star Wars and then The Brady Bunch — those are two franchises that have never gone away. There are 100 Star Wars movies and TV series, and if you go to MeTV, it’s Brady Saturday, you know? They just never go away. The others in the book had to be exhumed a bit.
There’s also The Paul Lynde Halloween Special, which is a perennial because it’s one thing you can share with your kids, like Hocus Pocus, which I was also involved with. It turns out people like a Halloween thing where nobody gets slashed.
Many of these ideas were formulated in clouds of smoke. There was a lot of it — people were half-baked most of the time.
Are there projects these days — maybe even ones directed your way —where you see them coming down the pike and think, “How on earth did this get greenlit?” Or is Hollywood maybe a little bit smarter these days than it once was?
BV: Actually, no one’s asked that. That’s a very interesting question.
Well, I always say if people tell you they remember the ‘70s, they weren’t there! Many of these ideas were formulated in clouds of smoke. There was a lot of it — people were half-baked most of the time. But it was also a different universe in television. I mean, there were basically three networks. And they did these things that were ridiculous, but they were the only game in town, so people watched them. [The] Star Wars [Holiday Special] is no sillier than Wayne Newton at Sea World, where he’s singing to an orca. There are a million shows like that. So these just seemed like another one of these crazy stunt kind of television specials that were there to pick up the slack.
At the time it was getting very expensive to do series television. And for the kind of money you were spending, you could do a special and get a whole bunch of stars in a room for less than if, of course, you had to turn the lights on at a show like Friends, which was later, or All in the Family. With an expensive show, everybody is making big money, so if you could shave a few episodes off of a commitment and put specials in place of those shows as a network, you were saving some money. And there was a chance to get sponsors who you might not get otherwise, who wanted to be attached to a particular personality.
Then variety television went away because cable came in and you didn’t have to make an appointment to sit down at 8 o’clock on a Sunday to watch The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Everybody [now] was much more accessible, and it was leading into a 500-channel universe which then led to streaming later on.
Variety kind of died away because there also weren’t the talents who could support a weekly variety show, it wasn’t in favor. What happened was SNL came in, and on Saturday nights at 11:30 they could get away with stuff that you could not get away with at 8 o’clock on a Tuesday.
And then came so-called reality and competition shows.
BV: Right. Variety shows came back in a new way as competition for all things — American Idol, The Voice, So You Think You Can Yodel — all of those shows are truly variety shows, with all the heartbreaking backstories and the million tear-jerking things behind the performers they’re letting you know about. What keeps them going is we love competition in America. I mean, with The Masked Singer, you can come out dressed as a Chinese New Year’s dragon and then they can’t guess who you are — that’s like the netherworld of competition.
It seems like we’ve gone past the netherworld into some strange, new uncharted territory.
BV: I know, but I always point to Battle of the Network Stars where they would have a whole bunch of sitcom actors and action stars running around doing pole vaulting and arm wrestling and stuff like that. I mean, it was ridiculous — full of things that didn’t make any sense. The Masked Singer seems to be inspired by that.
One thing I really love about the book is the really striking, human examples you give of the fascinating creatures you have worked with — Florence Henderson, Alexis Smith, and of course Paul Lynde, to name a few. But you clearly had a very special relationship with Florence. She feels so alive on the pages of the book.
BV: Ah, that’s great. She was terrific and very…well, not misunderstood, [except in the sense that] she never got to really reveal the full extent of her personality and talent.
Initially, she was marketed as the American Julie Andrews — she was successful on Broadway, was a soprano, [came across as] squeaky clean. And then when she took The Brady Bunch she was forever remembered as Carol Brady thereafter. I mean, she couldn’t escape that.
The last thing we did together was a concert act that I put together for her where she talked about all of that, but by then the ship had sailed and there really wasn’t a chance for her to break out [from behind that image]. But she was a fantastic individual.
And what a work ethic!
BV: Absolutely. She was a full-service talent.
And you don’t see a lot of that nowadays.
BV: Yeah, right. Well, those are hard to find now outside of Broadway, basically. That’s the only place where it’s asked for. You can make a fortune at doing one thing now.
