Can a born or inherited quality (or inclination), or one’s natural language, also be considered a
talent? Should the ability to make the
world know and hate you so acutely be patently dismissed as one's innate demeanor? I ask these questions,
naturally, because I am considering the talent and career of the
recently-passed socialite and actress, Zsa Zsa Gabor, whom—to nobody's surprise—managed to claw her way within 2 months of her 100th birthday.
Whenever Zsa Zsa would enter the frame, my frame, whether it a guest appearance on TV, or movie cameo, or
in the gossip pages, she never failed to elicit a visceral response. I really detested that woman; hell, hated her, without any seeming right to
beyond what she projected to the world.
She was the very face of glamour and extravagance, both casually
cruel and impenitently ostentatious, and wore her cool, callous heart plainly. The rest of us, shabby, common, and
unadorned, were the object of her considerable disdain.
Can that be right?
Could anyone be so awful, much less a performer from whom such behavior was more or less expected? Whether
she was or not, one thing is certain: she had a remarkable ability to project
that unabated hauteur straight through your television set. You knew if you ever met her she might spit
right in your eye; on a gut level, at least, that much was understood.
I might be taking the long way around getting into this particular vignette of The Night Gallery (brief as it may be), but Zsa Zsa is the star of this one and its success seems hinged on just how much we're supposed to dislike her. Because what they do to her here is just plain nasty, and while it is passed off rather routinely as due comeuppance, there is a bitter aftertaste that lingers, as if these just desserts cannot possibly bode well for one's digestion.
Under the tutelage of executive producer/showrunner Jack
Laird, Night Gallery had earned a reputation for unevenness, both in quality and tenor; early on, a struggle for control of the show between the gruff producer and writer/host Rod Serling resulted in a wild array of content.
Whereas Serling had wanted to keep the approach to the fantasy anthology format much as he had honed on The Twilight Zone, Laird wanted something else entirely. With the then-recent popular resurgence of the Universal horror monsters on late-night TV, as well as the success of the idiom established by Hammer Studios of England (and the popularity of Famous Monsters of Filmland and the Revel models), Laird, perhaps aiming for a younger demographic, felt the show's viability would pivot squarely amidst the kooky riffs of "The Monster Mash" and creature feature free-for-alls such as FRANKENSTEIN MEETS THE WOLFMAN (1943) and HOUSE OF DRACULA (1945). The man wanted his monsters, something Rod Serling had been determined to avoid when he'd initially signed on to the show.
Except for some of the handful of episodes written by Serling himself, gone was the moral imperative and social conscience that had often been guiding principles of The Twilight Zone. As a result, there were a fair share of morally ambiguous episodes; some even flaunted pronounced mean streaks, such as this one and the memorably sadistic, "A Feast of Blood".
Written and directed by Gene Kearney (based on a short story by Donald Wandrei), "The Painted Mirror" begins with an interminable clatter, as the story takes place in a thrift shop located in the middle of a busy urban construction zone. The unavoidable noise seems to have everyone a bit on edge, especially the elderly proprietor of the shop, Mr. Frank Standish (Arthur O'Connell), who'd recently sold half his store's space and interest to the younger, far more assertive Mrs. Moore (Zsa Zsa Gabor).
And her answer to all that noise is more noise, as she blasts the volume on her record player and tells the man installing the already blaring doorbell that it needs to be louder yet. "Louder, Mrs. Moore?", bemoans Frank. "Yes, Mr. Standish. Loud, clear, and business-like."
Mr. Standish is a kindly, charitable soul, which is one of the reasons why his business has been struggling. This much is apparent when long-time patron and friend, Ellen Chase (Rosemary DeCamp), stops by with an old, paint-covered mirror to sell. As becomes clear, this isn't the first dusty relic Ellen has scavenged and brought to his shop for resale. What's equally clear is the immediacy of her dire financial situation and the desperation it's fostered. She's all but in tears when he insists on giving her money up front, rather than on consignment.
But it seems he's rather in the same financial straits as Ellen, and has to beg Mrs. Moore—hell, Zsa Zsa—for ten dollars. Which Zsa Zsa more or less dangles before mocking the man and his business acumen. Adding insult to injury, she then focuses her scorn on Ellen, who storms off after selling her only means of transporting goods to the store, a handcart, for one dollar.
