I Love Lucy season 6

Robert Bianco was the TV critic for USA Today for nearly 20 years. Of series I loved, he was a passionate defender of some (Elementary) and a fanatical detractor of others (Everybody Loves Raymond). He wasn’t shy about doubling down on an unpopular opinion, yet his greatest strength was his willingness to reassess. If he panned a pilot, then saw the show steadily improve over the fall months (Selfie), he’d speak up; if he realized he’d underestimated a star’s potential to anchor a series (Limitless), he’d pen a proper mea culpa. I enjoyed his insights and turns of phrase even when we found ourselves at critical odds.

There’s only one remark of his that struck me as so odd that — as kids today are wont to say — it continues to live rent-free in my head. He was referencing I Love Lucy, the landmark sitcom that starred Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz (with able support from Vivian Vance and William Frawley), and specifically an episode from late in the run, after the core four had relocated to the suburbs. And he dismissed it out of hand, insisting, “Any true Lucy fan knows the show basically ended when the Ricardos moved to Connecticut.”

Well, that’s a paraphrase. In writing this blog, I’ve tracked down countless half-remembered articles — from Cleveland Amory’s lukewarm review of Maude in TV Guide to John Leonard’s trenchant take-down of Rhoda Gerard in The New York Times to Entertainment Weekly’s spurious salute to Knots Landing Season 12 — but I cannot find that one goddam quote. But I was struck at the time by how much I disagreed with Bianco’s dismissal of I Love Lucy’s final 13 episodes, and apparently, his comment still rubs me the wrong way. For my money, and I am definitely a “true Lucy fan,” the final string of episodes are among the series’ best.

For the record, when I couldn’t locate his quote online, I reached out to Bianco, a charming chap without an ounce of pretension. He didn’t remember saying it, but admitted, with amusing self-derision, that it sounded like him (“in my imperial mode,” he joked) and permitted me to quote it. (He even invited me to mock it.) And he suggested that even if one didn’t find the Connecticut episodes “dire” (his word), he couldn’t help but feel that they bear “only a minimal connection to the first seasons of I Love Lucy.” (“Maybe it’s hindsight,” he suggested, “but the strains in the marriage seem to bleed through.”) I wondered if he was misremembering, because what he observed isn’t something I see in the 13 episodes set in Connecticut — but it’s something I’m acutely aware of in the 13 episodes that precede them. I Love Lucy Season 6 is a tale of two story blocks: the worst of the times followed by the best of times. Midway through there’s what we today would call “a soft reboot.” And thank goodness, because the season to that point has been woeful. If the second half of I Love Lucy Season 6 feels like a glorious return to form, the first half feels like some other series altogether.

But then, ups and downs had long been part of the I Love Lucy journey; we remember a different show from the one that aired. We remember it leaping from high point to high point, when in fact there were a fair number of dispiriting lows and dry patches. It’s a show that took about 20 episodes to find itself, and by the middle of the third season, it was already losing its way. (Critics and audiences took notice.) The trip to Hollywood at the top of Season 4 was designed to reinvigorate the series and resuscitate the ratings — and indeed, if you asked folks to name their favorite episodes, many would point to Lucy donning a putty nose to disguise herself from William Holden, or joining Harpo Marx in replicating his mirror bit from Duck Soup. But for every Bill Holden episode, there was a Cornel Wilde one; for every Harpo Marx, a Hedda Hopper. A fair number of the Hollywood episodes were forgettable and forgotten. The trip rejuvenated I Love Lucy, but it wore out its welcome, and no sooner had the characters returned to New York than they took off for Europe, on a series of adventures almost aggressively foreign to the show’s premise. Fox hunting in England, cycling through the Alps, gambling in Monte Carlo: it was all such a far cry from life in that humble brownstone in Manhattan — and Lucy, in her designer duds and fine furs, bore so little resemblance to that struggling housewife who had set the tone for first few seasons — that there was barely a trace of the I Love Lucy you once knew. Oh, what was on the screen was still entertaining, but was this to be the show’s future: the Ricardos growing ever wealthier and loftier, as they globetrotted their way around the world?

At the top of the show’s second season, Jack Gould, TV critic for The New York Times, had written at length about I Love Lucy‘s appeal:

What distinguishes I Love Lucy from the drab average of most situation comedy on television is that it scrupulously obeys an elemental law of durable farce: its theme and setting are plausible, and audiences easily can identify itself with them. The plot is set within the framework of a warm and recognizable premise, and its climactic absurdity seems all the funnier by contrast.

Over time, the recognizability factor had vanished, and it was not easily recovered — certainly not by the time Lucy had met the freaking Queen of England. In plotting out Season 6, the writers — Bob Carroll and Madelyn Martin (who’d been with the series since its inception) and Bob Schiller and Bob Weiskopf (who’d joined the previous season) — make a vow to stick closer to home, to recapture some of the familiarity and plausibility that had been lost. But all the first half of the season does is confirm — as the previous two had suggested — that there are precious few stories left to tell at 623 E. 68th Street. The season opener is baseball themed, and it’s apt: pretty much everything the writers try amounts to a swing and a miss.

The writers’ most disastrous decision is, on the face of it, a reasonable one: to advance Little Ricky’s age from 3 to 5, so he can assume a more active role, and the show can chart the challenges of raising a young child. But the casting upends their plans. Young Keith Thibodeaux is hired as Little Ricky because of his resemblance to Arnaz and his skill on the drums; Ball expresses concerns about his acting abilities — and her concerns prove justified. From the start, his line readings are so unintelligible that the writers develop a painfully funny way of combating them; whenever he speaks to someone, they repeat his line back, as if confirming or incredulous at what he said. (“Uncah Fred, who Mickey Mattle,” Little Ricky asks his Uncle Fred in his first scene. “Who’s Mickey Mantle?” Fred repeats in disbelief, then explains — then advises Little Ricky, whom he’s teaching to swing a bat, “Take another swipe at that old apple.” Ricky appears, asks his son what he’s doing, and Little Ricky responds, “I’m smipuh appuh.” “You’re swiping apples?” Ricky repeats, as if seeking clarification. And so it goes. You could devise a drinking game where you took a swig every time someone has to repeat a line Thibodeaux has rendered unintelligible, but you’d have to be prepared to down a bottle an episode.) For a show noted for the wit of its Emmy-nominated scripts, having to cater to a child actor of limited skill and lesser intelligibility proves disastrous. Thibodeaux, it should be noted, is charming, and the audience clearly takes to him; they just can’t understand him.