Every gay character [in film or TV] had to commit suicide or die a hideous death. Or be repressed. It was not a condoned lifestyle. At best, you were a confirmed bachelor.
The successes and stumbles you had with Paul Lynde were considerable, and they’re so funny to hear about in this book. It‘s remarkable to look back and consider the scope of his success and his total show business professionalism and how that must have been for him in a time he couldn’t come out. I know a lot of younger people have no idea what kind of climate that was. How do you think he would react if he could see how far our community has come in show business?
BV: Well, my joke is if Paul knew that we were talking about him 40 years after he died, he would roll over in Liberace’s grave. I mean, the fact that we are talking about him at all would gobsmack him because he really viewed himself as a minor talent who had gotten lucky with [the original] Hollywood Squares. And it parlayed his one flavor into a lot of stuff. He was unhappy because he felt that he had more than that and he couldn’t really express it — not because he was gay, but because he was that flavor.
He broke out in Bye Bye Birdie in 1960 on Broadway and then in the movie, and his whole style was summed up in one line of dialogue from the show where he says, “I got no respect!” and his son says, “I respect you, Pa,” and he says “What good is respect from a child” That was the Paul character. Nothing was good enough, and he was mad about it. And he was probably going to get in your way because that was his power. He could deny you the loan, he could not give you the ride — that was what he was used for as a sidekick in all these movies — and Squares was the perfect place for him because he could come on, do a zinger, and get off. And people began to love that. He became lovable in a weird way.
But it didn’t translate into leading parts, and you saw the people he’d come up with — Mel Brooks, Woody Allen — going from Broadway and becoming movie stars. I mean, they wrote their own material, but he was [also] a good writer. Their character was a lovable nebbish always — and he was not a lovable nebbish. He was lovable in small doses, doing those jokes.
And nobody back then was out except for activists. The only people who were out, even though Stonewall happened, were professional homosexuals. And they were outing homosexual professionals who were in the closet for good reason! Because at that time, it was depicted as an evil behavior. Every gay character [in film or TV] had to commit suicide or die a hideous death. Or be repressed. It was not a condoned lifestyle. At best, you were a confirmed bachelor. And you were just not spoken of because nobody wanted to ascribe that evil quality to you.
Or you had a “longtime companion.” I like that phrase. Such a euphemism.
BV: Yeah, exactly.
I met someone once who worked with or knew Paul and they told me he drank a lot, and they rarely saw him sober. Now that I hear some of these things he went through, I’m surprised he didn’t drink more!
BV: [Laughs.] He could be sullen, no question. On one drink, he was charming and fun. On two, he was the Nazi high command. He had a very low threshold. And you know how sometimes they talk about mean drunks? Well, he was a mean drunk. And he burned a lot of bridges because of that. But I didn’t expect he was going to die as young as he did.
You’ve certainly taken some hard knocks in your career, but you approach them with your customary humor which I’m sure has gotten you through a lot. It makes me think of what Bette Davis said — words to the effect of, “Don’t expect any gratitude in this business, because you’re not going to get any.”
BV: [Laughs.] Boy, she was wise.
It puts me in mind of your story in the book about [the Broadway musical] Platinum, as well as the challenge of writing for Robert Reed. Was it difficult to write for him? He sounds like a lovely person from your recollections.
BV: He was very repressed and scared. But when they made the deal for The Brady Bunch Variety Hour, what they didn’t tell the kids was they were going to do a real variety hour. They didn’t tell anybody. They thought it was going to be another iteration of The Brady Bunch that would somehow have songs in it. And the kids loved that idea because they had an act that played state fairs and things like that — although they weren’t too good. Barry [Williams] and Maureen [McCormick] were the good ones. The others just kind of got by.
But then when they showed up for work, they realized it was going to be like doing The Carol Burnett Show. On Monday morning came a script with a ton of music to learn, followed by dance rehearsals. And in addition to that, there was a Brady story that went through each episode into which we tried to plug the guest stars. So there was a lot of stuff to do. It wasn’t like the [original show], which was shot like a movie on a closed set at Paramount with one camera and no audience. They were going to have to do stuff in front of an audience, and they weren’t equipped for any of that. Bob and Florence were the only two who really were.
