Episode Spotlight: M*A*S*H, Season 1, Episode 17: Sometimes You Hear the Bullet
Frank Burns throws his back out and applies for a Purple Heart. Meanwhile, Hawkeye Pierce meets, and later operates on, an old friend and struggles with the decision of whether or not to send an underaged soldier home.
More than halfway through season 1, M*A*S*H wasn’t exactly killing in the ratings. The show wasn’t quite sure of itself yet, with tons of recurring characters that would end up dropped and other characters not yet added to the main cast. Airing at eight o’clock on Sunday nights, M*A*S*H was, at this stage in the game, a relatively normal sitcom, albeit one with a bit sharper sense of humor.
That all changed with Sometimes You Hear the Bullet.
I’ll show you what I mean.
The episode starts humorously enough: Major Frank Burns throws his back out during a rendezvous with Major Houlihan. He is placed into traction, where he applies for a Purple Heart for his ‘injury’. Meanwhile, Hawkeye is visited by an old friend and kindred irreverent spirit: Corporal Tommy Gillis, a journalist who signed up for the front lines as he writes his book: You Never Hear the Bullet, a book meant to be written from a soldier’s point of view, instead of a reporter’s.
A helicopter full of wounded arrive at the unit, and Gillis returns to his post.
Among the wounded is a young man with a burst appendix, a Private Wendell Petersen, who is very anxious to get back to the front lines. Hawkeye tells him that he has to rest for a few days before returning to his unit. This doesn’t stop Wendell from attempting to steal an army jeep to try to get back, afraid that he was going to be sent home.
After talking with him, Hawkeye figures out the truth: Wendell Petersen is actually Walter Peterson, and he’s not even sixteen years old.
It turns out that Walter posed as his brother, Wendell, and entered the war to impress his girlfriend back home by returning with a medal. He begs Hawkeye to keep his secret, and, after returning him to his bed, Hawkeye agrees.
Shortly, more wounded arrive, and among them is Tommy Gillis. Hawkeye operates on him, but even his best is not enough, and he dies on the operating table after telling Hawkeye that he did hear the bullet. Hawkeye tries to revive him, but Colonel Henry Blake orders him to move on to save another life.
Afterwards, Hawkeye breaks down crying.
“Henry, I know why I’m crying now. Tommy was my friend, and I watched him die, and I’m crying. I’ve watched guys die almost every day. Why didn’t I ever cry for them?”
“Because you’re a doctor.”
Hawkeye asks what that means, and Henry answers with one of the greatest lines in the show’s history.
“I don’t know. If I had the answer, I’d be at the Mayo Clinic. Does this place look like the Mayo Clinic? Look, all I know is what they taught me at command school. There are certain rules about a war. And rule number one is young men die. And rule number two is, doctors can’t change rule number one.”
Right then and there, Hawkeye decides to change rule number one in some small way, and calls the MPs on Private Wendell, really Walter, outing the fact that he’s underage. Walter, outraged, tells Hawkeye that he’ll never forgive Hawkeye for the rest of his life.
Hawkeye replies: “Let’s hope it’s a long and healthy hate.”
In one final scene (one that’s usually cut from syndication), Henry Blake begins to present Frank with his Purple Heart, only to find it replaced with a purple earring, while outside, Hawkeye pins the Purple Heart on Walter to make up for turning him in, sending him home, but home a hero.
The end.
Sometimes You Hear the Bullet is considered one of M*A*S*H’s best episodes for a reason. This is an early episode, one that is regarded as a tone and trend setter for the rest of the series in terms of both storyline balance (one or two serious plotlines, one humorous), and content itself, one of the first episodes to sit down and truly explore the characters within this tragic situation. At this moment, M*A*S*H ceased being a comedy show and became a dramedy, with one of the most memorable moments and exchanges in the show’s long history.
While this episode may seem like a standard half-hour of television, at the time, especially for this show, it was something different. It was no longer a slapstick grittier Hogan’s Heroesque irreverent comedy about soldiers, it was a show about a group of people stuck in the middle of a war, with death all around them. And no matter how good Hawkeye, or any of the doctors, are at their jobs, they’ll never be able to save everyone.
