Episode Spotlight: "The Last Night of a Jockey" (10/25/1963)

Season 5, Episode 5 (125 overall)

Originally aired 10/25/1963

Cayuga Production # 2616

50 years ago tonight, a little man’s dream of being big came true.  No, this isn’t the Tom Hanks movie.

Rod Serling’s “The Last Night of a Jockey” introduces us to disgraced horse jockey Grady, where we find him brooding drunkenly in his apartment after being banned from racing for horse doping. He engages in a conversation with a mysterious “inner voice” who describes itself thusly:

I'm your memory, your conscience, Mr. Grady. I'm every one of your aspirations and recollections. I'm every one of your failures and defeats. I also wear the wreaths of all your victories. I'm what you call the Alter Ego. 

Later, it elaborates further:

I'm the fate every man makes for himself. You generally find me down at the bottom of the barrel. I'm the strength dredged up in desperation. I'm the last gasp. In some cases I'm something very good. In some cases, depending upon the person I'm representing, I can work miracles. I come with heroism, sacrifice, strength. And even better than that, I can epitomize everything noble in men. 

The Alter Ego offers to grant the diminutive Grady a single wish. Grady, who harbors a grudge against the universe for his slight stature, wishes to be big. He takes a nap (or, more likely, passes out) and, when he awakens, is delighted to discover that he’s suddenly eight feet tall. He then receives a call from the racing commission with the unexpected news that he’s been granted a second chance. He looks ahead to future glories on the track, until a crash of lightning interrupts his reverie. He’s now ten feet tall, rendering his return to racing impossible.

It’s evident that Grady’s Alter Ego is much more than a simple voice in his head; it appears to be some sort of celestial entity capable of modifying its target’s physical form at will. This entity is only masquerading as a voice inside Grady’s head as a means of communicating with him. But what exactly is said entity? I have a theory: call me crazy, but I believe Grady’s Alter Ego is none other than The Twilight Zone itself.

The Twilight Zone isn't an easy thing to define. Despite Rod Serling’s opening narrations, it’s not really a physical location that you can “cross over into.” It’s more conceptual, more abstract: sometimes it’s a state of mind, sometimes it’s a strange situation or circumstance, sometimes it’s a supernatural event. Like ice cream or toothpaste (or even vodka these days), it comes in many flavors. But if there’s one prevalent manifestation of this nebulous entity, it’s a device by which cosmic justice is dispensed, righting that which is wrong through unusual means.  We see it time and time again throughout the series’ run: innocent or luckless people are granted second chances, while the cruel and selfish are knocked for a loop befitting their misdeeds. Grady falls into the latter category: his reinstatement (which turns out to be an unattainable carrot after his supernatural growth spurt) is nothing if not comeuppance for his years of cheating.

Rod Serling’s “The Last Night of a Jockey” is a fascinating variation on his earlier “Nervous Man in a Four Dollar Room.” Both concern small, petty men, both of whom encounter alternate versions of themselves in mirrors. Both feature tour-de-force performances from their respective leads, and we get both ends of the retribution spectrum by comparing them: Joe Mantell’s likable but misguided Jackie Rhodes (the titular Nervous Man), receives The Twilight Zone’s patented second chance, while the coarse and hostile Grady is given the proverbial other end of the stick. While many of Serling’s contributions to the show’s fifth season are warmed-over retreads of earlier, better episodes, this is an unexpected (and quite welcome) exception; a Yang to a pre-existing Yin, if you will.

Yin and Yang... in The Twilight Zone.

 

In the late 80’s, CBS/Fox released a number of episodes on VHS, each volume containing two half-hour episodes (there were 22 of these tapes released, I believe). The episodes chosen for each volume often shared similar themes (“The Prime Mover” and “The Fever” are both set in Las Vegas; “Perchance to Dream” and “Shadow Play” involve nightmares; “The Last Flight” and “King Nine Will Not Return” concern military aircraft; etc.).  Neither “Nervous Man in a Four Dollar Room” or “The Last Night of a Jockey” found inclusion in these releases; however, they would’ve made a natural, quite complimentary pair.