Of course, Florence loved it because she got to spread her wings and do all kinds of stuff within the confines of Carol Brady, but Bob had no interest in doing that and spreading his wings. He was very uncomfortable. And finally, I said to him, “Look, Mike Brady is an architect and you’re playing Mike Brady in everything you do, and in some things, you’re Mike Brady as somebody else, but that’s not comfortable for Mike Brady — and you can play that! He is attempting to act, but he’s not really an actor.” And he said, “Oh, I could use that!” And that’s what he did. But he was never really comfortable.
I think, finally, he had a good time doing dance numbers when we made him do [an impersonation of] Carmen Miranda. He finally crossed the threshold, so to speak.
I can only imagine what he would have gone through had he been discovered or outed back then with being seen as the consummate family man, like everybody’s father, you know, in some respects. The classic TV dad.
BV: And in reality, he was a surrogate parent to all the kids, because some of them had stage mothers who were kind of like Mama Rose in Gypsy. They viewed the kids as revenue streams or as surrogates for themselves. So he was really often acting on the kids’ behalf. I think he felt if he came out, it would be a betrayal that he had never told them. And of course, you have to remember still the perception of what it would be like — I mean, he would have been labeled a pedophile right away.
That kind of thing still seems to happen.
BV: But then it would have been much more severe. And oddly enough, he had gotten an Emmy nomination a couple of years earlier for playing an old school transvestite who wanted a transition on a show called Medical Center. It was like ER before ER. The other actors recognized how good he was doing it, but [I] don’t think anybody connected the dots. I don’t think he ever wanted to be a woman in real life, but it did seem to speak something in him beyond just being a performance.
You’re making me think of that whole thing between Armistead Maupin and Lily Tomlin, how he was so upset with her for not coming out and potentially moving the needle when she had an opportunity to do so. There really are two sides to that story. It’s not so simple, but I understand his idealism.
BV: I love Armistead, but he does fall into that category of professional homosexual. He is a gay writer who has never been anything but a gay writer, and so he used that as part of his activism. Lily is not a “gay actress.”
Right.
BV: Lily is an actress and performer, and being gay was not in her arsenal. It was in Armistead’s arsenal about those things — I mean, Tales of the City is a gay saga. He was annoyed because he had an agenda and she didn’t have that agenda. Later on, she did when she was more established. And it didn’t seem to matter anymore. But, you know, that was Lily.
And she is such an icon to us in her own way, right?
BV: Yeah, of course. I appreciate and love them both. I can’t criticize either one of them. It was what it was.
To touch on the successes for a moment, I must ask about what it was like at the time writing for [the iconic character] Geraldine for Flip Wilson and some of the Carpenters’ prime time specials. It’s such a beautiful thing to have those specials now.
BV: Well, I was drawn in to working with the Carpenters by Joe Layton, who had directed Platinum. We did a lot of shows together. [The idea was that] Karen has to become a grown-up, to make fun of the fact she had such a goody two-shoes, virginal image. So we took a number from Grease and also gave her a drum solo — she was an excellent drummer — and she’d never done that. That helped make the act wildly successful. People loved the idea that she was making fun of herself and the reputation she had gotten, and she was game the whole time. We did it in Vegas and wound up doing [it] at the London Palladium, where we recorded them.
I don’t know exactly what her [personal] story was. She was Barry Manilow’s beard at one point, where they would do pretend dates. Barry thought she was terrific, but that was not what he was interested in.
No.
BV: And she was very much, I thought, under the thumb of Richard, who ran everything. The one thing that’s wonderful, the one thing that endures is that she’s such a great singer. I mean, it’s a shame that [her death and eating disorder] overshadowed the talent. I mean, when you still listen to her now it’s just unbelievable — it’s like delicious maple syrup. It’s the most wonderful voice and phrasing and all that kind of stuff. It’s sad that she had all these demons that she couldn’t get rid of, that she couldn’t deal with.
When you watch those specials, though, it’s clear she enjoyed herself. She really could be very funny.