Aging Little Ricky is the writers’ ace in the hole, in terms of returning to the sort of domestic scenes that had been a cornerstone of the series. Beyond that, their work amounts to “business as usual.” Despite their determination to make better use of the Ricardos’ home base, they fall back on another multi-episode trip, this one to Florida: a more down-to-earth destination than Europe, but one that yields equally tepid returns. And they trot out the “Lucy meets a celebrity” story-line, which by this point has pretty much run its course. (The early Hollywood episodes were buoyed by a sense of surprise each time Lucy’s encounter with a star went south. By Season 6, not only does the audience see it coming, but — with her reputation preceding her — so do the stars; the resulting encounters — here, with Bob Hope, Orson Welles and George Reeves — are reduced to running gags, where Lucy herself is the unfortunate punchline.)

But it’s not just script issues that plague the first half of Season 6. The season also suffers from the departure of two key figures who had been with the show since its inception: Executive Producer Jess Oppenheimer and Director of Photography Karl Freund. Oppenheimer, a former “boy genius,” was — after Ball herself — the one most responsible for the success of I Love Lucy. In the parlance of today, he’d be called the showrunner, but what he was showrunning back in 1951 was an untested property: the first situation comedy filmed before a studio audience, the final product edited together with the footage from three cameras. (The three-camera format became the industry standard. Freund — an innovator in cinematography since the mid ’20s — didn’t just pioneer it; he perfected it.) Oppenheimer, who had spearheaded Ball’s radio show My Favorite Husband, had a singular comedic style that both complemented and infused Ball’s own performances. He understood how much she came to life in front of an audience and insisted that both the radio and TV series be filmed that way. Hands on in every department, he did the initial outline and the final polish on every script; he was alert to the sounds of the audience, and used them to predict how viewers at home would react. When he sensed an episode had peaked sooner than expected (e.g., “Be a Pal”), he cut away early, pinpointing a laugh line that could double as a final button; if he felt the block comedy routine in Act 1 outshone the one in Act 2 (“Ricky Thinks He’s Getting Bald”), he was ruthlessly creative, demanding a couple of minor retakes, then flipping the two scenes in the editing room. Nothing went out without his imprint and approval.

Desi Arnaz takes over Oppeheimer’s producorial duties in Season 6, trusting the scripts to the four remaining writers; Robert De Grasse, a well-regarded cinematographer, replaces Freund. The first four episodes of the season are workmanlike, but they’re also a little flat and scrappy. In fairness, they’re probably no flatter than all of the previous year’s episodes had been — James V. Kern had taken over for director William Asher at the top of Season 5, and his hand was heavier than Asher’s — but Kern’s deficiencies had largely been obscured by Oppenheimer’s skill in the editing room and by Freund’s fluid camera work. Remove Oppenheimer and Freund from the equation, and the blemishes show. The pacing isn’t as bright as it had been; the buttons aren’t as strong. And there are distracting insert shots that betray De Grasse’s growing pains.

Only one episode of the first four, “Little Ricky Learns to Play the Drums,” feels like vintage I Love Lucy. (It suggests how Thibodeaux can be best used: sparingly.) It starts with a standoff that every parent can relate to, in which Lucy and Ricky each have their own idea of what they want their son to be when he grows up, but agree not to influence him in any way — a promise, of course, that they can’t keep. And when Little Ricky — to his father’s delight — takes to the drums, and repeats a two-bar rhythm incessantly for days on end, what had been a story-line about Little Ricky’s future becomes an argument between the Ricardos and the Mertzes, when Fred and Ethel try to curb Little Ricky’s nonstop noise and wind up insulting his parents. The second half owes a lot to Season 2’s “No Children Allowed,” another Little Ricky-centric episode that dissolved into a fight between the neighbors and culminated in a frantic search for the child in question. The show is still capable of reclaiming its roots on occasion, but is there any new territory to be forged?

Well, a bit. “Visitor From Italy,” which culminates in Lucy twirling pizzas, shows the writers can still devise a piece of physical comedy that feels fresh. They can still find new ways of rethinking old formulas, as when Lucy’s departure for Florida runs afoul (as had her sailing to Europe), and she and Ethel are forced to rideshare with a dotty lady who, as it turns out, might be a hatchet murderer. (“Off to Florida” is buoyed by a bravura performance by Elsa Lanchester. Even Kern ups his game, with some good process shots and a clever use of wipes.) And in “Lucy and the Loving Cup,” the writers tighten the exposition in order to expand the payoff. Here, Lucy comes home with an unsightly new hat, Ricky suggests she’d be better off wearing the loving cup he’s due to present at a banquet that evening, she tries it on as a joke — and can’t get it off. The motivations are thin at best, but shortening the set-up allows the team to stretch the comedy block across the bulk of the episode, culminating in a riotous ride on the IRT. The episode proves as propulsive as the shots of speeding subway cars that are woven through it; at heart, it’s thoroughly preposterous, but it’s also lively and funny, and at this point in the run, “lively” and “funny” are nothing to sneeze at.

But mostly the first half of Season 6 grows more dispiriting as it goes along. Some years later, Bob Weiskopf recalled that early that season, Oppenheimer — who had friends on the set reporting back to him — put in a call to the writers, smugly repeating rumors that things weren’t going too well. (That Oppenheimer was a prodigy didn’t mean he couldn’t also be a prick.) Weiskopf admitted, “Our first shows without him were a little rocky,” but insisted that by the fourth show, it was smooth sailing. Weiskopf’s memories were always suspect — but here especially. The first three episodes are indeed a little rocky — but the ten that follow are mostly dire. Kern’s limitations do in two well-written entries, “Deep-Sea Fishing” and “The Ricardos Visit Cuba.” The former should have been a riot; people still remember it because the cleverness of the conceit, as the women and the men bet each other that they can catch the bigger fish, then each purchases a giant fish as insurance and is stuck hauling it from room to room. But the execution is poor. You keep feeling with a better director, the laughs would’ve been bigger. And it’s the first one where the cast seems tired — or tired of the show. There are good things to react to, but the reactions seem off; they don’t feel nearly as fresh as the fish.