It’s sobering, but it’s a truth that the show had, for the first time, truly explored, and it’s that initial exploration, that glimmer of what this show was going to become, that puts this episode under so much recognition: Sometimes You Hear the Bullet was the warning sign, the first moment that the writers got a handle on the show that would become a classic.
Of course, it has it’s problems.
Not tonal ones, at least, not exactly. Throughout its entire run, M*A*S*H often had two or three plots going, one serious, one humorous. This is a smart strategy: balance out the dark with the light, giving each episode a more even feeling instead of being too much one or the other. Although the show would get darker and more serious as time went on, the writers never abandoned this plan, allowing M*A*S*H to remain a consistent dramedy throughout the show’s run, keeping the audience laughing and crying at the same time.
In the case of Sometimes You Hear the Bullet, the ‘funny’ subplot is obvious: Frank Burns and his Purple Heart. The other two storylines are the serious ones: Hawkeye’s friend, as well as the underaged soldier. However, in most cases, as in this one, these plotlines inevitably intersect, and it’s here that this particular episode might cause a few problems.
I mentioned that the final scene in the episode is typically cut from syndication: the sequence where Frank’s purple heart is stolen and given to the underaged soldier, instead. While this scene may not, at first, seem inherently out of place within the context of the rest of the episode, swinging from comedy to drama within a minute, there are those who believe that this scene unintentionally undermines the rest of the episode, or the main thrust established a few moments earlier.
And those people aren’t exactly wrong.
I certainly agree that the episode would have been stronger had it ended with the soldier’s final interaction with Hawkeye been proclaiming his hatred, only for Hawkeye to soberly respond that he hopes it’s a long and healthy hate. Changing that to this new ending, where Hawkeye sends him home with a medal, seems almost out of character for Hawkeye, taking away some of the sincerity and severity of the message just a moment earlier. The idea that this soldier could bring himself to forgive Hawkeye so soon, before realizing what exactly he’d been saved from, seems a little disingenuous after the weight previously given to this subplot.
In later episodes, it’s possible, even probable that this episode wouldn’t have ended tied in such a neat bow. But that’s one of the things that’s so interesting about this episode.
Sometimes You Hear the Bullet isn’t the first episode of ‘true’ M*A*S*H as it would be remembered in the future, but it is the first episode where M*A*S*H comes into its own themes, looking hard at war, and the toll it takes not only on the soldiers, but on the surgeons, as well. Before this, for the most part, ‘characters’, friends of the cast, did not die on the operating table. Not when Hawkeye could save him.
But I’m going to quote Hawkeye from another season 1 M*A*S*H episode, Yankee Doodle Doctor, as I think that it sums up this the point of this episode pretty well:
“Three hours ago, this man was in a battle. Two hours ago, we operated on him. He’s got a 50-50 chance. We win some, we lose some. That’s what it’s all about. No promises. No guaranteed survival. No saints in surgical garb. Our willingness, our experience, our technique are not enough. Guns, and bombs, and anti-personnel mines have more power to take life than we have to preserve it. Not a very happy ending for a movie. But then, no war is a movie.”
That right there is the point of Sometimes You Hear the Bullet, to the point where the doomed Tommy Gillis even references the film tropes of a young, fresh-faced kid hearing the bullet that kills him. This is the message that Hawkeye must grapple with: he cannot save everyone.
No matter how much he knows, how good he is, he can never save everyone. No guaranteed survival.
It’s sobering, but it’s the truth. And it’s what makes this episode so memorable.
M*A*S*H at this point was still mostly a comedy, a series full of jokes and the occasional serious moment, and it would continue to be so for another few years. But it was this episode, episode seventeen of the first season, that signaled to audiences that this show could be more than that. It could make you laugh, sure, but it could make you cry, and it wasn’t that surprising: this was war.
In short: by itself, is Sometimes You Hear the Bullet one of the greatest episodes of television, or even M*A*S*H, ever written? Maybe. Maybe not. But what it is, without much doubt, is the first sign of maturity in a show that had a lot of growing up to do.
