Everyone, for a good laugh, be sure to check out
www.jumptheshark.com ... Chronicling the Moments TV Shows Go Downhill ... one of my Brady Bunch rips follows. Enjoy.
React, Positively. Funny posts. I would characterize the show’s ultimate demise as being based on its inability to inject some true reality into what are either a) completely farcical situations, or b) a kind of a “who gives a damn” plotline as the series progressed. No booze in the house, never a real conversation or confrontation about sexual maturation – no one getting “caught,” only editorialized braggadocio from Greg about his proclivity to drop the hammer on his multiple dates, no elaboration on how “George Glass” was really employed, never an inadvertent walk-in on moms and pops racing submarines, no dirty books, training manuals, or pin-up posters in the boys’ room, no one accidently popping in on a nude Alice on the floor in her room trying to bite her toenails, and no explanation as to how Phil Packer, Pedro’s alter ego, really got his nickname. Poor Bobby has to sleep underneath that reprobate. Two of the more standout submilinal Freudian moments were 1) Pete unloading an intermittent, oily stream directly into Mr. Martinelli’s face and chest (and being subsequently terminated from the bike shop), and 2) Roberto the Magnificent spastically pumping his umbrella repeatedly through the penetrated roof of Mike’s convertible at the drive-in movie where Gregory was trying to grab the gusto with Schwartz’s real-life daughter. The smell from the boys’ shared room must have been animalistic until Jonny Bravo hit the attic to work on his game in a more controlled environment. One thing I could never quite get to was the arrogance (& some posters have pointed this out) that F. Henderson brought to bear over the show. It wasn’t a watershed program as she would have you believe, for one thing, and also, she chewed up the scenery so often it was ham-tastic. “What’s for lunch, Alice?” “Spaghetti and meatballs.” “Um! Yum! Spaghetti and Meatballs!” [licking lips and rubbing tummy]. Way to get us into the moment, Carol! Finally, she purported to have this big-time broadway experience, but she barley out-Vaudevilled Marcia in the bum sketch for talent night (BTW, how did Gregorio’s guitar not get drenched, warped, and ruined during the dramatic reading, and why were those jerk-offs pulling the pranks from the rafters when it should have been a couple of Bravo’s posse from school – Harvey, or the Marlboro-fiend drummer, or possibly the aforementioned G. Glass?), and severely upstaged her family during the ill-concepted Variety Hour. Speaking of which, you want funny, go and watch you some of that dreck. A middle-of-the-road group of entertainers taking themselves all too seriously fumbling through paper thin material, marginal guests, and demanding song and dance routines. Bob R. hoofing his way through the disco medley and crapping out halfway through is second only to A.B. Davis’ rump-shaking, richter scale-inciting boogie on “shake yo booty/the hustle” in the one episode I was lucky enough to see. The best, Jerry! The best! Oh, and if the Charleston dance sequence from that one BB ep doesn’t send shivers down your spine, you might be clinically dead. Now, what was all that about a pipefitter?