And the next episode, “Desert Island,” is one of the season’s nadirs, the one so bad people forget it exists. Ricky and Fred have been chosen to judge a beauty contest, and a jealous Lucy — suggesting a boat ride — schemes to strand them in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean at the time the judging is to commence. The demands of the script meant the episode had to be filmed without a studio audience, and the lack of live response slows the pacing to a crawl, exposing all of the production team’s flaws. Worst of all, it gives Ball and Arnaz permission to stop hiding all of the issues that were putting a strain on their marriage. Arnaz that week was smitten with one of the guest stars, shapely Joi Lansing, and Ball was furious; the interplay between their characters feels forced and cold. Without a studio audience, Ball’s mannerisms grow coy and unconvincing, and Arnaz — who has been devoting himself to running Desilu that season — acts like he’s checked out completely. (Oppenheimer never would have let such a ghastly effort or such uncomfortably revealing performances make their way to the screen.) And by the time Ricky has convinced guest star Claude Akins, conveniently dressed as a savage (because he happens to be filming a documentary on Florida’s history on the very spot where Lucy and Ricky’s boat washes up), to scare the daylights out of Lucy — and he obliges, as if “would you terrorize my wife” is a reasonable request — the show has grown so woeful, you can’t believe it’s the same show you fell in love with: the one Jack Gould lauded for its “warm and recognizable premise.”

“Desert Island” should be the season’s low point, but two episodes later comes the equally brutal “Little Ricky’s School Pageant.” There’s barely the pretense of a plot, as Little Ricky’s class is putting on a musicale, and the parents are strong-armed into playing roles. (“The parents” for some reason includes Fred and Ethel, and the writers don’t even have the energy or inclination to explain why.) When the boy playing the lead falls ill, and Little Ricky is offered the part, Lucy and Ricky wonder if he’ll be able to remember his lines. That’s pretty much the entire set-up before we cut to the snorefest that is The Enchanted Forest. When you consider that the previous times the full cast had taken to the stage — e.g., “The Operetta,” “Ethel‘s Home Town” — the results had been among the series’ highlights, this cheap and lackluster effort seems all the more appalling. (With Lucy as a witch and Ethel as a princess, we’re practically remaking the Pleasant Peasant operetta, but without the novelty, wit or sense of satire.) And as for the big dilemma (the “conflict,” if you can call it that) — “will Little Ricky remember his lines?“ — the answer isn’t just “no,” but a resounding no. He not only can’t remember his lines, he can’t remember the characters’ names, or which direction to point when someone is due to make an entrance. Little Ricky is basically made developmentally disabled for the sake of comedy. At one point, a kid comes out dressed as a skunk and does a dance in which he sprays the stage. It’s a redundant gesture; the episode already stinks. In lieu of a final gag, Lucy is left flying aimlessly through the air as the sides of the screen close in — as if even the television itself can’t bear to watch any more.

The rationale behind “Little Ricky’s School Pageant” seems to be “maybe it’ll be cute to see the principals dressed up like plants and animals.” That’s how low the bar is set as we near the end of the first half of Season 6. Three episodes later, Lucy demonstrates for Ethel the steps involved in cleaning Little Ricky’s fish tank. By this point, Little Ricky has become the writers’ go-to character; of the final four episodes of the first block, three feature Thibodeaux. It’s Little Ricky’s school pageant and Little Ricky’s birthday party and Little Ricky’s new dog — all ghastly — and you realize that the writers have nowhere else to turn for homegrown ideas.

At the season’s midway mark, the four writers take time to reflect, and realize — thank heavens — that nothing is working. The guest shots have been lame, the time in Florida was a disaster, and the addition of Little Ricky to the principal cast has only stifled the story-telling. Changes are in order — big changes. The writers latch onto a phenomenon playing out in the real world — the migration of married couples to suburbia — and decide to resettle the Ricardos and Mertzes in Westport, CT. (Schiller himself lived in Westport; he understood the challenges and the subtleties of suburban living.) And in doing so, miraculously, they find fresh ways of spinning familiar tales, the very quality that had first distinguished the series.

The first episode of the second and final block, “Lucy Wants to Move to the Country,” is a model of honest sentiment and clever construction. Lucy and Ricky return from a weekend visiting their friends the Munsons in Westport; Lucy shares with Ethel the goodies she’s brought back, as she raves about her time away.

Lucy: The Munsons' place is so beautiful, and Grace Munson is so sweet. Look what she gave me to bring home. Country butter.
Ethel (sniffing): Oh, that's wonderful.
Lucy: Grace made that herself. And look! Grape jelly. From the grapes in their own arbors. Grace made that, too. And look at the size of these eggs.
Ethel: Now, don't tell me that Grace...

Lucy has a confession: she and Ricky saw a wonderful house there for sale. Although Ethel is wary of losing her best friend —“Lucy, you’re not thinking of moving, are you?” — Lucy has a ready-made and reasonable reply: “Why not? It’d be great for Little Ricky.” But it doesn’t matter: Ricky has already shot down the idea. But that doesn’t keep Lucy from trying to work her powers of persuasion.

When Ricky returns home from work, Lucy has crowded all the living room furniture into a tight circle, spread dust everywhere, and even caked her face with whitish makeup — all to make her pitch for the unhealthiness of city living, and how cramped everything seems when you return from the country. But Ricky sees right through her, leaving Lucy to lament to the Mertzes, “You don’t suppose, through the years, Ricky has grown an immunity to me, do you?” (Fred: “Well, they’re giving shots for everything these days.”) But Ricky, as it turns out, has his own scheme. He and Lucy are celebrating their 16th anniversary, and he confesses to the Mertzes that he’s bought her the house as a surprise. But the surprise is ruined when Ethel bursts into tears the minute Lucy re-enters the room: “Oh, Lucy, I know you're not gonna move, but if you ever do move, don't move!” And by the time the two women are sobbing and declaring their undying friendship, Lucy no longer wants the house — and Ricky is left shaking his head in loving bemusement.