BV: Yeah, absolutely. She could be. And you know, Bette [Midler], who I’ve worked with forever, we used to make fun of [Karen] early on because she was a character you could make fun of. And then of course the Carpenters wound up giving her a Grammy for [Best New Artist]. She said something when she went up there, like, “Well, can you believe this, kids?”
“Me and Miss Karen,” yeah.
BV: Yeah, like, “Look who I’m getting this from!” It was a great contrast at the time.
Two greatly beloved and, yes, very contrasting women.
By the way, I’m speaking for a lot of gays when I say — I know you talk to Midler — please try to convince her to do one more show! Even if it’s just a residency or something. I know she says, “The flesh is weak,” but she’s still here and we still love her.
BV: I know. Well, it’s a lot of work. I keep saying, “Why don’t we just do something like you and Marc Shaiman at the Cafe Carlyle?” But even that’s an hour or 75 minutes’ worth of singing and talking. I mean, it’s not mermaids in wheelchairs, but it’s still a lot of work and, you know, she’s 79 now, so she’d be 80 before doing anything like this. We’ll see. I don’t know if she really has the impetus to do that. Certainly, she loves performing, but she also knows the toll it takes.
Before I forget, what was it like writing for Flip Wilson and Geraldine? That’s such an iconic part of showbiz history to have been a part of, just like Bette’s early work.
BV: I wish I could give you a really good story other than saying Flip was wonderful to work with and that those times were great fun. I remember one Vegas show we did with Flip where I wrote all the Geraldine stuff for that. Unfortunately — this is something you can get away with saying if you live in LA because I lived up in the hills for 30 years — my journals from that period were lost in a flood. We had the famine, floods, revolution, war, the plague — everything happened up there!
If you catch a rerun of one of those shows, do you recognize which lines were yours right away?
BV: Oh, yeah, sure. I couldn’t tell you right now, but sure, when I’m watching, I’ll remember. More likely I’ll remember pitching it in the writers’ room.
Speaking of the writers’ room, I also would like your thought on this year’s Academy Awards and how they’ve been received in recent years, particularly in the aftermath of that awful Will Smith incident. What did you think about that?
BV: Well, it was poorly managed. I mean, he snapped. Obviously, there’s something wrong with him. Hopefully he’s been in lots of therapy and has it figured out, but yes, it was very poorly done. What it comes down to is there were a lot of people making spur-of-the-moment decisions that weren’t necessarily the right ones, in my opinion.
But I think the show has recovered since then. I thought this last year was very smart and classy, and Conan [O’Brien] was terrific. I’d forgotten that self-deprecation is his default position, where if a joke doesn’t work, he just tap-dances because he views himself as a seven-foot-tall, redheaded freak, and he just doesn’t care.
Plus, everyone in the room, they know him. They’ve all been on his show, so he had the room! I thought it was really great and well-done.
You’ve seen the industry come full circle. You were there when the audience would ask Paul if he was dating someone and he would have to make a joke to get around it. Now we have shows that don’t just tokenize the LGBTQ community but reflect it completely like Pose and Heartstopper. Enough people watch them that they can be produced successfully, so straight people are watching them, too. Did you ever think this would happen?
BV: I always thought that the more we came out, the more accepted we would be. What nobody factored into the equation was AIDS and the tragic dimension of it and the realization that came from it that we’re people. We’re not in the abstract. There are people who are gay, and because of AIDS they were forced to come out, and once that happened, a friend of mine said, “What happened? Did the mothership land? Suddenly there are all these gay people.” I said, “No, it’s about survival.”
That was also when the gay political movement switched from its original agenda to marriage equality because we knew that marriage equality was the big thing — that if marriage was legal, there was really very little else you could do to us because we were real people, we were legitimized. And this came about because so many people lost partners due to AIDS and had no legal recourse. The families would swoop down and take everything. Relationships of decades would be treated like they were nothing. The only way to make sure you had your basic civil rights was to campaign for them — and now we have them.
Do you have a message for our readers for Pride Month?
BV: I think the message right now is that we’re not going back and to be proud of that. To be proud of who you are, to realize that to be proud means you’re not going back.
There’s no closet waiting for any of us.