I might be taking the long way around getting into this particular vignette of The Night Gallery (brief as it may be), but Zsa Zsa is the star of this one and its success seems hinged on just how much we're supposed to dislike her. Because what they do to her here is just plain nasty, and while it is passed off rather routinely as due comeuppance, there is a bitter aftertaste that lingers, as if these just desserts cannot possibly bode well for one's digestion.
 |
| Executive producer Jack Laird, left, as the hunchback in the second season vignette, "The Funeral". |
Whereas Serling had wanted to keep the approach to the fantasy anthology format much as he had honed on The Twilight Zone, Laird wanted something else entirely. With the then-recent popular resurgence of the Universal horror monsters on late-night TV, as well as the success of the idiom established by Hammer Studios of England (and the popularity of Famous Monsters of Filmland and the Revel models), Laird, perhaps aiming for a younger demographic, felt the show's viability would pivot squarely amidst the kooky riffs of "The Monster Mash" and creature feature free-for-alls such as FRANKENSTEIN MEETS THE WOLFMAN (1943) and HOUSE OF DRACULA (1945). The man wanted his monsters, something Rod Serling had been determined to avoid when he'd initially signed on to the show.
Written and directed by Gene Kearney (based on a short story by Donald Wandrei), "The Painted Mirror" begins with an interminable clatter, as the story takes place in a thrift shop located in the middle of a busy urban construction zone. The unavoidable noise seems to have everyone a bit on edge, especially the elderly proprietor of the shop, Mr. Frank Standish (Arthur O'Connell), who'd recently sold half his store's space and interest to the younger, far more assertive Mrs. Moore (Zsa Zsa Gabor).
And her answer to all that noise is more noise, as she blasts the volume on her record player and tells the man installing the already blaring doorbell that it needs to be louder yet. "Louder, Mrs. Moore?", bemoans Frank. "Yes, Mr. Standish. Loud, clear, and business-like."
But it seems he's rather in the same financial straits as Ellen, and has to beg Mrs. Moore—hell, Zsa Zsa—for ten dollars. Which Zsa Zsa more or less dangles before mocking the man and his business acumen. Adding insult to injury, she then focuses her scorn on Ellen, who storms off after selling her only means of transporting goods to the store, a handcart, for one dollar.
 |
| "A dollar for your cart, Mrs. Chase." "A dollar-fifty." "A dollar." |
"Rise and shine, Mr. Standish!" The next morning, Frank is very rudely, abruptly awoken when Zsa Zsa arrives, blaring loud music and placing her perpetually barking dog, Pookie, on his counter-top perch. Part of their recent deal involved assurances from Frank that he would be moving out of the back room where he sleeps, which hasn't happened fast enough for her liking.
And just as soon as he's out of bed, he's back to the mirror, scraping away. Moments later, Ellen arrives, vexing the already annoyed Zsa Zsa. "This is a place of business, Mrs. Chase. We've no time for social events."
After calling her lawyer to inquire about a clause in their deal, Zsa Zsa tells Frank she's buying him out, an option in the contract he apparently was unaware of. Head slunk, the timid old shopkeeper resigns himself to fate. "It appears I'm not the businessman I thought I was." And just like that, with a meager check in hand, his business is no more. "That should be enough to put you up in a hotel for a couple of months...until you find another job."
But then, chasing a ball tossed into the strange mirror by Ellen, Zsa Zsa's beloved Pookie runs into the other world beyond the frame. "You awful woman, see what you've done now!" And so Zsa Zsa chases after him, seeming not to register her bizarre surroundings.
 |
| A stowaway from the Black Lagoon, angling for a comeback. |
Everything uttered from inside this other dimension is carried by echo, and so every time Zsa Zsa yells for little Pookie in her grating Hungarian timbre, it is amplified—as if the producers want us to beg them to shut her up.
And then, confronted by some unseen horror, Zsa Zsa is screaming for dear life and barreling back towards the other side of the mirror from which she came.
And kindly old Frank, somehow now sinister and beaming with devilish delight, hurriedly paints over the last strip of mirror just as the screaming Zsa Zsa returns. And then the screaming stops.
One can only guess what Zsa Zsa had to gain by appearing in this 14 minute segment on Night Gallery. She certainly didn't need what little money this offered, having already burned through 5 of what would be 9 husbands (including hotelier Conrad Hilton and movie star George Sanders). She had countless roles on TV and in movies, so why appear in something so unflattering, and just to be the sacrificial lamb?
The simple answer would be that this was the kind of role she thrived in. She was hated for a reason. While nobody ever made the case that she was a great actress, she was an absolutely believable villain.
Or perhaps it was just, strange as it may sound, her way of giving back. Maybe by taking this role, Zsa Zsa was saying, with a bit of a wink and nod, "yes, isn't this what you want after all, dah-link?" .