There’s just one problem: the sellers, the Spauldings, don’t want to return Ricky’s $500 deposit. And it’s not money that the Ricardos can afford to lose. And so Lucy hatches another plan: a bolder one. It’s classic I Love Lucy: a set piece in Act 1 and a bigger one in Act 2 — and the second springs from a logical premise (haven’t we all at some point made a purchase and regretted it, but fretted about losing our deposit?) and takes it to a delightfully outrageous extreme. Lucy and the Merzes begin by strategizing:

Lucy: Fred, you know about real estate. Isn't there some way that we can make Mr. Spaulding give that deposit back?
Fred: Well, I don't know. Unless you could fix it some way to make him think you're undesirable, and he didn't want you to have the house…

And “undesirable” is all that Lucy needs to hear. In the following scene, Lucy and the Mertzes show up at the Spauldings’ dressed as gangsters. (Their characters are so Runyon-esque, Ball might as well be back on the set of The Big Street.)

Mrs. Spaulding: Mrs. Ricardo, you don't look at all the way you did the other day. Your clothes are so different.
Lucy: Oh, you mean that little dark suit and the hat with the veil and the little white gloves?
Mrs. Spaulding: Yes, that's right.
Lucy: I was on my way to a masquerade party. Went as a lady.

The three of them proceed to, as they put it, “case the joint.”

Fred: Nice little hideout.
Mr. Spaulding: Hideout?
Lucy: He means hideaway.
Fred: Leave it to The Brains to pick out a spot like this.
Lucy: Yep, they don't call him "The Brains" for nothing.
Mr. Spaulding: Brains?
Lucy: Tricky Ricky Ricardo.
Mrs. Spaulding: Your husband? I thought he was a bandleader.
Ethel: He's our leader. We're the band.
Mrs. Spaulding: But he told us he has a rumba band.
Ethel (chuckling): Oh, that one again. Don't tell me he used that phony Spanish accent, too?

Unfortunately they don’t count on being so convincing that Mr. Spaulding pulls a rifle on them, forcing them to stand against the fireplace with their hands in the air till he can sort this out. When Ricky arrives (“It’s The Brains!” Mrs. Spaulding screams), he’s able to talk Mr. Spaulding down, but while he’s doing so, there’s time for yet another reversal. With her hands still in the air, Ethel glances at the fireplace and the beamed ceiling and realizes the house really is as beautiful as Lucy described — and Lucy, remembering why she first fell in love with it, informs Ricky that she wants the place after all. And the Ricardos become the proud owners of a house in the country. The button, effectively, doesn’t go for slapstick but sentiment, as Lucy and Ricky — anticipating their new home — tenderly wish each other a happy anniversary. And you buy into it. For the moment, they seem just as devoted as that couple you fell in love with in 1951. The acrimony that soured “Desert Island”? Gone. It surely helps that William Asher returns as director with this episode; it accounts for why the pacing is so much brighter — and the tone so much more consistent — than in the 13 episodes that preceded it. And it can’t hurt that Sidney Hickok takes over for Robert De Grasse; those annoying insert shots — a dead giveaway that something was fumbled or missed during taping — are gone. But the chief credit goes to the writers, who come up with a story-line that refocuses the actors. Ball and Arnaz in particular — whose minds had seemed elsewhere just a few episodes earlier — once again seem remarkably present and on form.

The second block also restores the sharp-witted Lucy Ricardo of the first few seasons. When the series premiered, you marveled at Lucy’s ability to brainstorm and strategize — and to dig herself out of a hole. But once in Hollywood, when she was relegated mostly to being an annoyance, the writers started to pen her as more scatterbrained than shrewd; it became easier to mine laughs if they lowered her IQ. (“Something happens to Lucy [when she meets a star]” — as Ricky would put it — was the writers’ clumsy justification for the dumbing down of Lucy Ricardo.) The country air does wonders for Lucy‘s mental acuity. Whether it’s a deliberate course correction or merely a happy by-product of the new story-lines, the writers once again permit her the kind of crafty thinking that early seasons had thrived on. Lucy’s gangster gambit here — for all its outrageousness — is also highly ingenious. It’s the sort of scheme you yourself would be proud to think up — and could well imagine carrying out, were you a touch more daring.

The leap in quality from “Little Ricky Wants a Dog” to “Lucy Wants to Move to the Country” is staggering. Suddenly the focus is back on the core four, in relatable situations that stretch and strain and threaten to shatter the existing relationships. The show is returning to its roots — and not just to “Lucy vs. Ricky” and “the men vs. the women” and “the Ricardos vs. the Mertzes,” but to the subtler complexities of everyday life that the show had once so eloquently embraced: how you can try to do something nice for a spouse and have it blow up in your face; how you can selflessly put a friend’s needs first and hate every moment of it; how you can crave change so badly, you lose sight of what you’re sacrificing. (And as for Little Ricky, he occasionally adds a comic button or helps prolong a plot by misunderstanding the context, but he’s focal in only one episode of the last thirteen — and there he’s mostly confined to playing the drums.)

And most crucially, one of the dominant themes from the early years — Lucy scrimping and saving and coming up with creative solutions to her monetary woes — becomes viable again. By Season 6, Ricky had been to Hollywood and back; as the new season began, he had purchased the Tropicana. With Lucy now the wife of a movie star and club owner, it was no longer feasible to have her panicking about running through her allowance. Or at least, it was no longer feasible with the Ricardos still inhabiting their economical two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. But the move to Westport changes all that.

When Ricky is up at 3 AM pacing the floor (with, as he misquotes Lucy, “a bad case of homeowner’s jeebie-heebies”), fretting about the finances to come now that he’s purchased a home in suburbia — or months later, when he and Lucy have actually made the move, and they’re seated at their new breakfast table, staring at a stack of unpaid and seemingly insurmountable bills — we are back in familiar and recognizable territory. In essence, we’re back to story-lines that would’ve been right at home in the first few seasons, when Lucy — forever in need of funds — had pined for a fur coat or a larger freezer, or pressed Ricky to ask for a raise. The four writers take a hard look at the show’s history — and what it was audiences had loved so much — and ask the right question: how do we recreate those story-lines for characters who have grown decidedly upper middle class? The answer: by setting them out in pursuit of that next rung on the socio-economic ladder.

