Legendary talk show host Phil Donahue has died, and he’s tangentially relevant to the BOC project in a few ways. First, while attending Notre Dame in the mid-1950s, Donahue worked at WNDU. Paul Walton was the program director who would assign BOC its late afternoon weekend time slot (which was actually a good one for a local show, as much as all the sports preemptions might indicate otherwise), and according to his son Sean (who would join BOC in the early 1980s), Paul also gave young Phil his first taste of brodcast airtime. WNDU had to offer a station ID at the top of the hour, and no one could find the usual announcer right then, so Paul pulled Phil into the studio and gave him the copy to read. The rest is history!
More to the BOC point, the 1980-81 company offered a hilarious sketch that artfully parodied his celebrity, the techniques he used to grab at audience heartstrings, and his interactions with the live audience, all expertly mimicked by Tim Daugherty.
As the sketch illuminates, daytime talk shows were known for exploiting sensationalistic topics, and The Phil Donahue Show was no exception, but Donahue stood out amongst the pack for his genuine desire to understand and empathize with his guests, especially those from marginalized groups. In the 1970s, his show pioneered bringing LGBTQ perspectives to mainstream audiences, and Donahue would become a fervent supporter of gay rights. (If you have a subscription to Rolling Stone, you can read here about his impactful compassion for AIDS patients.) In particular, he gave significant time and money to supporting queer Notre Dame students and alumni, culminating in a scholarship for LGBTQ+ student-leaders bearing his and his wife’s names, the Phil Donahue ’57 and Marlo Thomas Scholarship. You can see him talking about this advocacy in 2016 on the PBS series MetroFocus here, and his ending plea for LGBTQ equality in the Catholic Church is both bold and prescient, given that the university now includes financial support for the Donahue scholarship right alongside all of its other donation opportunities:
Phil Donahue (second from left) marching with members of GALA-NDSMC, an LGBTQ+ alumni group, during a 2017 St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York City. (Photo source: Jack Bergen)
Donahue was a proud alumnus of WNDU and Notre Dame, who in turn can be forever proud of him.
Accuracy of memory is a significant challenge in historical research projects, especially those heavily reliant on oral history. Interview subjects might forget details, alter their perspectives, or either romanticize or vilify the past over time. This is why I’m driven to do as many Beyond Our Control participant interviews as I can. I’m asking people to recall memories from up to sixty years ago when their brains were literally still developing, and hearing similar memories from different people can help crystallize truths. There are also some key people that I’m unable to talk to, so I need help to fill in as many of those gaps in the record as I can. (If there are any Michiana mediums out there reading this, hit me up!) Last week, I met with my 98th interview subject, David Blodgett. He’s a local legend in multiple ways, partly as a prolific mural and caricature artist (see links below), but more to the immediate point, he’s forever inscribed in BOC lore as the designer of the magnificent logo:
Nearly everything in BOC was done in groups, enabling me to consult with multiple people to confirm accurate recollections. But David Blodgett is probably the lone living keeper of the logo story.
He became a company member right as BOC was being formulated in 1967 and was already a budding artist as a teenager. He recounted to me that he especially enjoyed drawing faces, liked 19th Century advertising artwork, and lugged a big book about Rembrandt around in high school, telling teachers it was his “serious study,” as opposed to the topics they were proffering. In a 2001 collection of testimonials put together for BOC’s first big all-company reunion – fittingly referred to as the Memorybook – he’s quoted as saying, “The guys asked somebody to design a logo, and I said, ‘Designing things, that’s my alley,’ so I said, ‘I’ll do it!’” And we don’t need to rely on anyone’s memory to assure us that he was exceptionally talented in that alley of designing things, because we have archival proof of it. Just check out his artwork to celebrate the start of BOC’s second season, drawn when he would have been maybe 17 or 18:
But getting back to the logo, in the Memorybook, Blodgett says that the distinctive hand and arrow were inspired by a graphic he saw while leafing through Mad magazine, and then he refined it while working a summer job at his father’s advertising studio. For instance, his dad, a commercial artist at the studio, recommended reversing it from black letters on a white background. However, today Blodgett says the Mad detail in that story wasn’t true. Here’s the origin story for the logo he relayed to me last week:
[W]e had to have some sort of identity, so we had to figure out some sort of logo. My father was a commercial artist and worked for Borkowski Advertising, which is old… was a little company, and I worked for Bob Borkowski in the summertime. So I went down, and I was about to figure out what the heck this logo was gonna look like. So I just lettered up ‘Beyond Our Control’ in some sort of way. And I did know that I wanted a hand pointing toward the wording…I was particularly enamored of 19th century advertising. So that’s where that came from. And I was going to do the lettering in sort of 19th century style. And I was working, and I didn’t really like that. One of my dad’s colleagues was a guy named Ken Krempec, and Ken came over and looked at me and he said…and I had all kinds of scrolly, rolly stuff around it as a border. And he said, ‘now, I don’t know, Dave, the hand’s okay…get rid of the scroll stuff. We don’t need that.’ I says, ‘Okay. What would you want me to do, Mr. Krempec?’ So he sat down, and he drew an arrow around the name and the little hand. And I said, ‘Oh, that’s fun.’
