It’s easy to be hard on Dragnet 1967, with its obvious squareness, its sexlessness, its lack of (intentional) humor and its blatant modesty. However, the only real weak link in its chain is its obsessive need to deliver an easy, uninspiring payoff. Each cop-n-criminal tale is a success story – no cold cases here. There are never any surprises, which is – unsurprisingly – exactly what its ultra-conservative audience demands.

The dawning of the Age of Aquarius seemed like the right time to dust off and shine up this tough old gem. The original series (first on radio and then on early TV) was hard-hitting and rather shocking for its time, dealing with such out-there-for-the-fifties topics as child molestation, drug addiction and mass murder. Its unwavering respect for the golden rule and its always-sober vibe seemed to strike a chord with the public – an unusual offering from a medium which went out of its way to avoid offending anyone except for its constant dependence on hysterics, buffoons and loudmouths.

The earnestness of the series quietly dug its own groove. It worked so well that it almost never veered from its tried-and-true formula. It was proud of the fact that “the story you are about to see is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.” The tales, pulled from police files and airbrushed for television, were as rigid and as tightly wound as a nagging nerve; nobody, not even the criminals, was allowed to melt down too far from their controlled center. A stab of trumpets, always cued up on time, seemed to serve as a replacement for an adrenaline rush.

The chaotic, seamy side of Los Angeles is contrasted with the heavy-gravity persona of the unflappable detective named Joe Friday (Jack Webb). Here was a rock with no life; exceedingly polite yet blunt to a fault. He always got his man, and was an employer’s dream: no outside interests, no desire for a raise or a promotion, and seemingly no appetite for sex or food. He was conservatism incarnate.

In Dragnet 1967, Webb brings his grim film-noir character into the Los Angeles of the hippies and the nervous rich. This is just as the city is becoming LA-a-go-go; we watch helplessly as LA forgets to prepare for its unwelcome of the Manson family. It’s a place where, according to the statistics in Joe Friday’s reliable head, “for every crime that’s committed, there are three million suspects to choose from.” It’s a place where bank employees actually wear suits and when a Japanese woman is murdered, we hear (what else?) Japanese music.

As in his former series, Joe Friday never seems to run out of ways to describe his home town, from the intriguing (“a lot of people earn a living here”) to the downright charming (“some come here to see stars or to become one; others come here to die.”).

The series is much less menacing in color, and the City of Angels is still as timelessly ugly and as boring to look at as ever. Yet now we have periodic visits to the Sunset Strip, what Friday hiply observes as the “in” place to go. This area serves as a hotbed for the bottomless obsession with Youth, and how, according to the right-wing thought behind this show, Youth equals Criminal. Youth is an obvious challenge to order.

“What kind of kick are you on, son?” Friday asks the infamous Blue Boy, a trippy teenager who paints his face blue and freaks out on acid (an outrageous premise on 1967 prime time, which usually never got higher than The Flying Nun). Blue Boy is one of the few unpredictable villains on the series, so interest in him has grown over the years. Upon his arrest, when Friday commands him to “stay put in that chair,” Blue Boy answers, “I AM the chair.” Of course, Blue Boy means no harm – his only real crime is that – as well as his stint as a chair – he thinks he’s a tree. The worst crime any youth can commit here is not murder or rape, but to “fink” on his friends.

Even the Boy’s own mother, in typical, well-rehearsed TV dialogue denial, scoffs at the Youth who are “letting their hair grow long or dressing up like those English singers.” However, Friday informs mom (and Joe Hardhat, who is watching in the millions) that what her son is “on” is “a Freak Out. The Trip. The Ticket.” If you were listening and not watching, you would think Joe Friday is Timothy Leary.

These “juvenile experimenters,” as Friday calls them, have been “dropping that acid we’ve been hearing about.” And another hippie’s mother (in denial, of course) registers a protest of her own as she disapproves of the latest fashions from swinging London: “no son of mine is gonna dress up like a circus clown.” 

Miranda rights, relatively new at the time, are recited so often that if you had a dollar for every time they were read, you would be able to afford a nice lunch. However, Friday reads them with feeling. He means every word of it. As he recites, he even puts his hands in his pockets, laid-back-LA style. And, of course, when rights are read to Youth, The Kids respond with “I dig.”

The series wants badly to be “everyday.” Even the cop car, a gold Ford Galaxie, is humdrum. And Friday jump starts one story with these thrilling words: “We were on our way to lunch when the sergeant stopped us in the hallway.”  And speaking of lunch, Friday is joined by his new partner, the sandwich-lovin’ Bill Gannon (Henry Morgan, of future M*A*S*H fame), who serves lamely as a source of comic relief (his love of food seems to break what little tension the show builds).  At one point, big-help Gannon offers his partner some healthy advice: “smoke a cigarette and go home.” And the only glimpse we get into Friday’s sweaty inner-self is when he hints approvingly to Gannon, “Ya know, if you could cook, I’d marry ya.”

After Blue Boy, everything else seems like a letdown – even the neo-Nazis. However, you’ll never get tired of watching old traffic, and you may learn a thing or two as Friday and Gannon infiltrate subcultures (like the furrier business, for instance, when terrific character-actor Henry Corden says yiddishly, “help from me you can do without.”).

It’s a police procedural drama without cell phones or walkie-talkies or a whisper of whimsy, a series that is itching to show you that TV crime fighting can be as dull as the real thing. And somehow it pays off. However, in 1967, not only the names, but also the hairdos have been changed to protect the innocent.

Ronald Sklar

Copyright ©2005   PopEntertainment.com.  All rights reserved.  Posted: July 14, 2005.