“The Last Night of a Jockey,” which takes place entirely in Grady’s cramped studio apartment, has an effectively claustrophobic vibe (which intensifies as Grady’s size increases). The sight of the ten foot-tall Grady stomping around his (now tiny) apartment is an effectively surreal sequence (I’m reminded of Orson Welles engaging in a similar room-trashing tantrum in Citizen Kane). 

Presumably Mickey Rooney was chosen for this role because of his previous work as a horse jockey in 1944’s National Velvet, not to mention his 5’2” height. It’s certainly tempting to dock this episode a point for typecasting; however, Rooney’s performance more than transcends any surface relation to that earlier role (or potential stereotyping). He’s an absolute revelation here, alternately violently hostile and mournfully self-loathing as Grady, and at the same time articulate and smug as Grady’s Alter Ego.

“The Last Night of a Jockey” has the distinction of spawning one of the strangest DVD commentary tracks ever recorded. The track (which first appeared in the Definitive Edition DVD season five set, and was surprisingly carried forward to the blu-ray edition) features an argumentative and uncooperative Rooney repeatedly barking at an unnamed interviewer and exhibiting several bizarre behaviors. When asked for any memories he has about appearing in the episode, he answers “No, I don’t remember it. I don’t care anything about it!” When asked how he might explain the episode to younger viewers, Rooney replies as follows: “The younger audience doesn’t want to see this. They’re all watching sex and things!” There’s much more where that came from; trust me, it’s a surreal and frequently uncomfortable listen.  Wait, I wonder if he was in character as Grady when he recorded it…? If so, the man’s a goddamned genius.

“The Last Night of a Jockey” is a welcome comeback after last week’s flaccid offering, setting the bar back up where season five started out. Sadly, that bar won’t stay up there for long.

Next week: She’s the doll that does everything. She moves, she talks, she…. kills???

Special Report: The Lost Five

The original five-season run of The Twilight Zone is comprised of 156 episodes.  After the series ended in 1964, 151 of these episodes were assembled into a syndication package and began airing in local markets around the country.

But wait, that’s five episodes short.  What gives?

First, let’s list the missing episodes. 

(originally broadcast 2/21/1963)

(originally broadcast 12/13/1963)

(originally broadcast 2/28/1964)

(Originally broadcast 4/03/1964)

(Originally broadcast 5/01/1964)

Cayuga Productions accepted outside teleplay submissions for consideration; however, they rejected a great many of them.  Unfortunately, there were subsequent lawsuits filed by some of the aspiring writers they’d turned down.  Theoretical example:  Dick Johnson submits a script about a rampaging army of telepathic squirrels, which gets summarily rejected.  Serling then later writes a script that happens to incorporate a telepathic squirrel, which gets produced.  Dick Johnson believes Serling stole his intellectual property, so he screams plagiarism and files a lawsuit.  Of course I’m simplifying this some, but that’s the basic gist of things. At the time the series’ syndication package was put together, three episodes were stuck in mid-litigation (“Miniature,” “A Short Drink from a Certain Fountain,” and “Sounds and Silences”) and were therefore held back. 

“The Encounter,” meanwhile, contained some fairly heavy racial content, so it too was omitted (which is kinda odd, since it was allowed to air in the first place).  “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” was left out because it wasn’t really a Twilight Zone episode at all… but we’ll delve into that particular story when we get to it (a little over a year from now).

Aside from “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” getting a repeat broadcast during the summer of 1964, these five episodes essentially disappeared.

Fast forward 20 years. To celebrate the show’s 25^th anniversary in October 1984, a feature-length syndicated special was aired which resurrected three of “The Lost Five”:  “Miniature,” “A Short Drink from a Certain Fountain,” and “Sounds and Silences” (coincidentally the same three that had been previously suppressed for legal reasons; presumably their respective lawsuits had either been dismissed or otherwise dealt with by 1984).  The special was hosted by Patrick O’Neal (who had starred in “A Short Drink from a Certain Fountain”).  Here’s a link to the New York Times’write-up.  

I think the episodes may have suffered some minor editing (we’re talking about syndication, after all), but they seemed relatively unscathed… except for “Miniature,” the fate of which we’ll address later this week.

