Episode Analysis - S2 E24 Even Stones Have Eyes

Even Stones Have Eyes (30 Mar. 1962)


Writer: Barry Trivers
Director: Robert Gist
Directors of Photography: Irving Lippman; William P. Whitley
(Details from http://www.imdb.com - click on the episode title above for more cast and crew)


Screencaps are from the Infinity version of the show (I'd say the Infinity version is a little cleaner than the Shout Factory, but there's not much in it.) I took far too many screencaps. I have a thing for blindness...

A very Buz-centric episode focussing on what happens when Buz is blinded in an accident on a building site and elects to go to a school for the blind in order to rehabilitate. The story focuses very tightly on Buz’s reaction to his blindness and on his developing relationship with his blind instructor, Celia. This kind of episode happens quite often in television series – how does a character cope with blindness? But it’s always an interesting psychological investigation, even more so in this case because George Maharis decided to wear contact lenses that would practically blind him so that he could act the part well. I have to admit it’s one of my favourites, and apparently one of George Maharis’s too.

Now, that’s the way to start a show, with your hero being hoisted up onto the top of the building he’s working on, on the hook of a crane. Excellent. I couldn’t say if it were Martin Milner – I’d guess not, since they cut before you see his face. But I’d like to think that it was.

Incoming! And there’s Buz, working on the edge of the fateful hole.

Tod on a hook. What a catch. He asks if Buz wants company on his date.

‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd,’ Buz tells him.

But Tod quickly puts him right. He wants to go on a double date, not have a threesome between him, Buz and Donna. Shame.

Tod calls to be hoisted up again. I think he’s enjoying this.

They seem to be using giant flakes in the building project.

 (for the poor uninitiated, this is a flake. Sublime doesn’t even cover it.)

On the edge of the hole, in mortal peril, this is Emphatically Not George Maharis. But it is supposed to be Buz.

You can see Tod’s concern starting as he sees the moving beam and Buz, unaware.

‘Look out!’ he yells.

Too late… Emphatically-Not-George-Maharis does a brief impression of Jesus and takes a dive as he is struck on the back of the head by the giant flake. Ouch.

Now that’s Buz (George Maharis, not a stuntman). In a hole. Hanging. I’m guessing this is a lift shaft, since it seems to go all the way down. Thank god he wasn’t knocked out cold straight away.

Tod comes running.

Buz is still hanging. My, that’s a deep hole.

Tod leaps down to help him…

…and says something like, ‘Grab my wrist, buddy.’ And with a combination of his own effort and the help of the others, Buz is hauled out of the hole.

Buz on a stretcher. By this time he’s unconscious. I’m going to theorise that the blow to his head caused some kind of swelling that didn’t knock him out straight away, and he passed out on the roof or something. That would be consistent, I could imagine, with the sight loss – swelling in the visual cortex, near where he was struck.

He’s slid into an ambulance. I say ambulance. It looks more like a converted station wagon :O How long did it take for America to realise it was good to have ambulances with a little more space in them? (I’m informed by a friend that often they were converted hearses. *shudder*)

The ambulance pulls away. There’s a woman in the crowd here, on the bottom right, who just stares up at the camera the whole time. Things like that must make you mad when you’re filming.

Wow, it’s cramped in here. Buz is still unconscious, under a blanket. For some reason I find men under blankets/sheets alluring. I suppose it’s the same reason why a woman with her hands over her breasts is more alluring before she removes them and you discover she’s wearing a bikini top.

Everyone looks like a child when they’re asleep… or unconscious. Oh, look at those eyelashes…

Tod is worried. ‘He’s been out a long time,’ he says.

The ambulance man says, ‘Skin’s split, but I don’t think there’s a fracture. I’ll bet you money they find I’m right when they x-ray him.’

(It took me months to work out those words were ‘skin’s split,’ but in a Texas accent.)

The ambulance man has that calm, matter-of-fact attitude of someone who does this for a living. Tod doesn’t look like he feels like betting on whether his best friend’s skull is fractured.

Finally Buz opens his eyes. He seems disoriented.

‘What happened to the day?’ he asks.

Tod tells him he’s in an ambulance.

‘I can’t see you,’ Buz says in a fearful, wondering voice. ‘I know my eyes are open, but I can’t see you.’