Whether the shift was instantaneous or not, the fact is, Sometimes You Hear the Bullet was a game changer in the show’s history, the first break in format that truly showed audiences what they could expect in the years ahead.
On top of that? It’s just a good episode.
The plot balance is decent, without too much mood-whiplash that could so easily occur in a war dramedy. The characters, decently familiar to audiences by now, all work off of each other just as well as ever, funny, interesting, and heartfelt in turn. It’s an example of early M*A*S*H at it’s best, overshadowing many first season episodes with a level of depth previously mostly unexplored, delivering on every scene and remaining mostly genuine. It’s an engaging episode, full of memorable moments that are thoughtful and earnest, making this episode a standout, a moment in television history, and an unmissable installment for avid watchers of M*A*SH, and television fans in general.
Don’t forget that the comment box is always open for anything from suggestions and discussion ideas to questions and conversations! Thank you guys so much for reading, and I hope to see you guys in the next article.
Storytelling, especially where it regards movies and television, is always evolving.
Whether it’s in deeper themes, better effects, different genres, or evolving archetypes, there is always something that is changing, except, perhaps, where the importance of characters are concerned.
Characters are an integral part of storytelling, particularly where it concerns television. When it comes to television, the setup is everything, and the characters are part of that setup, that ‘home base’ that the audience returns to at the start of every episode. The characters are the people that the audience gets to know, who star in each adventure. Characters are what holds the audience’s investment, the reason fanbases tolerate bad episodes and praise good ones. In the end, the main characters keep an audience’s attention, making each episode, even the bad ones, enjoyable.
In short, characters can make or break a television show. It is vital that they be likable, or at the very least, interesting, lest the audience utter those eight deadly words:
I Don’t Care What Happens To These People.
Once those words are uttered, it doesn’t matter how gripping your narratives are. The viewers will start to leave.
See, while a film can get away with some lesser characters by distracting with an interesting concept, set-piece or a fast-paced story, television can’t. Thanks to a smaller runtime and a smaller budget, television, by necessity, tends to be character based. As a result, the main cast of a television show has to be able to work in multiple stories of different kinds.
This means that writing for characters on television can be pretty difficult.
The best television characters tend to merge two ideas together: That of relatability and entertainment value.
You see, television, like all stories, tells stories of exaggerated versions of reality, especially in the cases of science-fiction adventure shows like Star Trek. The only way to make an audience buy an unbelievable world is to create believable characters to place in that world, that relatability in the stories and characters. When we see McCoy’s frustration, or Kirk’s boldness, or Spock’s reservedness, we see elements of ourselves, our own personalities and lives. It is vital to make characters seem real, if not realistic.
The question is, does Star Trek manage to do that?
That’s the question we’re going to be answering today. Let’s take a look, starting with the Captain of the Enterprise Crew: James Tiberius Kirk.
Kirk truly was The Captain in every sense of the word. A Reasonable Authority Figure who did far more adventuring than realistic counterparts would have, Kirk was an Action Man, level-headed, dutiful, and always loyal to his ship and his crew. A Bold Explorer (it’s in the job description), Kirk, while not fearless per say, took the Chains of Commanding quite seriously, and would often face down hugely powerful beings, power-mad computers, or other forces beyond him in order to save his crew. A Determinator to the last, known for his interesting ways to think outside the box and refusal to accept a ‘no win scenario’, he is the unquestionable Hero of the show, the Leader, who often throws the rules aside to do what he feels is right, in a constant battle To Be Lawful or Good. He was a Charmer, an expert fast-talker, and very smart. In later installations of the franchise, Kirk would become a Living Legend, much as he became in our own pop culture.
All that being said, the common cultural image of Captain Kirk isn’t quite right. Allow me to adjust it, as best I can.
More than any other character in Star Trek, or perhaps the history of television in general, Captain Kirk is possibly the most misrepresented character of all time. Since the ‘60s, Kirk has evolved into an icon of heroism, machismo, and brash boldness, with even the recent Star Trek reboot depicting, not Kirk, but rather, the distorted, separate idea of Kirk in the modern light.
