The Mystery of Broadcast Television

One of the most revolutionary inventions ever, the humble television broadcast, has gone from novelty to ubiquity to afterthought. Now, in a fractured media landscape, everything old is new again.

My seven-year-old daughter doesn’t understand television. She understands watching TV episodes or movies; that’s been part of her life since she came home from the hospital and lay in her baby bascinet while her parents binged THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE on a glorified computer monitor with the volume set on low. But terrestrial television? The kind with commercials you can’t skip and a set appointment time for the show? It’s a weird new concept.

I’ve recently gotten into watching Svengoolie, Chicago’s own legendary horror host, which isn’t on a streaming service. It’s on a tertiary Me TV feed from the local CBS affiliate that only comes through thanks to an antenna and cooperative weather. And, thanks to a later Saturday night bedtime, so has my daughter. She won’t make it to the end, but all she really cares about is the opening credits (where she helpfully clears all the air lanes for the big broadcast), Sven’s opening host segment where he gets pelted with rubber chickens or tells some bad jokes (to cackling laughter and applause), and the opening reels of whatever movie didn’t cost too much to show.

At the beginning, it was a blast. I was getting a chance to share something I love with my little girl and answer all kinds of questions. Mostly things like, “Is that real or CGI?” and “Can you turn the color on for the movie?” However, complications struck and there’s no one to blame but the National Football League.

The NFL preseason had started, and a Ravens game was on the CBS network feed. The network feed was pushed to the MeTV feed. And MeTV? Nowhere to be found. For an adult who grew up like this? Not a big deal. I know that’s just what happens when sports happen.

My daughter was heartbroken. She cried, inconsolable, because our regular Saturday night thing was disrupted. I tried to explain about TV ratings and rights fees and all that, but it didn’t matter. All that she cared about was Svengoolie, and not getting a chance to see him crack jokes with Nostalgiaferatoo or Kerwyn derailed her entire evening and no amount of dad jokes could stand in for the cornometer shattering wit of Chicagoland’s finest.

The horror host, as a concept, kicked off in the early days of television, thanks to the Shock Theater syndication package. A block of 52 cheap old movies kicked off a feeding frenzy; networks needed hours of content filled, and horror hosting became a thing. The weatherman or weekend anchor guy slapped on a silly costume, drew on heavy makeup, and introduced movies about space aliens and monsters as a lark to teenagers. It peaked in the early 70s, and began to slowly die off as networks began to assert their authority and independent television stations started to cut costs and the original generation of fans and hosts aged out.

A few held on with syndication deals, like Elvira, or found their footing on cable television, like Joe Bob Briggs and Mystery Science Theater 3000 (they count IMO). What was once in every city with a television station was now a novelty, a kitsch artifact banished to low-power stations or the pre-dawn hours of the night. Down, but not out.

But, horror hosts persist, even to this day. They’re putting on their costumes and setting up ring lights on viewing platforms on YouTube videos, Twitch streams, and if you’re really lucky, your local MeTV affiliate. Like the monsters in the movies they show, horror hosts like Svengoolie and the Sven Squad are really hard to kill, and the format endures. It’s cheap, most stations have the broadcast rights to hundreds of movies across genres, and people like me will still make an effort to be there for the big broadcast.

My daughter doesn’t (always) cry when she doesn’t get to see Sven cracking jokes over the top of a black and white movie anymore, but that doesn’t mean she’s not very upset when weather or network affiliation interferes with our family tradition. She still asks to pause the TV when she needs something, or asks to skip the commercials from time to time, but I think the unhurried nature of watching the thing and the lack of control as far as content and timing has allowed her to learn a little bit about how things used to be before computers took over our lives.

You watch what they show, because they want to show it. You use the commercial breaks to get snacks or run to the bathroom. If you miss something in the show, you ask the person you’re watching with, “What did I miss?” If you miss a Saturday night, you have to wait for the rerun (or when Sven shows THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN again in two months).

To strain the hell out of a metaphor, broadcast television is a lot like life. You don’t choose every experience. Things don’t stop when you need them to. You can’t just repeat something if you want. You’ve got one opportunity. To paraphrase Dr. Hunter Thompson, “buy the ticket, take the ride.” The carousel doesn’t stop turning just because you want it to, but doesn’t that just make the ride all the more magical knowing there are no do-overs?

Some life lessons come from the weirdest places. People have traditionally drawn wisdom from art and literature, philosophy, and the majesty of the natural world. Me? I prefer grease paint, bad jokes, and cardboard space ships.

Just try to keep the deep thoughts contained to the commercial breaks; I’m trying to watch a movie here.

Ron Hogan is a writer, podcaster, gadabout, and raconteur from Louisville, Kentucky. You can read his written works at Den of Geek, Film Stories, and at several magazines and sites that no longer exist. You can hear his voice (and potentially see his magnificent beard) on the Film Strip Podcast.

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