Now Tod looks even more worried, unsurprisingly. So does the ambulance man. It’s not looking good for Buz…

Brackenridge Hospital. I wonder how long it’s been since there was a brackeny ridge there, if there ever was. (Actually I’ve just discovered it was named after Dr Robert J. Brackenridge, who had a fortuitously pleasing name.)

(There follows a brief interlude while I insert photos I've found of Brackenridge Hospital, then and now.)

Brackenridge Hospital in 1960 - 2 years before Buz was there.

Unspecified date, but presumably relatively early.

Brackenridge today. It's changed...

 Interlude over.

Arty transition shot, because I like it.

Buz is in the office of Dr Snyder, who must be some kind of eye specialist. His pupils don’t contract as the doctor flashes his light across them.

George Maharis is wearing opaque contact lenses from now on to almost completely remove his vision, so that his acting is naturalistic. You can see them in this shot.

The doctor does that staple thing of mostly talking to Tod instead of Buz. He tells him that Mr Murdock should be able to see. It sounds like he’s been put through the mill of testing. There’s nothing wrong with his eyes. He should be able to see.

‘Except I don’t see,’ Buz says.

‘Well, that’s the fact that overrules medicine,’ the doctor tells him.

The doctor can’t say if it’s a permanent condition or not. There’s nothing he can do. He tells Buz about two other cases he’s seen in the past twelve years like his. Both regained their sight.

‘How long did it take?’ Buz asks. He repeats the question when the doctor doesn’t answer (his accent sounds strangely London this time, when he’s more agitated – I think it may be the Greek influence). You can see Buz getting more worked up. The doctor finally replies. One took four weeks, the other, six years.

I don’t think Tod knows what to think. He’s full of concern for his friend, fear for what all this may mean. He seems completely freaked out, as if he doesn’t feel old enough to deal with this.

‘So what do we do now, doctor?’ Tod asks.

The doctor is realistic. ‘I’m a man who put in twelve hours in this place,’ he says. ‘Now I’m going home. My wife will say to me, How did things go? I’ll say to her, Brought a boy in. There was nothing wrong with him, except that he was blind, and there was nothing I could do for him. And then I’ll eat my dinner.’

This is a nice prosaic summary of a doctor’s day, the regret he feels about not being able to help, but the fact that he has to divorce himself from these things once he is home, and move on with his own life. It’s great in a literary way. Just not so good for Buz to hear.

‘I want out,’ Buz says.

I suppose he wants to just go home and have his dinner, like the doctor. You can see the panic rising in him as he sits in the chair .

‘I’m only saying that you should continue to live,’ the doctor tells him.

Incidentally, Barry Trivers, the writer of this episode, was blind for a year after an air combat crash in WWII. It’s nice to know this, I think. It makes the story seem that much more real. You feel he has probably fed his own experience and reactions into the story. (Incidentally, Barry Trivers also wrote the Star Trek episode The Conscience Of The King.)

So, finally the panic escapes from Buz and he runs, straight into the wall. Silly boy.

Because this is a real room and not a set, the wall doesn’t shake when he hits it, and because he’s wearing those contact lenses he really doesn’t see the wall and pull back. That’s one of the things I like about this series.

It takes Tod and the doctor together to get him to stop fighting and sit down. He’s screaming a rather incoherent stream of, ‘Out, let me out, I want out, please,’ at first trying to push Tod away and then calming enough to just grab at him. What you feel would be really good at this point would be for Tod to give him some comfort, but he gets him calm enough to sit and then steps back and leaves it to the doctor. He’s obviously not great at dealing with emotional outbursts. He seems terrified by this whole situation.

‘I know if I use the word lucky in this connection you’re going to laugh,’ the doctor says.

Buz has his hand over his face, presumably trying to stifle tears. The doctor tells Buz that in a way he is lucky, because one of the best schools for the blind is in this state.

Tod looks shocked. He’s probably had a hell of a day, to be fair. That morning he was talking about double dates, and now he’s in a doctor’s office with his best friend, listening to the doctor talk about schools for the blind. Plus Buz is being emotional, which is too much for any upright guy brought up in the forties and fifties to handle.

The doctor tells Buz that when he’s ready, the people at the school will help him – but ‘until then, Mr Stiles, he’s gonna depend on you, or whoever else there is.’