This idea, quite frankly, is just not right. While Kirk did have his share of romances, he was no womanizer, often entering into dubiously consented-to relationships reluctantly, in order to save the ship. The relationships he did actively pursue, he threw himself into wholeheartedly, and he was just as crushed as the other party every time they fell apart (for proof, watch City on the Edge of Forever or The Paradise Syndrome). Kirk was no player. As a matter of fact, he was a deeply compassionate man who respected the women in his life as much as he respected Spock and McCoy. It just so happened that the women in his life tended to not stick around, unlike his one true love: The Enterprise.
Even his reputation of the ‘Cowboy Captain’ isn’t accurate. As I mentioned before, Kirk was defined by compassion. His moments of ‘rule-breaking’ wasn’t to impose ‘the way he thinks things should be’, it’s because Kirk cannot bear to watch helpless people in trouble. The few times where he does break the famous ‘Prime Directive’ (To not interfere with less developed races) is to help. Kirk was a deeply moral character, determined to not stand by while people were taken advantage of. He wasn’t rash, either. While it may be accurate to say that the ship’s doctor, Leonard McCoy, was a bit on the hot-headed side, it is entirely inaccurate to accuse Kirk of the same. Kirk was an extremely smart man, a level-headed captain who was an expert at thinking fast. He trusted his instincts, but he trusted his advisors too, often finding a balance between McCoy’s impulsiveness and Spock’s cold rationality. Kirk’s intelligence and competence is often lost, overshadowed by his more extreme companions, and some audiences have forgotten the truth of Kirk’s character: a cunning problem-solver capable of saving the day under enormous pressure, whose decisions are far from based in irrationality. He is a romantic, duty-bound to protect his ship and crew, greatly exaggerated and mis-characterized in the years following his captaincy.
As such, Kirk was a well-rounded, balanced character, far more three-dimensional than the modern idea of him tends to give him credit for.
That’s all well and good, sure, but how does he fit as a main character in a television show?
As a matter of fact, absolutely incredibly.
Kirk serves as a wonderfully effective lead, compelling, entertaining, and interesting. Infinitely more developed than most leads of his time, and even more modern examples, Kirk was a game-changer, a revolutionary kind of protagonist who just worked. The perfect balance of the main trio of the series, Kirk is the perfect face for Roddenberry’s ideals: a hopeful pragmatist, an idealist who proves the best of humanity: compassion mixed with intelligence, boldness combined with understanding. A man of action surrounded by True Companions, Kirk was an extremely gripping protagonist who felt intensely, a perfect person for the audience to connect to and be invested in. He drove the stories, opposed the villains, and always saved the crew, as a hero should, but it’s important to note that Kirk was hugely human, possessing many of our greatest attributes, but some of our failings as well. He wasn’t perfect. Sometimes he made the wrong choice. In the end, though, he was us, or us as we should strive to be: always learning and helping, and always reaching for the stars.
But of course, Kirk wasn’t alone in his position as the ‘lead’ of the show. It’s doubtful the show would have survived in the popular culture as well as it did if it weren’t for his support team, his True Companions: Dr. Leonard McCoy, and, more famously: Mr. Spock.
If Kirk represented the best of humanity, Spock represented the critique of it. In a previous article, I pointed out that Spock exists as a very unique character: a half alien, half human crewmember who, while equally valuable to the script and the characters as Kirk was, served a different purpose: to point out and explore humanity from the outside.
Like I’ve mentioned before, Spock is a different sort of character than Kirk is. Where Kirk is a demonstration of the best of humanity as we see it, Spock is a demonstration of humanity as someone else might. He served as a criticism of the human condition, a character at war with himself and his heritage, split between the emotional humans, and the rational Vulcans. Spock is the Number One, almost Comically Serious as he eschews his more illogical half and chooses to embrace the stoicism of the Vulcan people. A Gentleman and a Scholar, Spock has Hidden Depths, a heart of gold and deep emotions that he usually succeeds in hiding.
Most of the time. More on that in a minute.
Spock’s role in the show was The Smart Guy, the Stoic who had all the answers, all the statistics. He was the champion of impartial logic, of cold rationality. His job was to give Kirk the hard answers, to bring to him the facts and give him their options, especially the unforgiving ones. He is the cold to McCoy’s hot, a stern-faced, cold-blooded computer.