I immediately asked for clarification that Mad was in fact not part of the design inspiration for the logo, and he confirmed that. After then after heading home and double-checking the Memorybook testimonial, I sent a follow-up question through his sister Marcia (herself a 1970-71 company member), who replied to me after asking him about this: “He was flummoxed about his [Memorybook] response. We decided that possibly he didn’t want everyone to know about its real origin and just relied on his favorite magazine.” It’s also the case that David admitted during our conversation that remembering all of this accurately was hard: “You know, I’m old, and heck, I don’t remember what the heck I had for dinner last night,” he said. Again, understandable!
So where does that leave me in trying to pin down the real story about where the logo comes from for the book? The Mad origin story would be fun because it’s a frequent comparison for BOC; after all, TV Guide dubbed the series “the Mad Magazine of the Air” in its 1973 profile. But then again, Dave Williams always told the students to strive for originality and not to imitate sources like Mad. Given that, I am more partial to Blodgett’s current memory of the logo genesis, that a random ad man popped his head in and offered the youth an insightful suggestion for a cleaner, more modern design. Beyond Our Control was all about incisively cutting to the heart of the advertising world, so that’s a very fitting creation myth. I should also note that we can’t even really be certain about who contributed the arrow. The only Ken Krempec (or anything close to that spelling) in South Bend my googling could turn up died in 1963, so maybe Blodgett misremembered who at his dad’s studio offered that suggestion.
Ultimately, the specific minutiae are not crucial in this case anyway. It’s more a matter of satisfying curiosity than proving essential facts. The fundamental truth is that David Blodgett lent his prodigious, precocious artistic talents to Beyond Our Control and designed its iconic logo. From there, it’s just haggling over the details.
*Links to info about David Blodgett’s local murals:
In my History of Television class, we’re spending a day on 1970s local television using Beyond Our Control as our primary case study, and I’ve assigned the students this post to read about the series. It’s an adaptation of a presentation I delivered last year at the Locating Media Industries conference in London. A primary goal of the conference was to consider how a “focus on locality can help ground our understanding of how media industries are actually inhabited and lived,” so my presentation covered the local conditions that made BOC possible starting in the 1960s and how those conditions changed to bring about its end in 1986. I’ve just tinkered with the text a bit and added a list of suggested clips at the start.
I delivered a presentation this week for my department’s monthly Visual Cultures Workshop. This work emerged from my research into the origins of BOC, because in exploring the founding and evolution of WNDU, I stumbled across a parallel history of the origins of my own department, Film, Television, and Theatre. This was personally fascinating to me from the jump, and as I dug deeper, I found intriguing throughlines that connected BOC and FTT, particularly when it came to their respective relationships with WNDU and the vision for television that Father Hesburgh expressed upon the station’s dedication. Most of the FTT stuff likely won’t make it into the book, but I’ll probably pitch it to ND Magazine, since it’s a revealing slice of university and Arts & Letters history.
If you’d like to watch the narrated PowerPoint presentation, it’s embedded below. If you prefer an audio-only version, you can find it here (and from there you can download it via the down-arrow button on the top right). And if I talk too fast for you to keep up or you just favor text, you can read it here.
Because of some Zoom recording glitchiness, I cut out the clips from the video, except for at the end. If you want to see what I showed, I opened with three clips to help those not familiar with BOC understand the nature of its humor and production methods: one film-themed, one TV-themed, and one theatre-themed, in honor of FTT. The clip from the middle of the talk is an excerpt from “Donawho.” And I left in the ending clips, but the audio is faint; if you want to see them intact, you can see the original Hesburgh wraparounds here, and the final clip at the start of this (with all due apologies to those offended).