Tod, of course, knows there’s no one. Buz is an orphan. He can’t fall back on family. He has no home. He doesn’t have a network of friends. All he has is Tod and a free ride in the car, and a suitcase full of clothes. That’s it.

‘This man is going to continue to live,’ the doctor insists. ‘He must function as a living human being. That’s all there is to it,’ he says, patting Buz’s arm. At least he’s getting some comfort. But, Tod, why aren’t you helping him? Why?

Tod takes Buz out of the doctor’s office, and the doctor says, ‘Good luck,’ as he leaves. There’s a certain grim bleakness in the way he says it that implies that he’s not happy about not being able to help.

Tod and Buz arrive outside their lodgings. Buz is evidently determined to do things without help, and walks carefully around the car. I like the way Tod keeps his eye on Buz and the traffic for this. He’s not great on the touchy-feely care, but he at least makes sure Buz doesn’t get creamed by a passing station wagon or something.

Buz trips on the kerb stepping up from the road and Tod catches him. I would have reshot this. It doesn’t look very naturalistic. But never mind.

Buz is embarrassed. ‘Thanks, James,’ he says, and then asks Tod to point him towards the door. He’s horribly subdued, poor thing.

Tod catches his arm and reminds him, ‘Four steps.’

‘I haven’t lost my memory,’ Buz tells him.

Again, I like the way Tod watches him here, watching Buz’s feet as he walks up the steps. He’s watching so carefully that he doesn’t notice the girl running down the stairs inside until she opens the screen door right into Buz’s face.

Tod grabs Buz as he starts backwards.

‘Protect yourself from the clinches, champ,’ the girl says cheerily as she skips away.

Tod looks more put out than Buz.

‘That Sylvia always did wear too much perfume,’ Buz remarks. Tod seems relieved at his levity.

(I can imagine the conversation when they rented this place – something along the lines of Tod not being sure, then Buz pointing out the ‘fall term’ sign outside and saying how the area’s full of hot young female college students.)

‘Well, Mr Stiles. Shall I, er, lead the way?’ Buz asks.

‘After you, champ,’ Tod says, taking him by the arms and then opening the door for him. They’re both trying to put a brave face on all this, but neither of them know quite how to act.

Inside, and Buz is depressed and brooding. I love the mise en scène for this shot. Buz locked in his own world. Tod sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his chair. He hasn’t even moved the newspaper off the seat. Buz seems frozen and Tod is unsettled, fidgeting with his hands, ready to move at a moment’s notice, watching Buz like a hawk.

‘Want a drink?’ he asks eventually. All he has to fall back on are social conventions.

‘Sure, why not,’ Buz replies after a moment. ‘Let’s get blotzed. As a matter of fact, Mr Stiles, let’s get blind.’

Tod doesn’t know how to deal with this. They don’t teach 1940s/50s kids how to deal with emotional trauma. He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t look happy as he pours the drinks.

‘What’s the matter? Do you object to the word blind?’ Buz asks darkly. ‘Well, it’s a fact. A blind fact. You’re stuck, aren’t you, Tod? Go, and you desert a friend. Stay, and you’re a seeing eye dog with two legs less than the standard model. When’s your birthday? I’ll buy you a leash.’

Poor Tod. A part of him probably agrees. He is stuck. He wouldn’t walk off and leave Buz, but he doesn’t want any of this to have happened. He had never imagined their relationship turning into a lifelong partnership of carer and dependant.

‘Here,’ Tod says, handing Buz the drink.

Perhaps getting Buz out of his skull would help – but Buz takes one sniff of the drink and recoils. ‘Well, I never knew it smelt like that. Make you a bet there are no blind alcoholics.’

Poor Tod is completely stymied. He just doesn’t know what to do with this bitter, despondent Buz who flip-flops between dejection and black humour. He can see Buz building up to some kind of outburst again. I suppose he’s always found Buz unpredictable to a degree, and now he just doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

‘I’ve got an exclusive for you. A message bounced off a satellite,’ Buz says. ‘Comes a time – you ready? – comes a time, day or night, I’ll find a time. You can’t dog me every minute and you can’t stay awake forever. I’ll be alone, and I’ll use a window or a – or a roof. I’ll find a way, and I’ll take this useless carcass, and I’ll kill it.’

I imagine these first lines would have even more impact since this is the earliest era of satellite communication. A message bounced of a satellite really would have worldwide importance.