Or is he?
Much like Kirk, there is a lot more to Spock than meets the eye. While the cultural perception of Spock has often mutated into a parody of itself, much as it has done to Kirk’s reputation, Spock remains a much deeper character than he, or a brief skim of the series, lets on. As I said earlier, Spock is at war with himself, uncomfortable in his own skin. He insults humans for their humanity, but has strong, deep friendships with them. He is not above expressing frustration and their emotional natures when pushed (usually by other forces that knock his guard down), but isn’t frustration a human emotion?
Spock is a bag of contradictions, a supposedly emotionless master of sarcasm, a man without feeling who invites his close friends (emotional humans) to a private Vulcan ceremony, a cold-blooded creature with undying loyalty who occasionally makes ‘illogical’ decisions that would make Kirk proud. A lover of music and a sympathizer to space hippies (Not one of Star Trek’s better episodes, admittedly), Spock was an outsider who fit neither fully as a Vulcan or Human, a person who was struggling to find his place in the universe.
At first, this seems incongruous with the ice-cold exterior he projects, however, rather than being an example of inconsistent writing, it’s a shining example of development and nuance.
You see, Spock never gives up his following of logic. He just begins to approach it differently.
Spock’s style changes slightly as Star Trek progresses (most notably in the films, released ten years after the show’s final season), from cold, ‘computer’ logic to something else: human logic.
One thing of especial note in the original Star Trek show is that you could see characters visibly affecting one another. Kirk, Spock and McCoy all influenced each other in the ways they thought, reacted, and planned, and worked best as a unit. In this, the humanity of the main cast affected Spock in his slow, reluctant appreciation of human merits. In time, Spock began to make one or two decisions based on human logic, intelligence and emotion. In episodes like The Menagerie or The Galileo Seven, Spock makes decisions that seem out-of-character for him, based in emotion.
Spock is, in many ways, Star Trek’s best known and favorite character. The most visibly recognizable, as well as the most distinct, Spock is given more episodes exploring him than any other character, with installments like Amok Time and Journey to Babel, (the latter of which we explore his parents, and discover why it is that Spock has such a hard time with his human half) helping to examine Spock as a character.
The end result was a beloved science fiction icon, Kirk’s right hand man, an analytical, fascinating character as well-crafted and loved as Kirk himself.
Spock and Kirk are often remembered fondly, and are typically considered the most memorable and iconic characters of the franchise, but they don’t work alone. Their dynamic is as effective as it is because of balance. Spock is one extreme, and Kirk is the middle, but it’s no good without the other extreme: Dr. Leonard Horatio “Bones” McCoy.
McCoy is all hot-blooded human, the third of the main Power Trio. An old-fashioned competent doctor who wasn’t entirely thrilled with deep space, McCoy is a deeply emotional character, duty-bound to follow his morals. He clashed with Spock regularly, routinely criticizing him for his perceived lack of emotion. Despite the fighting, McCoy respected Spock greatly, counting him as a close friend, despite their arguments and different perspectives. A cantankerous pacifist (though not above getting into the action when needed), McCoy is a Super Doc and a Sarcastic Devotee, a Grumpy Old Man who serves as the Heart to Spock’s Brain (hah!), a man who values Honor Before Reason who values the Good Old Ways. He’s a Determined Doctor who does everything he can for his patients, and a Deadpan Snarker to the point where he can match Spock in verbal sparring.
Bones represents the unpolished rawness of humanity, getting carried away with his emotions sometimes, but always with the best intentions. Another Jerk with a Heart of Gold, McCoy’s gruff nature accompanied a deeply moral man, very concerned with human empathy and doing the right thing. No philosophical discussion was complete without McCoy’s two cents, telling Kirk what he thought the right thing to do was. He was the quintessential Knight in Sour Armor, who would follow Kirk to the ends of the earth, complaining the entire way.
Despite the fact that he’s not as well-known as the other two members of the Power Trio, Bones was a vital component to the True Companions dynamic. His Vitriolic Best Buds relationship with Spock made up one of the most interesting and compelling dynamics on the show, serving as perfect counterbalances to one another. However, although his most famous role in the show was arguing with Spock (and delivering phrases such as ‘He’s Dead, Jim’), there is another, equally important position that he held in the trio.