The move to Westport takes the series back to basics. It no longer matters that the Ricardos are wealthier and more famous than when they started out. They still have to worry about their monthly nut, which is now astronomical. The genius of the Connecticut episodes isn’t that Lucy and Ricky resettle to a house in the suburbs; it’s that they resettle to a house in the suburbs that they can’t afford. They’re ensnared by the lure of being property owners, like so many Americans at the time, and they’re seduced by the spaciousness they were denied in their big-city brownstone. And so they purchase an Early American house way outside their income bracket. (Hell, the front entryway is larger than their old living room.) And that reintroduces the Lucy we love: the underdog, the scrapper. It’s irrelevant that her clothes are finer than they once were, or that she’s draped in the occasional furs and flowers. She still can’t make ends meet. And in Westport, Connecticut, there’s added pressure to do so. Suburban culture is all about keeping up with the Joneses. There’s a hierarchy and structure; appearances matter. If your landscaping is lacking, the neighbors will complain; if your husband can’t contribute to the local fundraiser, you’re asking to be ostracized. The move to Westport invites a host of societal pressures that Lucy and Ricky hadn’t had to consider in their low-rent brownstone, but it’s a set of pressures that fits the premise of I Love Lucy — and the talents of its stars — like a glove.

Relocating the Ricardos to the suburbs, to be clear, was a gamble. One of George Burns’ writers used to note, “When an audience gets to like a show, they like the set as well as the people.” (When CBS tried to force a change of setting on Burns and Allen, Burns insisted, “You don’t change the set. The set’s a character.”) But what’s lost is more than made up for by what’s gained. Late in the episode in which the Ricardos leave for Westport, Ethel teases Fred for forgetting that Ricky isn’t down the hall anymore, and he counters, “You don’t have a monopoly on missing people, you know.” Instead of a typically gruff delivery, Bill Frawley goes for more of a pained self-pity — and when Ethel suggests they take the next train out to Westport to visit the Ricardos, he grows practically giddy: not a response you expect from Fred Mertz. The writers use the move to reassert the affection between the characters — and the cast seizes the opportunity to do some real “end of an era” acting. After all these years, they’re still capable of surprising you.

The fourth Connecticut episode, “Lucy Gets Chummy With the Neighbors,” reveals the new setting’s full potential; it’s the first in a string of eight extraordinarily fine episodes (the best run since early in Season 4). It’s our introduction to neighbors Betty and Ralph Ramsey, and Mary Jane Croft and Frank Nelson make a convincing pair: economically sounder and socially more astute than the Ricardos — him an advertising executive, her a stay-at-home mom who prides herself on knowing all the right people and growing prize-winning tulips: exactly the sort of couple you’d expect to encounter in the suburbs.

Lucy has been getting, as Ricky puts it, “shummy” with Betty, and Ricky cautions her about the perils of getting too friendly too fast. Lucy pooh-poohs his concerns: why, even Little Ricky has found a new playmate in the Ramseys’ son Steve. And Betty couldn’t be nicer: she’s not only offered to take Lucy furniture shopping, but arranged for a local retailer to give her a 40% discount. It’s undeniable that their new home could use some additional furnishings, but Ricky — already drowning in debt — makes Lucy promise to spend no more than $500. But unaware that Westport shops don’t put price tags on their merchandise (whether that’s true or not, Croft makes the concept of price tags sound so gauche that you happily go along with it), Lucy ends up totaling stock numbers by accident. Confident that she’s staying within her budget, she’s mortified to discover that she’s spent four times what Ricky allotted her. And there’s no going back, so she ends up furnishing the whole house, to the tune of $3272.65. (On a tangential note, when Philip and I moved to Palm Springs, and, like the Ricardos, needed new furniture because of our upgrade from an apartment to a house, we discussed how much money to spend, and I suggested $3272.65, because of this episode. Philip agreed, as he’s learned there’s no sense arguing with me when I base life decisions on sitcom contrivances.)

Lucy can’t bring herself to explain to the well-to-do Betty Ramsey that she and Ricky are on a tight budget. But when the furniture arrives days later, and Ricky hits the roof, Lucy tries once again to talk finances with Betty — and still can’t overcome her mortification. She gets as far as insisting she wants to return the furniture, then loses her nerve, opting to improvise that it’s not the right style: “You know what this house needs? Chinese modern.” And Betty, hearing how preposterous Lucy's excuses sound, comes to the (not unreasonable) conclusion that Lucy doesn’t like her taste (“What else could it be?”) — and storms out.

Ricky can’t believe that two grown women are so incapable of simple communication — his response is a predictably chauvinistic one — but in a neat bit of symmetry, he himself has no better luck when he shows up at Ralph Ramsey’s and tries to have the exact same conversation. Ralph preempts any discussion of finances by making the very presumptions about Ricky that Betty had made about Lucy.

Ralph: I was just telling the boys down at the agency that I live next-door to a big celebrity now.
Ricky: Oh, what agency are you with?
Ralph: Burton, Warshman and Ramsey.
Ricky: Oh! Are you that Ramsey?
Ralph: Well, yes, I guess I am. Talking about you last week out at the country club. Proposed your name to the membership committee.
Ricky (flattered): No kidding.
Ralph: Of course, the dues and initiation fee are pretty high, but I told them that money doesn’t mean a thing to a big star like Ricky Ricardo.

And that stops Ricky dead in his tracks; as insecure and prideful as his wife, he can’t bear to correct Ralph’s impression of him. Tongue-tied, he makes all the same mistakes Lucy did, leading Ralph to infer that he doesn’t like Betty’s taste. Their misunderstanding spirals into a testosterone-fueled showdown.

We cut back to the Ricardos’ house, left to imagine what’s gone down between Ricky and Ralph. Lucy has summoned the Mertzes to Westport, to shield her from Ricky’s wrath; they arrive too late for that, but just in time to see Ricky emerge from his fight with Ralph: his clothes rumpled and ripped, his face covered in dirt and scrapes, wailing and swearing in Spanish (it’s a tour-de-force by Arnaz) — the only recognizable words being “Ralph Ramsey” and “rosebush.” Ethel wants to know what happened, and Lucy attempts to decipher.

