Boomers Said, “Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News”

It’s cold and flu season once again, and that got Mister Boomer thinking about how doctors were portrayed on TV — and thought of in real life — during our early years. Five decades have made quite a difference. Perhaps our TV shows have best reflected the contrasts across the years.

In the 1960s and ’70s, TV doctors were fatherly figures: all-knowing, authoritative and supremely confident. They cheerfully made house calls at any time of the day or night in crisp suits and ties. They not only had the perfect remedy for whatever ailed you, their bedside manner put you at ease and taught you a life lesson in the process. Take the shows Ben Casey, Marcus Welby, M.D. and Dr. Kildare as examples.

Ben Casey starred Vince Edwards as the young Dr. Casey. Each week the the show would open with the camera focused on the hand of Dr. Zorba (Sam Jaffe, channeling his best Albert Einstein hair) writing symbols on a blackboard. As the sounds of the chalk scratched across the board, he would voice the name of each symbol he drew: man, woman, birth, death, infinity. In other words, the opening summarized the lofty stuff doctors were dealing with on a daily basis. The show ran from 1961 to 1965.

Dr. Casey was a young resident neurosurgeon at County General Hospital, and Dr. Zorba was his mentor. Dr. Casey didn’t always follow the rules, but he got results — and that meant saving lives. In the process, he earned the respect of his patients and co-workers.

Dr. Kildare (Richard Chamberlain) ran from 1961 to 1966. The series actually had its origins as a series of films in the 1930s and ’40s, then as a radio show in the ’50s, before appearing on TV screens. Similar to Ben Casey, Dr. Kildare focused on the relationship between the young doctor and his much older mentor, Dr. Gillespie (Raymond Massey). Like Dr, Casey, Dr. Kildare didn’t mind meddling in a patient’s life if he felt he needed to teach a life lesson.

Marcus Welby, M.D. was another immensely popular medical drama that ran from 1969 to 1976. Unlike the other two shows, Dr. Welby (played by Robert Young) was a general practitioner, so house calls were a regular part of the show. In this younger doctor/older doctor scenario, Dr. Welby was the old sage and Dr. Steven Kiley (James Brolin) was the younger protege. The show flipped the relationship of mentor and younger colleague, since Dr. Welby was the one who had the “progressive” bedside manner, showing his protege that in an age of modern technological and medical breakthroughs, patients were individuals with individual needs that physicians should take into account. For many boomers, it was hard not to think of Father Knows Best when looking at Dr. Welby: the character was very much the smiling, wise, fatherly figure Robert Young had portrayed in the earlier series.

Compare these shows with the medical dramas of today. While they have many similarities — mentor/protege and doctor-knows-best attitudes, for example — House and Grey’s Anatomy are current shows that play on the foundation set by shows of yore. Today the TV doctors are portrayed as brilliant but arrogant, self-centered rather than altruistic, brooding instead of smiling, oversexed rather than composed and socially in-step, mistake-laden rather than perfect, and all-too human.

On House M.D. (currently called House), the brilliant Dr. Gregory House (Hugh Laurie) is the antithesis of Drs. Casey, Kildare and Welby. The antisocial Dr. House would prefer not to speak to his patients at all, so when he does his demeanor is abrasive and acerbic, yet always honest. He stops at nothing to solve a diagnostic case, armed only with his wit and team of adoring young proteges. Since Dr. House insists he is always right, it infuriates his superiors that he flaunts the rules yet IS always right. In last season’s episodes, we learned about Dr. House’s personal life, including a love interest and that he was addicted to narcotics as a result of an injury in his early years that left him walking with a cane (due to a misdiagnosis, no less), which explains the character’s disability. The show began its run in 2004 and continues today.

Unlike the other medical dramas we’ve mentioned, Grey’s Anatomy features an ensemble cast (starring Ellen Pompeo as Dr. Meredith Grey and Patrick Dempsey as Dr. Derek Shepherd, among the many other distinguished actors) as the show explores the personal and professional lives of surgical interns at fictional Seattle Grace Hospital. The show began its run in 2005 and continues today. Grey’s Anatomy is filled with the stuff melodramas are made of: suffering, anger, pride, lust, envy and retribution. At one point or another, all of the characters have had sexual encounters with one or more of the other characters — something that would not have been possible in 1960s TV. While the doctors dole out their share of ego-puffing “I told you so’s,” the characters are often the ones who end up being taught a lesson.

Mister Boomer’s mother absolutely loved Vince Edwards, so every week Dr. Casey won out over Dr. Kildare, seeing as the shows were aired at the same time. As was the custom of the era, there was only one TV in the house — so Ben Casey it would be for Mister B and his siblings, in all its black and white glory. She also loved Dr. Welby, but Mister B wasn’t as enthused. A quick exit to his desk in his bedroom to study and read would replace his family viewing time.