McCoy served as a foil to Kirk, as well as one to Spock, a confidante, a close friend, providing perspective. While Spock was focused on the logic, Kirk on the best thing for the mission, McCoy’s focus was purely on the ‘patients’, the people, the right thing to do. No matter the situation, McCoy was the closest to empathy with the people involved, and provided the audience with another surrogate, saying the things that the viewers are thinking.
While not being a terribly big fan of space (and liking transporters even less), Bones was the epitome of the Frontier Doctor to the stars, taking care of every patient, even if they weren’t humanoid (Devil in the Dark) or a heavily pregnant woman who refuses to listen (Friday’s Child). McCoy was painfully human, reminding us of our most problematic traits while also holding onto that wild, fiery compassion that made him so incredibly humane, relatable, and understandable, making him just as vital to the Enterprise and her crew as Kirk or Spock.
The trio worked best together, providing a perfect main cast for an audience to follow. The formula was an interesting one, allowing the audience to hear separate viewpoints and ideas, listen in to the philosophical banter, and truly feel the strong friendship holding the leads together. The dynamic between them was powerful, an extremely vibrant bond that connected all three very different characters.
The result? Extremely dynamic characters that remain iconic and memorable even to this day.
But the cast didn’t stop there.
The other characters of Star Trek, while not quite possessing the pop-culture iconography of the main trio, still hold their own rather impressive cultural footprint.
None more so than the chief engineer, Montgomery Scott.
Scotty’s job was to be a miracle worker, solving impossible problems in impossibly small amounts of time. Whether it was the transporters, the phaser banks, the shields, or the engines, Scotty was the man for the job. Nobody had a better understanding, or love for the Enterprise than Scotty (except maybe Kirk). He was the king of outside-the-box solutions, and had the Enterprise jury-rigged to push her past her limits more times than can be easily counted. As the name implies, he was also Scottish, and extremely stereotypically so. Kilt, whiskey, haggis and all, Scotty was extremely proud of his heritage (though not quite as much as Chekov). Fitting the traditional stereotypes, Scotty had a fiery temper, with a Berserk Button triggered by any insult to the Enterprise. A Gadgeteer Genius (and the inventor of Scotty Time) as well as a Genius Bruiser, Scotty was both the brains and brawn, more than capable of holding his own in a fight, or thinking of a new, creative way to push the Enterprise past her capacity.
Scotty also held the distinction of being third in command, routinely taking the Captain’s chair when both Kirk and Spock were in the landing party. He was also the focus of a few episodes, making him a rare character with a Day in the Limelight, with episodes such as Wolf in the Fold, The Lights of Zetar, By Any Other Name, and The Trouble with Tribbles giving him a little more screen time and story than is typical. Scotty was an indispensable member of the crew, a life-saver on more than one occasion, and another of the legendary, iconic characters of the original Star Trek.
But it didn’t stop there.
Lieutenant Nyota Uhura was another prominent character. As the ship’s communications officer, she codified the term ‘Bridge Bunny’, although she proved herself far more useful than she’s typically thought of. Whenever given the chance, Uhura is a capable Action Girl, intelligent, witty, and good at her job, being extremely fluent in multiple languages. She too got her days in the limelight, with episodes such as Mirror Mirror, The Gamesters of Triskelion, and The Trouble with Tribbles giving her more to do than just sit at her station and say ‘hailing frequencies open’. Uhura was Silk Hiding Steel, not typically in the heat of the battle, but tough as nails when she had to be. (I’ve talked about Uhura’s extensive influence on the real world in the Legacy article, but even that doesn’t scratch the surface of what Uhura’s impact has been.)
There were others on the bridge crew of equal importance, including the ship’s helmsman, Hikaru Sulu.