Just realized I haven’t posted in a while. A few holiday weeks off plus being buried in reading and taking notes from hundreds of documents will do that to a blog.
The documents I’m currently poring over were weekly single-page memos given the name “poop sheets” by BOC creator (and Army vet) Dave Williams, distributed to all company members across the 30ish weeks of the seasonal term. As to their function, Williams wrote at the start of the 1973-74 set: “Oftenstance, when an Achiever misses a meeting or goes into a 2-hour nod Thursday night at 7, he loses track of what the devil is going on. These weekly bulletins will help steer you in the paths of righteousness should you stray. Herein you will find announcements of meetings, special reminders, Success Hints!, typing errors, and oddments.”
Reading through these is a constant reminder of what a joy this project is for me, as both a historian and a human who is averse to boredom. In terms of the former, the poop sheets offer a treasure trove of information about each season, because Williams (and those who took over writing them after he died) meticulously detailed how things were progressing, from ad sales to production to publicity, such that you can trace out a distinctive narrative arc of progress across each season — well, usually more of a zig-zag than a neat arc. Williams describes at the end of the 1975-76 season that he used them to “congratulate, remind, philosophize, scold, amuse, announce and probably offend” as he tracked the company’s activities.
The sheets are also a tremendous testament to Williams’ ability to engage an audience stretching across the years from a 1970s teenager to a semi-senior academic fifty years later. His writing style is clever but never obtuse, and his humor is delightfully refined and silly in almost equal measure, with every sheet generating at least a few wry smiles and more than a few outright laughs. Just picking one example mostly at random from the first year’s set or I’ll never stop reading long enough to get this posted, Williams told the kids what to expect from their first attempt at selling commercial time: “Tempering somewhat that heady exhilaration which comes from walking into an Advertising Manager’s office and saying: ‘I represent WJA-TV…’ will be that magic moment when you are hurled bodily from that office with no contract” (December 11, 1967). He also skillfully highlighted well-known quotes, repeatedly using ones that seemed most germane, such as this passage written by Tom Wolfe presumably meant to point toward BOC’s love/hate relationship with the TV it ridiculed: “At the heart of every parody there is a gold ball of tribute. Even hostile parodies admit the target has a distinct voice.”
Most evidently, how much the show, the company, and the kids meant to Williams leaps off of every page, not least in the time he put into writing each sheet but most substantially in the stern yet forgiving ways in which he points out student failures. No matter how critical he was in describing how the season would be lost if the kids didn’t shape up, he was still always seeking to encourage, never to disparage. And because he was so witty, and so clearly on their side, he could call the kids out for unruly behavior without it coming across as mean-spirited, like when he wrote in March 1973 after an unproductive Saturday session: “Too much time spent on set-ups, and your little practical jokes … the cleverness of which would make you an absolute wow at any fifth grade party. (Have you tried the one where you pull the chair out from someone sitting down?).”
Williams concluded each season with a final parting thought, “much like the thoughtful mortician who checks to be sure the smile is firmly set on the corpse before he closes the lid,” he wrote in May 1976. Two years prior, he bid farewell to that season’s company with this: “It has been nearly a year since some of you walked into the interview room to face us, a recorder, a Polaroid camera and a bowl of cookies. And now, we’ve given you all that we have to give. We warned you that it would be fun, and we promised you that there would be tears, and we predicted the unpredictable. We scarred most of you psychologically … and some of you physically. We sweated, cursed, giggled, bled, threatened, apologized, sighed, cried and very nearly collapsed at times. And no one on the outside will ever understand what it’s like being on the inside.” Thanks to his prolific, expressive writing (and all the BOCers who preserved these sheets so we could read them today*), Dave Williams has at least helped me understand it a little bit.
If you’ve managed to read this far, you deserve a clip as a reward, so here’s one wherein its poop sheet apperance helped me better understand how Beyond Our Control was evolving aesthetically in the mid-1970s. In a February 1976 entry, Williams assesses a Saturday production session and laments a few sketches that were “good ideas perhaps dragged out beyond any reasonable length.” He then praises “Walsh’s Vegetables” in contrast, “with its terse, every-line-a-joke style and the visually-interesting mix of studio and film.” He continues that the lesson going forward for the show would be to produce “more short studio bits” and “more studio-film mixes and fewer long-winded pure studio bits.” I’ll have to look for how that worked in practice when I’m done with the documents and poring over video instead. In the meantime, please enjoy David Simkins as John Walsh, true vegetable lover, warning us about the sad state of endangered vegetable species. The sketch was directed by the teen David Sutton, and if you enjoy it, you have a way to reward the adult David Sutton, who became a pioneering pet photographer, author, songwriter, and builder of cigar box guitars and today could use some help.