Lucy: Well, as near as I can tell, our next-door neighbor Ralph Ramsay pushed him into a rosebush.
Ethel: Why did he do a thing like that?
Lucy: Well, Ricky went over to tell Ralph Ramsay — that’s Betty’s husband — that we couldn’t afford to keep all this furniture, because when I told Betty we couldn’t afford it, she thought that I thought that she had bad taste.
Fred (to Ethel): What did she say?
Ethel: I got it. Didn’t you?
Fred: No. I was doing better with his Spanish.

Then Little Ricky appears, all tousled and dirty. “Mah bite Bruce,” he announces. “You had a fight with Bruce?” Lucy repeats. (Yes, we’re still doing that.) “What about?” she asks, and Little Ricky admits, with surprising coherence, “He said his daddy beat up my daddy” — which only enrages Ricky more. And then the Ramseys storm in, and the two couples go at it, shouting at the top of their lungs. (“I thought people moved to the country for peace and quiet,” deadpans Fred.) Finally Fred lets out with a whistle that quiets the room, and Ethel seizes the opportunity to ask the question that’s been on her mind: “Lucy, aren’t you going to introduce us?” Lucy happily obliges: “These are our friends, the Mertzes. Our enemies, the Ramseys.” And it falls to Ethel to clear the air: “This is all a big misunderstanding. The real reason for all this trouble is that the Ricardos simply cannot afford all this new furniture.” “Is that all?” Ralph wonders, and asks Ricky, “Why didn’t you say so?” He turns it on Lucy: “Yeah, why didn’t you say so?” — who then turns it on Little Ricky: “Yeah, why didn’t you say so?” “Me?” he asks: “I’m just a little boy.” (It’s probably his best laugh in Season 6.)

But there’s one last bit of business. Betty wonders, “Lucy, why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Lucy confesses, “Well, I was too embarrassed to admit it.” And Betty insists, “We would’ve understood. I’ve been wanting to redecorate our house for years, but we just couldn’t” — and she grows sheepish, looking to Ralph for his approval, which he gives: “Go ahead, honey. Tell them. We couldn’t afford it either.” (The image the Ramseys project of unlimited wealth is all a pretense — but it’s that very pretense that humanizes them.) And the couples laugh at the presumptions they made and the unnecessary chaos that ensued. In Westport, everyone assumes their neighbors are unburdened by financial concerns, even if — or perhaps especially if — they themselves are not. It’s a breeding ground for misunderstanding — and for great comedy.

“Lucy Gets Chummy With the Neighbors,” ostensibly yet another episode about Lucy wanting new furniture (the fourth in four years), is really about the posturing and second-guessing that goes on when the subject of money rears its head. It’s about the image we choose to present to our friends and neighbors, our tendency to judge ourselves by presuming that others are judging us — and the differing ways that men and women have of handling the resulting misunderstandings. It’s the essence of I Love Lucy: expanding a simple premise with universal truths — then having it explode in comic mayhem. And it’s a particular miracle when you consider that Lucy’s last attempt to keep up with her social-climbing friends, the third-season “Lucy Is Envious,” had resulted in Jess Oppenheimer’s least favorite episode: one that strayed so far from the show’s basic appeal that it had prompted Jack Gould, two days after it aired, to publish a poison-pen piece in The New York Times: “What’s happened to I Love Lucy? Where once the show was a recognizable and hilarious farce on married life, it currently seems bent on succumbing to the most pedestrian and sophomoric slapstick.” The move to Connecticut doesn’t upend the premise of I Love Lucy; it reasserts it.

The high points continue. A week later, Lucy and Ricky — desperate to supplement their income — decide to raise chickens, and the Mertzes move in to help them. (The Ricardos becomes the Mertzes’ landlords — a lovely bit of irony.) And the following week the show scores its longest laugh, in “Lucy Does the Tango,” in some ways the archetypal collaboration between Carroll & Martin and Schiller & Weiskopf. One of Carroll and Martin’s favorite devices was to play a bit straight, then repeat it — with a twist — for laughs. Think Vitameatavegamin, with Lucy doing a pitch-perfect pitch the first time, then — as she gets progressively more sloshed — massacring it. Or Ricky’s screen test, which Lucy is happy to do with her back to the camera — until the camera starts rolling. One of Schiller and Weiskopf’s favorite devices was to pass a bit from character to character, and let the repetition create the comedy. Both strategies get a workout here.

When the new chickens aren’t laying eggs, Ricky threatens to close down their budding business, and the wives decide to stall for time to preserve the peace. They go out and purchase dozens of eggs, which they’ll plant underneath the chickens, to make it look as if they’ve started laying. They plan on sneaking them out to the chicken coop — Lucy hiding them in her blouse, Ethel in the back pockets of her dungarees — when who should appear but Ricky, wanting to rehearse the tango that he and Lucy will be performing for an upcoming PTA event? We’ve already seen them perform the tango at the start of the episode, so we know what the steps are, and which moments are going to be most precarious for Lucy to navigate. (The sense of anticipation becomes part of the journey, and heightens the audiences’ response.) Unable to think of a way out of it, Lucy is forced to tango, carefully holding Ricky at arm’s length until the climactic moment, which — we already know — calls for him to spin her, then pull her in hard and fast. And when their bodies finally collide, dozens of eggs break open beneath Lucy’s shirt, resulting in a cascade of yolks — and laughter.

The longest laugh clocked in at 65 seconds. (It was trimmed significantly and imperceptibly for broadcast.) It's the rare time that Ball, a stickler for rehearsals, held off using the actual props until the live taping, so her reaction would be fresh. (She elected to practice with hard-boiled eggs.) It’s the rare time, too, that she improvised during filming; typically every stage direction was specified in the script. But here, as the yolks are dripping down her blouse and onto the rug, she crosses her arms with forced casualness, then poses as if nothing is happening: something she invented in front of the audience. And it probably prolongs the laugh by another 30 seconds. And for the writers’ part, the particular genius of this sequence is that Lucy’s eggs being smashed is a moment we’re both anticipating and dreading, but the bit that follows — where Fred enters and slams the kitchen door into Ethel’s backside, smashing her eggs — is a surprise. So the show not only produces the longest laugh in its history, but manages to cap the expected gag with an unforeseen one.