Sulu was a level-headed officer, amiable and cultured, with an extensive knowledge of botany, fencing, and antiques. Yet another Deadpan Snarker (it must run in the cast), Sulu is another Genius Bruiser, as skilled in fighting as he is in his piloting, with a great sense of humor. He is given special attention in episodes like Mirror Mirror and The Naked Time (Albeit as evil, and Brainwashed and Crazy), but often got great character moments in multiple episodes (especially Shore Leave). A reliable officer and loyal to the core, he made an interesting character by himself, although he did end up forming a fun ‘Those Two Guys’ dynamic with the youngest of the cast, Pavel Chekov.
Chekov was introduced in season 2 as the navigator of the Enterprise. A bright young man with a fierce, passionate loyalty to Mother Russia (which evidently invented every good thing known to man), Chekov tended to be at the receiving end of a lot of the embarrassing agony in the series (mostly because Walter Koenig had a great scream). Also serving as a relief science officer, Chekov was plenty smart, if a bit of a Cloudcuckoolander, and the king of Cultural Posturing. Reckless and impulsive to balance Sulu’s calm good humor, Chekov’s temper tended to get the better of him. Like the others, he’s given a bit more screen time in episodes such as Mirror Mirror, The Trouble with Tribbles, The Way to Eden, The Deadly Years and Spectre of the Gun, but got to shine in plenty of other episodes, demonstrating his capabilities (despite being ‘The Intern’ and the Plucky Comic Relief) as a competent officer. Unsurprisingly, he was yet another Deadpan Snarker, lending his style of jokes well to bounce off of Sulu’s drier humor.
But there was more to the crew than the bridge.
Another crew member of note was Christine Chapel, one of the nurses who operated in the sickbay. Chapel was notable for having an attraction to Spock, as well as being another in the long line of Enterprise Deadpan Snarkers. One of the most caring of the Enterprise’s crew, Chapel was given larger roles in episodes like The Naked Time, What Are Little Girls Made Of?, Amok Time, and Plato’s Stepchildren.
Arguably though, one of the most important characters in all of Star Trek was the Companion Cube: the Enterprise herself.
The Enterprise was one of the most powerful ships in Starfleet, a character in her own right. The epitome of the Cool Starship, the Enterprise was well known for Explosive Overclocking, and always coming through in the end (with a little help from Scotty). A Lightning Bruiser of a ship, the Enterprise became as legendary as her captain and crew, as beloved as the characters themselves to the point where one of NASA’s shuttles was named after her.
The characters of Star Trek are legends, both in and out of universe, and they are for a reason. No member of the crew is useless. Everyone has a purpose and a job to do, and each was distinct and unique. No two characters were the same, and each brought their own special personality and abilities to each episode they appeared in.
And that’s what made the drama of the show work so well.
Each character felt real, memorable and genuine. We as an audience worry for them with each danger, and cheer with each victory. We liked these people. We cared about what happened to them.
And they worked.
In each scenario and situation, the characters found new and interesting ways to deal with the circumstances, while never losing the core elements of their personalities. That’s important, hugely so. These characters were loved, and still are, for a reason. They work very well as characters, both in main and supporting roles, providing entertaining and compelling figures for the audience to invest in. The balance between relatability and entertainment was hit perfectly for every single character, allowing everyone to shine in their own ways in each episode. They felt real, and in the end, that’s the point of a character.
After all, one doesn’t get to be some of the most iconic television characters of all time by being boring.
Thank you guys so much for reading! Join us next time as we discuss Star Trek’s place in the times and the culture. If you have anything you’d like to say, don’t forget to leave an ask! I hope to see you all in the next article.
When it comes to adapting a film, already adapted from a book, into a television series, it seemed like series creator Larry Gelbart had quite the work cut out for him.
Especially considering the difference that lay in the mediums at the time.
Despite the tonal differences that obviously exist between MASH the film and M*A*S*H the television show, early on especially, everyone working on the show realized they owed a debt to Robert Altman’s original film, which provided the setting, style, and characters for them to work from. Despite this, when moving from the big screen to the small, plenty of things had to be changed in order for M*A*S*H to get on the air, and stay there.
For one, it had to have a laugh track.
This made more sense earlier on, when the show was primarily a comedy, but as time went by, the reason for the laugh track (hated by the cast and crew of the show) became more solidified: the studio was afraid that people wouldn’t realize the show was a comedy without it. And that sums up the rest of the differences pretty succinctly.