*If you’d like to see a bunch of poop sheets, head to the BOC website and click on a season. If you want just one to see what they look like, check out the first one from the 1975-76 season. I’ll close this post out the way Williams did at the very end of that season’s poop sheets:
The title for Beyond Our Control stemmed from the routine announcement when a logistical or technical difficulty arose, i.e. “Due to circumstances beyond our control,” something wasn’t going as planned. CBS News producer Fred Friendly titled his 1967 book about the failings of profit-driven broadcast journalism Due to Circumstances Beyond Our Control. . ., so the saying was surely top of mind when Dave Williams and his creative team of teenagers were devising in the fall of that year what BOC would be when it started airing in January 1968.
Before they settled on Beyond Our Control, though, and even apparently before they had settled on the creative mission to parody television, Williams wrote up a memo proposing guidelines for possible titles:
I wish I could have been in the room (or in Dave Williams’ head) to learn how Beyond Our Control was chosen, but this memo gets us pretty close to the answer. A clever but not coy title that is easy to convey in publicity and raises connotations of a program offering the perspective of a spectator seeking to probe the motley sight of TV’s diversions, with an accent on the light and humorous? Beyond Our Control nailed it.
That title is also a generous gift to anyone (me) trying to analyze the meaning of everything behind the production. BOC was fundamentally about control — bestowing it upon teenagers, trusting them with it, contending with the consequences when they lost it. The “our” also signified creative ownership and empowerment while implicitly drawing lines that designated who stood beyond its boundaries. The fact that it could get beyond their control also signalled to viewers that they couldn’t predict what would appear on their TV screens next, and if they didn’t like that, well, they should take command of channel switching themselves.
Or maybe Dave Williams just thought it sounded cool? Who knows.
The YouTube caption written by David Simkins about this 1975 sketch reads, “This is a parody of a hellaciously cheesy locally produced late-night monster movie show that aired briefly in South Bend. The original was called “Klara Kackle’s Kreepy Kauldron” and it was produced by a small time religious station. What you’ll see here is as close to the real thing as we could manage. We managed very well.” Simkins portrayed the titular host, Hanna Hag, and what he was parodying is described by Paul Gerard Kennedy on IMDb as “John Michaels as ‘Klara Kackel’ present[ing] movies on [WMSH]-TV Channel 46, South Bend, Indiana between 1974-1976. Klara was a man dressed up as a witch with a high-pitched gruff voice. She welcomed her ‘little dearies’ to the show tending a smoking, bubbling cauldron with rubber chickens sticking out of it. She stirred it with her broomstick while occasional rubber bats flew by.” As the thumbnail image here indicates in catching Simkins in the process of transforming into a werewolf (triggered by a particularly bright street lamp), the segment includes a few parodies of classic horror movies. See the Invisible Man eat dinner! (Only you won’t see him, of course.)
For more info about Klara Kackle’s Kreepy Kauldron, check out this post from the Classic Film and TV Café blog. You can also read about one boy’s brief in-person interaction with Klara Kackle here: “I must have been 4 or 5, and she was greeting fans at the local Goldblatt’s department store. When it was my turn in line, she looked me in the eye and laughed diabolically. I jumped back several feet and ran, never to come back.”
One of BOC’s most locally notable sketches was the “Golden Dome Heist,” which aired in 1980. Company members report that some South Benders actually believed it was a real news report, and they called into the station and even contacted the police for more information. “It sounds almost too incredible to be true,” indeed.
BOC’s own War of the Worlds scenario also reportedly got the attention of the FCC, which reminded the station that it was a regulatory violation to purport to break into regular programming with breaking news when it was in fact “fake news.” As ever, BOC was ahead of its time.
For the rest of time, I’ll think of Notre Dame as “a place where education is synonymous with learning.” Also, maybe when my book is out, the university will replace Mary at the top of the Dome with a giant-sized bust of Rita Moreno for just a few days to help me publicize it.
According to Tim Daugherty, who portrayed commenter Ralph R. Glunk, his character was based on WGN’s elder statesmen commenter Len O’Connor. News anchor Wendell Baker was played by Circus Szalewski (née Dennis Mooney), while the pawn shop scene featured Heidi Moser as Barbara Brambell, reporting live from Big Ben’s Big Barter Pawn Shop in Bremen and interviewing Ben Buchanan (alliteration fans, rejoice!), who was played by Daniel Waters.