In an unusual move (and a sign of the writers’ newfound confidence), this big block comedy scene occurs in Act 1; the writers reserve Act 2 for a piece of escalating verbal warfare. It’s an extended Ricardo-Mertz feud: a misunderstanding that stems from Little Ricky’s conviction that if the adults can’t find the chickens, they can’t return them — so he hides them around the house. The missing poultry prompts Ricky to charge Fred with being a chicken thief — then, as specimens keep cropping up in the oddest places (Ethel’s hat box, among them), each character takes turns being accuser and accused — a common Schiller and Weiskopf stratagem. It’s a merry roundelay of incriminating evidence and specious allegations inadvertently put in place by Little Ricky, servicing the story exactly as he should, with limited airtime and good intentions.

The Connecticut move has been mapped out meticulously — reminiscent of the dozen episodes that led up to the Ricardos’ arrival in Hollywood. The writers take their time, savoring every beat. (Notably, there are so many good stories to tell that no celebrity cameos are needed.) Lucy meets Betty and Ralph Ramsey four episodes in, but Ethel and Betty don’t properly interact for another five. And it’s the latter episode — “Housewarming” — that’s my personal favorite: exquisite character comedy, plus a marvelous showcase for Vivian Vance. It’s the one where Fred installs an intercom between the main house and the guest house, so fittingly, the whole episode is about crossed wires. When Lucy mentions that Betty is having the neighbors over for dinner, Ethel jumps to the wrong conclusion, and Lucy is left having to correct and console her.

Ethel: Oh, that’s wonderful! Gee, my good dress is at the cleaners, but I think if I called them up, they'd deliver it in time for the dinner party.
Lucy: Uh, Ethel?
Ethel: Huh?
Lucy: She’s just having the Munsons and the Baileys and Ricky and me.
Ethel: Oh?
Lucy: Well, you know, it’s just the neighbors that live real close.
Ethel (dripping in sarcasm): Oh, just the close ones, huh? I see. The Baileys live four miles away, and we live four feet away.
Lucy: Oh now, honey, there’s no reason to feel funny about it. She just doesn’t know you very well.
Ethel: Well, that’s true. People like the Ramseys don’t hobnob much with us chicken pluckers.
Lucy: Chicken pluckers? Oh, Ethel, for heaven’s sake. What a thing to say. Now, look, we’re all in the egg business together. If you’re chicken pluckers, we’re chicken pluckers.
Ethel: Then how come us chicken pluckers weren’t invited to the dinner party?
Lucy: Well, she just doesn’t know you chicken pluckers! I mean, she doesn’t know you and Fred as well, that’s all.

Lucy decides the best way to break the ice is to invite both women to lunch — without mentioning the other is coming. But Ethel, noting the three place-settings, sees right through her ruse: “Now don’t tell me you’ve invited Betty Ramsey, the Elsa Maxwell of Westport, to lunch, too.“

As Lucy and Betty get to conversing, Ethel makes it clear that she’s none too pleased to be there, and that she hasn’t forgotten the slight of the previous evening: a slight that Betty — who doesn’t think of Ethel as part of her coterie, and therefore doesn’t think of her at all — is unaware she’s committed. And Lucy is left trying to excuse and disguise Ethel’s foul mood, all while encouraging her participation.

Betty: Lucy, I must tell you, I love that dinner dress you had on last night.
Lucy: Oh, well, thank you. It’s real old, but it’s my favorite so I just keep on wearing it and wearing it.
Betty: Oh, yes, I know. I do the same thing. I get a dinner dress I like, and I wear it to death, too.
Lucy (to Ethel, prompting her): You’re the same way, aren’t you, dear?
Ethel (drily): Oh, yes, every night when Fred and I have dinner in front of our TV set, I wear the same old flannel bathrobe.
Lucy (to Betty): Oh, she’s a funny one. You know, when you get to know Ethel better, you’ll find that she’s more fun than a barrel of monkeys.
Ethel: Monkeys that seldom get invited out of their barrel, that is.
Lucy: There she goes again.
Betty: Oh, Lucy, I was so flattered. Kay Bailey asked me for the recipe for my cake last night. I told her the secret was your fresh eggs.
Lucy: Oh, well, thank you. You know, we’re in the chicken business together, so half of those belong to Ethel, isn’t that right, dear?
Ethel: Yes, the shells.

And things go from bad to worse.

Lucy (to Betty): That reminds me. Did you notice my new eggshell-colored cushions?
Betty: Yes, I saw them yesterday — they’re just right for that couch.
Lucy: Oh, I’m glad you like them.
Betty: As a matter of fact, your house really looks lovely. Just lovely.
Lucy: Thanks to you.
Betty: Now that you’ve got it all fixed up, we’ll have to have a housewarming party.
Lucy: Oh, I would love that!
Betty: Let’s see. We’ll have the Baileys, Bill and June Spear, the Munsons, the Parkers…
Lucy (prompting her): And the Mertzes.
Betty: Oh, yes, and the Mertzes.
Ethel: I’m afraid we can’t make it.
Betty (sincere): Oh, that’s a shame.
Lucy: Now, dear, we haven’t even set the date yet.
Ethel: Oh, but we’re booked up months ahead. There’s the Hired Hands Convention, and the Poultry Growers Annual Ball, and the Babysitters Amalgamated —
Lucy: Uh, dear, why don’t we wait till we set the date? I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out.
Betty: Oh yes, it’d be such fun. I love parties. I’ve loved parties since I was a little girl.
Lucy: So have I. (to Ethel) And so have you, haven’t you, dear?
Ethel: I haven’t been to a party since I was a little girl.

Undaunted, Lucy tries a different tack:

Lucy: Speaking of being a little girl, you should hear about the fascinating childhood that Ethel has had. You know, she was raised on a ranch outside of Albuquerque, and I want to tell you —
Betty: Albuquerque? Is that where you’re from?
Ethel: Mm-hmm.
Betty: For heaven sake, that’s my hometown.
Ethel (suddenly perking up): Oh, really?
Betty: I was born there.
Ethel: No kidding? I was born there, too.
Lucy: Well, what a wonderful coincidence.