“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” and “The Encounter,” meanwhile, first reappeared on VHS in 1992 in the two-tape Treasures of The Twilight Zone set.  The set also included “The Howling Man,” “Eye of the Beholder,” “The Masks,” and “Where Is Everybody?” This release was later broken up into two separate DVD volumes in 1999 (Treasures from The Twilight Zone and More Treasures from The Twilight Zone; incidentally the first two TZ DVDs ever released; both "Lost Five" episodes appear on the first volume).

“The Lost Five” formally rejoined the series for the first time when the entire 156-episode run was presented on VHS by Columbia House.  You had to join the club, and wait impatiently as the volumes trickled out once a month but, at the time, this was the only way for a collector like me to acquire the entire series… at a pretty enormous cost (with shipping, I ultimately paid close to $1,000.00 to complete my set; it still amazes me that the entire series can be bought now, in pristine high definition with copious bonus features, for a mere fraction of that… in 2013 dollars, no less!).

Offer no longer valid... but hey, it might be fun to try.

At some point, probably in the early 2000’s or so (I’m totally guessing here), “Miniature," "A Short Drink from a Certain Fountain" and "Sounds and Silences" were added to the syndication package, reducing "The Lost Five" to "The Lost Two." Despite the fact that "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" and "The Encounter" remain MIA from the syndication package to this date, all 156 episodes are easily available on both DVD and blu-ray (and via streaming: all 156 are available for free on Hulu, while paying members of Netflix can view all the half-hour episodes); in other words,“The Lost Five” aren't really lost at all these days.  Their unique history is little more than a footnote now, but for those of us who pre-date the digital age, “The Lost Five” were once frustratingly out of reach, and therefore hold a special unique place in the legacy that is… The Twilight Zone.

*Speaking of plagiarism claims levied against The Twilight Zone… well, stay tuned.  I’m working on a pretty big expose that I hope to publish in the next month or two.  You might find it quite eye-opening.

Afterthoughts ("Escape Clause")

A fine episode, but a bit obvious. I mean, come on... selling your soul to the devil NEVER works out. Oh wait.... season four's "Printer's Devil" might be the exception to the rule. Unfortunately for our (anti) hero here, there's no magical Linotype machine around to help undo the deal.

The Definitive Edition DVD sets are the preferred way to watch the show (versus the earlier DVD or VHS editions, or worse yet, the time-edited versions shown in syndication). Aside from the marvelous image and sound quality, one is also treated to a variety of extras, including commercial bumpers and Serling's comments about the following week's episode. Also, right after the end credits (but before the final CBS logo), there's usually a vintage promo for another CBS show (The Danny Thomas show, Wanted: Dead or Alive, etc), or maybe a plug for the American Red Cross. However, in the case of "Escape Clause," the viewer saw something else entirely after the credits rolled:

Evidently The Advertising Council felt it necessary to counteract Mr. Cadwallader's trickery with a healthy reminder for temptation-endangered viewers to get their heathen asses to church. I laughed out loud when I saw this.

Interestingly, "Escape Clause" was the third episode produced, but the seventh aired. The second episode produced, "The Lonely," was the eighth episode aired (therefore, we'll be spotlighting it next week). Television shows, especially anthologies, are frequently produced in one order but broadcast in another. Another example: "The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine," which was the third episode aired, was the TENTH episode in the season one production cycle.

My Life in the Shadow of The Twilight Zone

Funny, I've been thinking back over the past 20 years, and marveling at how many times I've collected The Twilight Zone on home video.

First, I home-videotaped the series in the early-to-mid-80's. A local station (KPTV 12, as I recall, long before it became Fox) started airing the half-hour episodes six nights a week, Monday through Saturday, with an hour-long episode also shown on Saturday (oddly enough, they started with the 25th episode "People Are Alike All Over" and went pretty much in sequential order from there, which meant the first 24 episodes didn't get aired until months later, after they finished the run and started over). I eagerly began spending my allowance money (I was 12 or 13) on blank VHS tapes and recorded it every single night. Every now and then I’d miss an episode due to a variety of problems (a stray power outage, for example, or setting the VCR to record at 11:00 AM instead of PM. D’oh!), but I steamed ahead undaunted, fairly sure that they’d show every episode at least twice. After a couple of years I had 151 episodes recorded, which represented the entire syndication package (of course, the downside to home-recording old TV shows is the sad fact that they’ve been shortened to fit more commercials; each episode was missing at least two or three minutes, sometimes more). Five episodes eluded me, however (the five non-syndicated episodes, otherwise known as “The Lost Five”). Much to my delight, three of these rare gems were aired as part of a Silver Anniversary Special around 1984 or so, and I eagerly recorded them. I then stumbled upon the fourth non-syndicated episode (“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”) on a public domain tape in a clearance bin at Musicland (now known as Sam Goody).

