Manifesto

I've been watching Murder, She Wrote for a long time. I was 3 when the show premiered in September of 1984. I wasn't a part of the audience that night, but I came to the show in the late 80s and it has stuck with me since.

What is it about the weird run-ins of a 60-something with murderers that attracts? Even in the show's 11th season it was in the top ten shows on television. It was knocked from that pedestal when CBS decided to kill the show by placing it against Friends in the fall of 1995.

Jessica Beatrice Fletcher is an everyman. Albeit a very WASPy one. I think that is part of the charm though. The show, and Jessica herself, were so completely middle of the road to almost transcend that. To be an archetype of something very "America" in the 80s and early 90s.

I aim to get at that thing over the course of this blog. I don't know that I will get there. But I will try. This isn't going to be a blow-by-blow of each episode. That's what Netflix is for.

The first freeze frame.

The oddest part of the show has always been the final freeze frame at the end of each episode. After a grisly murder Jessica gives a strange look, usually a laugh or weird half-smile, to the camera and the shot freezes. The shots are 100% unflattering to Angela Lansbury. One could assume the editing staff hated her.

I plan on using that final frame from each episode as a jumping off point into uncharted waters of discussion. I hope to hear from readers. I would love to hear thoughts on the cultural and personal importance or lack thereof of the adventures of J. B. Fletcher.

Please join me in May for the beginning of the adventure.