Not only are they both from Albuquerque, but their fathers belonged to the same lodge. Their families knew each other. And that’s all it takes for Betty to welcome Ethel into her social circle. (Betty may be a snob, but she’s a selective snob: she only looks down on people until she finds she has something in common with them — and apparently being from her hometown is a proper rite of passage.) And being welcomed into Betty’s social circle is all that it takes for Ethel to revise her opinion: “Oh, I should’ve known you were from Albuquerque. You’re so warm and friendly.” (Lucy’s response to Ethel‘s instant change of heart is a classic.)

As Ethel and Betty grow closer, Lucy misinterprets an overheard remark and grows convinced that the neighbors are throwing her a surprise housewarming. And then, in one of the most delightful bits the show ever produced, the writers scale down the requisite block-comedy scene to a two-hander between Lucy and Ricky, in which she insists they should practice “acting surprised,” so their friends won’t know they’re wise to their plans. First they practice their looks of astonishment, then they play-act two scenarios, one where Lucy bursts in on an unsuspecting Ricky, and the other where they reverse roles — and in both cases, Lucy doesn’t just surprise Ricky, she scares the bejeezus out of him. The two of them make the kind of magic they had made in those earliest years, when the relationship felt legitimate and the interplay fresh. The previous fall, it felt like Ball and Arnaz hated being on the same soundstage; now — as throughout the second block — they’re once again the most charming and convincing of comic partners. And when Lucy comes to realize there is no surprise housewarming and grows tearful, and Ricky gently places her head on his shoulder and consoles her, the onscreen affection is palpable, something you couldn’t have foreseen a half-season earlier.

Hot on the heels of “Housewarming” comes a return to the sort of bread-and-butter story-line — the wives vs. the husbands — that had been a mainstay of the series. Ricky is on vacation, and driving Lucy crazy; she decides he needs a project to keep him busy, and Ethel suggests the barbecue he and Fred have been promising to build. But Lucy doesn’t see Ricky giving up his vacation for something so taxing.

Ethel: Why don’t you use the method I use when I want Fred to do something?
Lucy: What’s that?
Ethel: Well, I start the project myself, and then when Fred sees me, he says, “Ethel, that’s not the way to do that,” and then he goes ahead and does it himself.

“Building a Bar-B-Q” is ostensibly an episode about the tactics women use to get their way. As Ethel frames it, it plays on men’s obsession with doing things “the right way.” (45 years later, Everybody Loves Raymond will take the story-line a step further, and have the spouse get out of doing something by faking incompetence — but it’s the same idea.) But if “Building a Bar-B-Q” begins as a ruse about keeping their husbands busy, it becomes an episode about Lucy and Ethel actually having to build that barbecue — in other words, taking on a task that’s typically reserved for men. And it’s here that you can see — in hindsight — how the Connecticut episodes have been gently paving the way for Ball’s continued TV career.

As Desi Arnaz’s onscreen presence has been further reduced — due to his increased workload running Desilu — it’s Vance who has garnered the spotlight more. Her character and her relationship with Ball evolve slowly over these final 13 episodes; Lucy and Ethel start engaging in some of the stratagems and standoffs typically reserved for spouses. The new parity between them sets the stage for the first few seasons of The Lucy Show, which feature Vance no longer as Lucy’s accomplice, but as her co-star and foil.

The final 13 episodes of I Love Lucy show that Carroll & Martin and Schiller & Weiskopf have exactly what it takes to continue chronicling Lucy‘s adventures, and so they’re hired to develop and write The Lucy Show. Having proven that Lucy can thrive in a suburban setting, they set the new series in suburban Danfield, NY, and chronicle the efforts of Lucy Carmichael and Vivian Bagley — who share a two-story house, just as the Ricardos had — to adjust and fit in: keeping their lawn trimmed, joining the volunteer fire brigade, attending the local Little League games. Recognizing the value of having Lucy fret about finances, the writers see to it that Lucy Carmichael’s money is held in trust by banker Mr. Barnsdahl, so that she faces the same hurdles as her predecessor. And the success of “Building a Bar-B-Q” ensures that Lucy and Viv will tackle a host of home improvements: putting up a TV antenna, building a rumpus room, and most memorably, installing a shower — finding both humor and topicality in doing what was once considered “man’s work.”

Looking beyond that, Ball’s chemistry with Mary Jane Croft (and the pleasure she takes in working with her) will result in Croft taking over the role of Lucy’s best friend when Vance departs The Lucy Show. (Amusingly, Ball’s co-stars on her following series, her children Lucie and Desi Jr., make their first onscreen appearance in the final episode of I Love Lucy.) And in much the same way that the writers draw from real-life events to chart the Ricardos’ migration to the suburbs, Carroll and Martin will do so once again for Season 5 of Here’s Lucy, when Ball breaks her leg just as filming is due to commence, and the writers turn out a rash of new scripts detailing the fallout from Lucy Carter breaking her leg, revitalizing the series with a healthy dose of reality — in much the same way that the move to Westport transformed I Love Lucy.

By late in the third season of I Love Lucy, a certain entropy had set in, suggesting that Lucy’s home life was no longer fertile ground for story-lines. The final thirteen episodes of Season 6 give lie to that presumption — and chart a path forward. Westport doesn’t merely open doors for the Ricardos, but for Ball’s solo TV career, which will continue almost uninterrupted until 1974. Contrary to that niggling quote from Bianco, the series doesn’t end when the Ricardos move to Connecticut; it’s there that the saga truly begins.

Do you enjoy in-depth looks at hit shows? If so, I delve into Rhoda Season 3, Maude Season 2, Newhart Season 7, One Day at a Time Season 7, WKRP in Cincinnati Season 4 and Bewitched Season 2; serve up my 10 Best Episodes of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Designing Women, WKRP in Cincinnati, Kate & Allie and Everybody Loves Raymond; pen an appreciation of the underrated Mike & Molly; and offer up some thoughts as to why The New Adventures of Old Christine took such a tumble in quality over its five seasons. Or if you have a preference for dramas, check out my write-ups of Criminal Minds Season 8, Judging Amy Season 6, Doctor Who Series 8, Voyager Season 4, Gilmore Girls Season 7 (and the subsequent ill-conceived Netflix miniseries), Grantchester Series 6, Cold Case Season 4, and fourteen essays devoted to each season of the great nighttime soap Knots Landing. I also pick out The 10 Best "Murder She Wrote" Mysteries -- not (necessarily) my top episodes, but the best whodunnits.