In Mister Boomer’s family, as with many boomer families, “preventative medicine” wasn’t a term that held sway. Doctors were called or visited only when there was an acute need. Consequently, doctors weren’t high on the likability list for Mister B and his siblings. Unlike the TV shows, it was almost as if treatments had to hurt to be effective. Then, of course, there were the dreaded moments when Mister B or his sister would have to get a shot in the arm (usually penicillin) for flu or one of a million unnamed viruses. Brother Boomer took great pleasure in making sure he touched, bumped or otherwise hit “the shot arm.”

Occasionally, a doctor did come to Mister Boomer’s house. Mister B recalls the man always wore an overcoat and hat, and carried his leather medical bag like a professional version of Felix the Cat. When he removed the outerwear he had a white shirt with a black tie, and immediately reached into his bag of tricks for his stethoscope. He would never speak directly to a child unless it was a command like, “Say a-a-a-h-h-h,” instead addressing all comments to Mister B’s mother. Hardly the stuff TV doctors were made of.

In early boomer days, a patient didn’t question whatever a doctor said. While today people still expect their doctors to know all the answers, they also expect to be more involved in their treatment options.

What role did doctors — and medical dramas on TV — play in your family, boomers?

Boomers Say Good-bye to Another Legend

This past week, Mister Boomer discovered, along with the rest of America, that Don Cornelius, creator and owner of the Soul Train syndicated show, had died. Mr. Cornelius began his media career as an announcer and radio newsman in 1956, then substituted for DJs when the occasion arose. Enjoying the connection to music, he moved to a small station where he could spin records as his primary job a few years later. From there he began moonlighting at WCIU, a TV station in Chicago, where he was asked for input on ethnic programming. When he suggested a show patterned after American Bandstand that would primarily focus on black music and dance, his concept, funding and airtime all fell into place with station backing, and Soul Train was born. The first episode aired August 17, 1970. It was destined to become the longest-running nationally syndicated show in history.

In a 1995 interview, Don Cornelius told the Associated Press, “If I saw American Bandstand and I saw dancing and I knew black kids can dance better; and I saw white artists and I knew black artists make better music; and if I saw a white host and I knew a black host could project a hipper line of speech — and I did know all these things [then it was reasonable to try].”*

Mister Boomer, like most white boomers born in the 1950s and raised in suburbia, grew up with American Bandstand. But, as a student of human behavior, Mister B could see the gradual transition that took place in the way the kids danced on the show. The exciting swing-style bopping of 1950s rock ‘n roll slowly gave way to couples dancing without touching each other (except on the “slow dances,” which was the whole point). Even by the time Chubby Checker appeared on AB around 1961 to ask kids to “twist again, like we did last summer,” the “round and round and up and down” seemed more a series of steps to be counted out than an exaltation of personal movement by the audience participants. In other words, having a good beat and being able to dance to it wasn’t enough to keep Mister B’s interest.

When Soul Train came along, Mister B once again could see dancing that was fresh and exciting. The kids, especially in the Soul Train line, treated dance more like jazz — plenty of room for improvisation and free-form self-expression — than exhibited by the predominantly white kids on American Bandstand. For years, black singers had influenced boomers’ mode of dress and dance moves. For boomer boys like Mister B, they were the epitome of style and cool, ergo nothing would impress the ladies more than smooth moves on the dance floor … or so they thought.

In any case, in a very short time, there wasn’t a house party worth attending that didn’t have a Soul Train line, where couples or individuals could dance their own style between the two parallel rows of on-lookers who cheered them on to show their best moves.

While never directly adopting dance moves from Soul Train dancers (though he’ll admit to “borrowing” from James Brown and Jackie Wilson), Mister B was greatly influenced by their exuberance, originality and flair — they owned it, and in the process made it unique. This philosophy of personal dancing didn’t really come into clarity for Mister B until one evening in the early 1980s when he was invited by a friend and business colleague to a benefit concert. After an energetic display on the dance floor, Mister B was heading back when his friend motioned him to come over. “I want to introduce you to someone,” he said, “this is George Clinton!” In front of Mister B stood the funkmeister himself, there to perform with his band that night. “Hi, man, nice to meet you,” uttered the star-struck Mister Boomer. He was shorter than Mister B imagined, but, not surprisingly, decked out in outrageous ribbons of clothing that somehow formed a complete outfit, echoed by a series of white and yellow ribbons that tied back his gray and black hair. Mr. Clinton was audibly chuckling as he greeted Mister B with one sentence. In a voice that continued to chuckle yet sounded like it was filtered through a grater, he said, “For a white boy, you can dance.” Then he returned to his table of local dignitaries. For Mister B, this was the supreme compliment.

Thank you, Don Cornelius, for bringing some peace, love, and — especially — soul, to this suburban white boy.

What memories of Soul Train and Don Cornelius flash through your brains, boomers?