M*A*S*H was unashamedly a black-comedy political series, one with a target painted squarely on the American military, and it was impossible to miss. As Larry Gelbart put it:
“While the network displayed the typical sort of fears about language and permissiveness to a certain degree, they were always very supportive about the series politically. There was never any attempt to say let’s tone it down in terms of criticizing the military, the government. They knew what we were up to, very quickly, and never challenged that.”
This turned out to be quite a change from the original novel, the writers of whom really disliked the series that turned out to be the most popular version of their story. But while the network might have been alright with the political slant, they weren’t alright with some of the other content.
Early on in the series especially, the laugh track was enforced in all but the OR (Operating Room) scenes, which the network originally didn’t want at all. The blood and gore levels needed to portray an even mildly realistic operating room went above what networks of 1972 were comfortable with at the time. However, eventually, the show won out, not only by having the OR scenes in the first place, (without a laugh track!) but also slowly adding in more blood to add to realism. As time went on, eventually, the laugh track nearly disappeared entirely.
We’ve talked before about the genre switch that occured within the series, roughly between seasons five and six (the beginning of the Winchester era and the end of the Burns era), but while these changes in cast might have been the symptoms, they weren’t the cause.
The swap between comedy with dramatic undertones to drama with comedic undertones was a very simple change, brought about by the departure of joke-writer and series creator Larry Gelbart after season four, the first with new cast members Mike Farrell and Harry Morgan. The change was even further cemented at the end of season five, the last season with Larry Linville, and also the last season with co-creator, Gene Reynolds. With the original comedic foundation gone, and the rhythm of the early season’s fast-paced jokes no longer present, the show had to find a new identity, with new writers, at the start of the Charles Winchester era, after David Odgen Stiers joined the cast to replace Linville.
From season 6 onward, the show was in new hands: the new executive producer, Burt Metcalfe, and cast member Alan Alda, who had been writing episodes as early as season one. Soon enough, the show’s switch to drama was complete, cemented by the departure of Gary Burghoff early in season 8. With a shaken up cast and a shaken-up crew, it’s not really a surprise that M*A*S*H’s tone changed, but it is somewhat of a surprise that it wasn’t a jarring one, remaining consistent with characters and themes previously established in the series.
Another changing factor was the end of the Vietnam war in 1975.
With the war ending and the American focus changing, M*A*S*H’s stories became more character-driven, focusing less on ‘sticking it to the army’ and more on people’s individual stories and lives. At this time, the show started experimenting, working on episodes that weren’t ‘sitcom’ format, such as “Hawkeye”, “Life Time”, “Point of View”, “The Interview”, “A War for All Seasons”, and “Dreams”.
Despite these creative ideas, after over ten seasons, the show was out of steam. By season nine, writers admitted to being out of ideas, forced to accidently recycle plots already used a few times, and Alan Alda attempted to close the series out on season ten, persuaded by the network to extend for one more, shortened season, going out with a bang with the finale film: “Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen”, the most-watched television show event in history (exceptions being Super Bowls).
With an ending like that, it’s hard to believe that the beginning was so rough.
Early on, M*A*S*H didn’t do well in ratings. After limping through the first season, writers anticipated the cancellation of the series, before CBS placed the series in a better time slot for the second season, catapulting it into the top ten rated programs of the year. For the remainder of it’s run, it remained in the top twenty shows per year, until ending with the finale, watched by 125 million people across the nation, with plenty of awards won between the pilot and the finale.
Overall, M*A*S*H as a process was a relatively well-oiled machine, surviving cast changes, crew changes, genre swaps, and a perhaps overly-long runtime, all coming together to become one of the most beloved and most acclaimed television shows in American history, gathering 14 Emmys and even receiving an exhibit at the Smithsonian museum. With a tight cast, a talented crew, and a genuinely great, thoughtful, and heartfelt series of stories, M*A*S*H earned its place among the television greats, still iconic to this day.
Join us next time for our final look and personal thoughts on M*A*S*H. Don’t forget to leave a comment for discussions, questions, suggestions, or conversations! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope to see you in the next article.