I’ve got a draft of the first chapter, and I’ll share the introduction to it here. The key word there is “draft.” It’s early days and everything could change significantly, but I wanted to start the book out with the institutional entities that were in place before Beyond Our Control even started and identify how they helped support and shape what BOC became. So here’s the opening tease for it.
“There’s a rumor going around that during the ‘80s and ‘90s a frequently asked question in Hollywood film circles was ‘Where’s South Bend, Indiana, and why are so many young filmmakers coming out of that place?’ If the answer to the first part of the question was easy to figure out, the second part wasn’t. There were no great film schools in South Bend — no renowned theater groups or actor’s workshops and no plausible explanation for the plethora of talent pouring out of the little town in middle-America. There was only the implausible, the impossible, the absurd explanation that a group of kids had somehow captured the keys to a local television station and clung to them for the next 18 years.” — Lou Pierce, South Bend Tribune, 2001[1]
A pro-business non-profit organization’s support of a commercial television program on a station owned by Catholic university in which teenagers mocked corporations, advertising, and authority figures seems nearly as implausible as kids holding station keys hostage for nearly two decades. Yet that formula is essentially the answer to the second part of Lou Pierce’s question. What made these unprecedented circumstances possible in South Bend? This chapter focuses on the institutional conditions that enabled Beyond Our Control to flourish, from the city itself to the national educational association that sponsored it and the local television station that housed it.
A starting point is the apparent vacuity of South Bend that Pierce describes. A region that offered more for young people to do likely wouldn’t have been able to funnel so many creative kids into a television project. But also, South Bend wasn’t just any old struggling Rust Best town. The unique components that defined the city’s collapsing environment actually helped to fuel the satire that drove BOC forward. The show’s young participants were able to see on their very streets the material conditions of their deteriorating town and draw connections between that and how television typically glossed over economic deficiencies.
Beyond Our Control’s sponsoring organization, Junior Achievement, would also be inclined to gloss over any struggles under capitalism because it was founded to teach children that free enterprise and industrialism were the bedrocks of the United States and its democratic ideals. The lure of socialism had to be combatted by teaching the future voters of America about its wrongheaded ways, and the most productive route to that would be to give young people real-world experiences in entrepreneurship so they could see first-hand how individualism trumped collectivism. While JA’s support was crucial for providing a stable structure for a successful, long-running television production, it also laid bare the ways in which BOC itself and the wider South Bend community benefited from a collective effort over any individualistic motivations, including in how it earned money for its young participants at a time and place in which jobs for teens could be hard to come by. That plus BOC’s fundamental mockery of one of America’s most thriving postwar businesses produced occasional strains within the JA and BOC relationship, but that in turn taught the company members how to navigate multifaceted professional structures.
Such lessons were more than the founders of BOC’s television station may have originally intended, but WNDU-TV and its owner, the University of Notre Dame, provided the space for Beyond Our Control’s production because of their commitment to an educational mission. WNDU also had a financial imperative, which the commercial ad sales that JA’s structure enabled helped to contribute to, but BOC never could have afforded the cost of studio time they used without some station altruism. As with JA, that relationship could have been endangered due to the occasional disharmony between the young producers and the station’s staffers, but navigating those professional relationships to ensure that the show could go on taught BOCers more than any textbook could.
Overall, the unique character of each of these institutional spaces was fundamental not just to Beyond Our Control’s mere existence but just as much to its ability to thrive for nearly two decades. Yet the relationships BOC forged with them were never simple nor without challenge. Within and between each of these entities, there were tensions and cracks. But from that variegated foundation grew knowledge, insight, and critical thinking – as well as humor — that would not have existed otherwise.
The cover of a 1922 booklet produced by the city of South Bend in anticipation of the city’s centennial1976-77 company’s annual cast photo atop the rubble of a demolished South Bend building that had been a home for Junior Achievement meetings.1977 JA Banquet program from a BOC collection featuring arrows doodled through JA executives’ heads but a squiggly frame around WNDU GM William Thomas Hamilton
[1] Lou Pierce, South Bend Tribune, August 22, 2001, http://www.beyondourcontrol.org/boc2/pages/bitsandpiecespages/bitsandpieces2001/loupiercearticle.html
