Bob Newhart is a clinical psychologist living with his wife, teacher Susanne Pleshette, in a Chicago high rise apartment. His neighbor is airline navigator Bill Daily. Newhart commutes daily to his office where he is on friendly terms with the dentist who has an office on the same floor, Peter Bonerz, with whom he shares a secretary, the toothy but amiable Marcia Wallace. Newhart treats various clients, none of whom are suffering very much. The most cynical and sometimes obnoxious is Jack Reilly.
This template allows for various forms of comedic exchanges between multiple characters and the opportunities are seized aptly.
The central figure is Newhart himself and he's a caution. He's always low-keyed in his responses, almost a straight man, sometimes in the grip of some loony phone conversation, his reactions usually minimal and restricted to blinks or moues.
The series is a constant treat if what you're looking for is understated, genteel humor. (Its opposite may be "Married With Children.") Newhart's character is conventional in the extreme, a font of humor. He wears those 1970s loud, polyester suits and wide ties as if born in them. His apartment is disgustingly bourgeois -- lots of dark wood paneling, frilly lampshades and table cloths, a wide sliding-glass window overlooking beautiful downtown Chicago. There's no point, and no room, in giving examples of the jokes but, well, hell, I'll briefly describe one. Newhart visits the office of a minister where, unknown to Newhart, a worker upstairs has just installed an air-conditioning vent. Newhart is uncomfortable in the presence of the reverend and keeps slipping in remarks about having to answer to a higher authority and so forth. As Newhart is leaving, the worker's voice issues from the air conditioner near the ceiling, shouting, "Dan, I'm coming DOWN now!" Newhart blinks and exits rapidly.
Now, this doesn't sound funny, I admit, but that's part of my point. The humor lies in the way the situation is played. And the set-up is such that the slight variations in normal exchanges stand out vividly. It's rather like the contemporaneous "Mary Tyler Moore Show," which shared the same production company and sometimes writers and directors.
You wouldn't want to live the ritualized existence of Newhart, his family, his friends, and his patients. "Hi, Bob," is a greeting so often repeated that a generation ago it was a drinking game among college students. They watched the show and every time a character said "Hi, Bob," the next kid in line would have to chug-a-lug his beer. I certainly wouldn't want to live in Newhart's Land of Cockaigne either. It's all so demoniacally clean. There's no filth, not anywhere.
But it must be said, it's funny as hell, in the best sitcom tradition.
This template allows for various forms of comedic exchanges between multiple characters and the opportunities are seized aptly.
The central figure is Newhart himself and he's a caution. He's always low-keyed in his responses, almost a straight man, sometimes in the grip of some loony phone conversation, his reactions usually minimal and restricted to blinks or moues.
The series is a constant treat if what you're looking for is understated, genteel humor. (Its opposite may be "Married With Children.") Newhart's character is conventional in the extreme, a font of humor. He wears those 1970s loud, polyester suits and wide ties as if born in them. His apartment is disgustingly bourgeois -- lots of dark wood paneling, frilly lampshades and table cloths, a wide sliding-glass window overlooking beautiful downtown Chicago. There's no point, and no room, in giving examples of the jokes but, well, hell, I'll briefly describe one. Newhart visits the office of a minister where, unknown to Newhart, a worker upstairs has just installed an air-conditioning vent. Newhart is uncomfortable in the presence of the reverend and keeps slipping in remarks about having to answer to a higher authority and so forth. As Newhart is leaving, the worker's voice issues from the air conditioner near the ceiling, shouting, "Dan, I'm coming DOWN now!" Newhart blinks and exits rapidly.
Now, this doesn't sound funny, I admit, but that's part of my point. The humor lies in the way the situation is played. And the set-up is such that the slight variations in normal exchanges stand out vividly. It's rather like the contemporaneous "Mary Tyler Moore Show," which shared the same production company and sometimes writers and directors.
You wouldn't want to live the ritualized existence of Newhart, his family, his friends, and his patients. "Hi, Bob," is a greeting so often repeated that a generation ago it was a drinking game among college students. They watched the show and every time a character said "Hi, Bob," the next kid in line would have to chug-a-lug his beer. I certainly wouldn't want to live in Newhart's Land of Cockaigne either. It's all so demoniacally clean. There's no filth, not anywhere.
But it must be said, it's funny as hell, in the best sitcom tradition.