A few years later (1992 to be precise: I remember because it was shortly after the birth of my daughter), I triumphantly finished the collection with the purchase of the two-tape “Treasures of The Twilight Zone” VHS set, which provided the final missing episode (“The Encounter”). With all 156 episodes acquired, I assumed the task was complete, and I’d never need to collect the series again.

Next, I ended up buying the entire series on VHS from Columbia House, this time in full uncut versions with vastly superior picture and audio, to replace the hacked-up syndicated versions I had already collected, from about 1993 till 1996 (it was a monthly subscription thing). 42 purchases later, I had the entire series, complete and uncut, which rendered my original home recordings ob-so-lete.* I recall having vague concerns that the tapes wouldn’t last forever, but VHS was the format of choice back then (unless you consider laserdisc, which I never delved into, and besides, the series was never made available in its entirety on laserdisc anyway). In any case, I believed that this would be the final time I'd ever collect the series.

Next, I bought the entire series on DVD, a single disc at a time, from 1998 till 2002. I didn't hesitate because of the dramatic leap in quality from VHS to DVD. 45 purchases later, I had the entire series in digital form and could get sell off my Columbia House tapes (which I did, a few at a time; a gentleman in Australia who’s name I’ve long since forgotten bought many of them). Better yet, the slimmer DVD cases took up much less room. I firmly believed that this would be the final time I'd ever collect the series.

Then, in December of 2005, the first of five Definitive DVD sets was released. The new editions were newly remastered in high definition from the original camera negatives, which promised pristine picture and sound. I snapped them up without hesitation, given the tremendous leap in quality from the previous DVDs (which were sold off on eBay for a decent sum), not to mention the minimal shelf space these new sets would take up. Throughout 2006, I bought each set as it was released (about every three months or so). My impending purchase of Season 5 (December 2006) will mark the fourth time I've collected the series in its entirety.

The reason I'm thinking about all this? Because last night in my garage, digging through boxes, I discovered my original VHS home recordings. I thought they were long gone (in fact, I have a vague memory of throwing the entire box into a dumpster with a sort of manic glee, but I guess I must've dreamed that, or maybe glimpsed an alternate reality). I sifted through them, studying the crude hand-written episode titles on colored paper scotch-taped to each tape sleeve. I remembered fondly the excitement I felt every time I finished one tape and started a new one. I recalled the thrill I experienced when I finally recorded “Eye of the Beholder” (indisputably one of the finest episodes ever) after missing it the first time around. I basked in the glow of a time long past, when my responsibilities consisted solely of doing my homework and getting my chores done, when The Twilight Zone was my daily ticket to mystery, to terror, to paradox, to fascinating realms of wonder and imagination. Touching those tattered, clunky tapes was like touching my childhood. Tears welled up in my eyes. Tears are welling up in my eyes again, as I type these words.

The Twilight Zone has accompanied me through high school, through college, through a failed marriage, through fatherhood, through career changes, through remarriage, through apartment-dwelling to homeownership, from adolescence to middle-age. It’s inextricably a part of who I am.

I purchased the first four Definitive season sets eagerly, but for the most part they’ve sat on the shelf in my office. Since I tend toward obsessive compulsion, having them was paramount, but actually watching them hasn’t been a priority. Why haven’t I explored these sets? Why haven’t I set aside adequate time? Have I simply been too busy? Or have I been waiting till the collection is complete?

Well, the collection is about to be complete. Again.

I fear I will sob like a baby, and my wife will think I’m even crazier than she already believes me to be.

I hereby pledge, in writing, that I will watch these DVDs. I will make the time. I will, I will, I will.

I must.

And you know what? When the series comes out yet again on home video, presumably in a high-definition format (optical disc, holographic pocket-cube, or whatever)…. well yes, I’ll buy it again. How could I not?

* TZ pun, intended for hardcore fans only.