Bewitched

Samantha Stevens, Other Worldly Suffragette

by Dave Liljengren
Illustrations by Greg Moutafis

I received word last fall, far too late to send flowers, that Elizabeth Montgomery, star of the proto-womanist sitcom, Bewitched, had passed away. That brought to five the number of television heroes, veterans of that selfsame Aleister Crowley/ upper suburbia spoof, forced to depart this life with nary so much as a thigh cream infomercial to give them succor in the autumn of their lives. I recite their names now with the granite stoicism befitting names one day to be inscribed on a granite monument honoring casualties lost in this country’s misguided war on popular culture.

Lest we forget, there is:
Dick York, deceased
Dick Sargent, deceased
Agnes Morehead, deceased
Paul Lynde, deceased
and now…
Elizabeth “Samantha” Montgomery, …DECEASED.

Are my two nostrils the only ones to detect the stench of conspiracy as I wiggle my nose and “tinkle tinkle tink” an incantation into existence.

Surely mankind – and not humankind or womankind – is behind such pop-cultural carnage.

Rich in irony, the burying of Bewitched was likely the last act of shrieking eunuch elements in the culture: i.e. the edgy, button-down types who, ten years previous, were consumed with anxiety over red scares, fluoridated water, and the hips of a crooner named Presley. These individuals, the meddlesome, male, Gladys Kravitz’s of the world, hoped cancellation of the messenger eulogized an empowerment message they cryptically reduced to bra-burning. (Did anyone actually witness a lingerie fire? If so, what does burning elastic smell like?) Lest we forget, Puritans not only founded this country, in the process fixing gender roles for three centuries, but those sensibly-dressed New Englanders also raised witch-hunts to an art form. Sitcoms, like the crinkly leaves of autumn, are consumed quickly in bonfires of such historically immense proportions.

Broomless Samantha, like her contemporary and fellow boob tube spellbinder, Jeannie (“I Dream of…”), possessed resources and wherewithal to overthrow the dominating, penis-oriented power structure, who chose, nonetheless, to actualize in a domestic context. Samantha could have toppled Madison Avenue skyscrapers, and Jeannie could have short-fused NASA rockets, in less time than it took June Cleaver to serve Wonder Bread fluffernutters, yet neither did any such thing.

Preferring to assist future generations, (i.e. Tabitha and Adam) Samantha struggled to hold powers in check while developing the emotional center of her life, a relationship with the man her mother, Endora, would call Durrwood. We should not be surprised by this. The diapers of Western literature, from the bible to The Color Purple, Alien, and Desperately Seeking Susan, are loaded with images of the Madonna and child. And whether it’s Percy Sledge or the Book of Ruth who praise the strength of a man’s love for a woman, or vice versa, (perhaps even versa-versa when Naomi’s poetic devotion to Ruth is examined) we find it no less gripping, and no less real.

Male chauvinists and female traditionalists of the Phyllis Schlafly-Anita Bryant ilk both looked at Samantha and saw the hell wife, the blonde with swell gams and way, way too much time on her hands. Sure she could cook – Burn your first attempt, then “tinkle, tinkle, tink” as needed – was the favored series recipe, but she had boundary problems, appearing at will in Darren’s office with supernatural concerns just when Larry Tate depended on Darren, good brandy, pungent cigars, and the uninterrupted prattle of superficial menfolk to seal an important deal.

Feminists saw in the voluntary blunting of her powers the recurring tragedy of women throughout history; a woman of many gifts and career opportunities shoehorned into the lumpenboredom of motherhood. In Darren’s fits they could see American penishood wilting in fear at the approach of the Equal Rights Amendment. Previously powerful, but ultimately talentless, careerists like Darren stood to lose most from the steadily empowered and loudly roaring women who were even then entering the job market. The real-life neandethals who faced this situation without evolving, responded, like Durrwood, with pro forma – for an alpha male gorilla – grunts, chest-banging, and relentless reverence for the fresh banana.

Neither side monopolized the truth. Misunderstood, the cul-de-sac coven – including sternly competent Morehead, an original Orson Welles RKO player – were tossed into Fred Sanford’s junkyard of inappropriate pop-cultural imagery. While the Nickelodeon channel – in a nighttime lineup assembled by the Jack Webb Fan Club – will rerun Bewitched, the Stevens family is so far from hipster respectability that not even The Simpsons give them a nod in the form of a campy cameo resurrection, a courtesy extended to Werner “Col. Klink” Klemperer, who was heard in a guest voice cameo as Homer’s monocled Prussian conscience. While it should be mentioned Paul Lynde moved on from Bewitched, to Hollywood Squares, the artistic, pink-triangle, Hades he was wedged into, between George Gobel and Waylon Flowers and Madam, can only be seen as a paycheck, and not, under any circumstances, as any sort of redemption. This is particularly true when it is revealed he was credentialed, like Anhaueser-Busch spokesperson, Charlton Heston, at the prestigious Northwestern University School of Drama. Thus, as was true for Heston, only an apocalyptic ape movie could have been a proper comeback vehicle for Lynde.

With Montgomery’s passing, death has placed all the conjuring principals beyond praise justly earned and only now bestowed. Nonetheless, the time has come to understand Samantha, womanist in embryo. Goaded by strong women, Endora and sex-positive libber, Serena, to leave Darren and his mortal plodding, she chose, time and again, to express selfhood and utilize gifts via spouse and children.

Though Samantha had no immediate career, it cannot be assumed she was forever precluded from one. With simpering goat Darren likely to die – liver bloated and arteries calcified – in a youthful mistress’s bed after massive coronary thrombosis in his mid-forties, Samantha wouldn’t have had to linger more than a decade or two in suburbia. Being immortal, she likely would have joined Uncle Arthur, Dr. Bombay, and the others who shared her calling, after Durrwood’s death, in the work and play awaiting them beyond time. Perhaps that is what she’s doing now.

Good night, sweet princess, and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest…