Turn It On
The Electric Company—the glory days of kids' TV.
My husband, Paul, grew up without a television. Periodically, he threatens to break ours. He thinks that TV, no matter how "educational," inevitably fosters brain-softening passivity. I'd like to prove him wrong. But the cartoon-heavy line-ups on PBS Kids and Nickelodeon's Noggin don't help my case much. These shows are supposed to be educational— Blue's Clues emphasizes "thinking skills,"Dora the Explorer is flavored with Spanish, Arthur features "pro-social" scripts—but there's a lot more sugar than spinach, and nary a letter or number in sight. Other than Sesame Street, almost nothing on TV teaches basic schoolbook skills.
It wasn't always so. Remember The Electric Company? In the 1970s, Bill Cosby and Spider-Man helped teach me and a lot of other kids how to read. Now the EC is coming out on DVD. The show and its history embody the old, hard-core aspirations of educational television—and illustrate why, for the most part, they're probably gone for good.
TheElectric Company debuted in 1971, three years after the formation of the Children's Television Workshop, and aired original episodes through 1977 before repeating in reruns. Instead of using puppets and grounding the show in a home base, as Sesame Street does, the EC used a live cast to teach reading concepts through skits, songs, and dances. The idea was to reach older, struggling kids as well as kindergartners and first-graders by offering non-babyish material. The show played like a Saturday Night Live for the 6-to-9 set—a series of gags and spoofs in quick succession. "HEY, YOU GUUUYYYS!" screams cast-member Rita Moreno after Bill Cosby tells her to speak quietly so as not to disturb the occupants of the house they're delivering milk to in the early morning. "Who is it?" a parrot asks in the voice of his owner. "It's the PLUMBER! I've come to fix the sink!" the poor plumber is forced to repeat, ad infinitum. "It wasn't aimed at the little geniuses. It was vaudeville," Moreno says on her DVD interview. "We were always trying to sneak the lesson in."
The Electric Company producers signed up top performers like Moreno because they had money and because their timing was good. With the anti-war and civil rights movements as points of reference, Moreno says, she wanted to do something to help save the world. Bill Cosby, Morgan Freeman, and Irene Cara joined her in the original cast. Stan Lee collaborated on a recurring Spider-Man short. Maurice Sendak wrote copy. So did Tom Lehrer—he's to thank for the EC tune my brain has never let go: "The Silent E."
Before Sesame Street and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, both of which went on the air in the late 1960s, children's television consisted either of static shots of book covers and illustrated pages, or of a cooing host planted in the midst of too-cute children in a classroom or a magical spot. The innovation of the Children's Television Workshop was to create memorable characters and to cut rapidly from skit to skit to cartoon short, in a "hip, popular style" and "with frequent 'winks' to adult viewers," as Edward Palmer and Shalom Fisch, CTW veterans, write in the book G Is for Growing. But in the 1990s, Sesame Street was attacked for its pace. Critics argued that all the quick cutting exacerbated the problem of short attention spans. Research has indeed shown that preschool-age kids have difficulty following lots of transitions. As a result, Sesame Street now adheres to a more measured format, and the Nickelodeon show Blue's Clues doesn't use cuts at all. But The Electric Company's intended elementary-school audience can handle the rapid-fire format.
Three decades later, the EC's original pedagogy remains remarkably sound. The latest research shows that kids retain new words better if they learn them in the context of a story—an insight that many EC skits intuitively harnessed. And the show got kids to talk back to the screen, by prompting them to read words aloud, long before "interactive" became a programming buzzword.
Still, when I brought the Electric Company DVD home recently, I was wary. Would the show seem dated and didactic? I settled down on the couch with Eli, 6, and Simon, 3, to watch the first episode. Simon sat through the opening song ("We're gonna turn it ooonn/ We're gonna bring ya the powwaahh"), and then departed to play with his firehouse. Eli also seemed uncharmed at first. He fidgeted as the cast members awkwardly introduced themselves: "How ya doing?" "How ya feeling?" "Ain't it great to be alive?" But then the skits got going. Dressed as an ice-cream man, Bill Cosby took a call from J. Arthur Crank.
"How do you like the show so far?" Cosby asked.
"So far, no good," Crank said.
His complaint: How could the letter "G" have two sounds? Cosby talked him through groups of words—"gas, get, gum" and "giant, magic"—as they appeared on the screen. "Aw, I see," Crank said. "You must have two guys in charge of 'G.' Gary and George. Get it?" Eli pointed to the screen. "Hey, Mom, get it?" he asked.
Emily Bazelon is a Slate senior editor and writes about law, family, and kids. Her forthcoming book, Sticks and Stones: Defeating the Culture of Bullying and Rediscovering the Power of Empathy and Character. Find her at firstname.lastname@example.org or on Facebook or Twitter.