There’s a mixture of pity and fear and shock in Tod’s face. 

Buz immediately switches back to the black pseudo-normality, asking, ‘You got some ice for this, bartender?’ 

There are obviously a million thoughts running through Tod’s head as he tries to work out what to do. Buz has handed him the prospect of being on 24-hour suicide watch. It’s too much for anyone to handle. Buz is too angry and afraid to listen to reason. Tod steels himself, making a decision.

Tod goes into the bathroom and takes a razor blade out of the razor. You can see him thinking it all through as he stands there. He looks at Buz and back at the razor, and makes up his mind. It’s the only way to tell if Buz is truly serious, and if he’s going to have to spend the foreseeable future watching him to keep him safe. It’s a risky thing to do, but Buz responds to drastic action more than to discussion. Kudos to Tod for reading his psychology so well.

Tod puts the razorblade into Buz’s hand. He’s still afraid as he watches him – afraid of the physical action of Buz cutting his wrists, maybe, but I’d imagine even more afraid to find out just how deep the urge to die is in Buz. He’s hoping it’s not strong enough, but what if it is? Presumably he’s ready to wrestle the blade from him if he tries to do anything with it. At least, I don’t think he’d sit by and let Buz commit suicide.

Buz closes the razor blade tightly in his hand, working out what it is. He’s breathing heavily, obviously still agitated. He clenches it pretty tightly, too.

A wonderful transition comes over his face, from the hard, empty despair to a softening kind of grief. You can see Tod trying to work out what this means – whether he’s going to do it or not. But for all Buz said, he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t know how to go on, but he doesn’t want to die. That realisation seems crushing to him. If he doesn’t have the strength to kill himself, he will have to find the strength to get through this. He’s fighting back tears.

As he puts the razor blade down on the side table he scrapes his knuckles with a relentless pressure over the edge of the table, as if he’s giving himself a taste of the pain that would be involved in dying. I love this whole section of acting from George Maharis – the way he clenches down on the razor blade and scrapes his hand on the table. He’s doing what Buz would do, instead of pulling back from hurting himself.

It worked. Tod has essentially found out that it’s safe to leave Buz on his own. He won’t try anything. And a kind of catharsis has taken place. Given time and privacy, Buz will be able to cry. He covers his face with his hand, trying to control himself.

‘I think maybe it’s time for something to eat,’ Tod says. You can see the huge relief in him. He’s almost glowing with it.

‘Yeah,’ Buz says. ‘That’s the way it is with us people. In order to be alive you gotta eat.’

He has a kind of apologetic, sniffing, smile and that strange poignant humour that comes at times like these. I want to hug him.

This line is so very Buz… And I suppose Tod has realised that what Buz wants is time alone (knowing he’s not going to find a window or a roof) in order to have a good, proper cry.

I like the choice as Tod leaves to focus tightly at first on Buz, but have the sound of Tod walking away very evident. Not only does it increase the sense of Buz’s isolation, but it also puts us in his place, hearing but not seeing.

Tod’s easy freedom (physical, at least) – the open door, the world of pictures and light just outside, the way he jogs down the stairs. It’s all a contrast to those tight shots of Buz in his chair.

I don’t think it’s deliberate that this shot is darker, once Tod has left. I think it’s because the cameras are having to adjust for Buz at the window. But it works well in a way. Everything seems darker, Buz seems more alone with the focus on the one chair and the one glass of drink.

He sits forward, obviously going through some kind of indecision, and then moves closer to the window. You wonder whether he really is safe to be left alone.

But he doesn’t push up the sash and throw himself out. He kneels at the window with the light streaming onto his face, working up the courage to do something unaccustomed.

Then he says falteringly, ‘Dear God. I don’t even know if you can hear me. In all my life I never asked you for a lousy single thing. But I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll split my eyes with you. I’ll take one – just one – and stick it in the centre of my head like Cyclops. Please, God. I wanna see.’

I love the reference to Cyclops there. People might take things like this as an example of non-naturalistic dialogue. But I don’t care. I love that television can reference Greek mythology, and that Buz, in his time kicking around, has sucked in so much that Tod had to go to Yale for.

Finally he lets himself cry properly. Men. Why couldn’t he let himself do that with Tod around to comfort him?

Camera angles again – when Buz is praying we are with him. Now he’s made his plea to God and we are remote, separated from him by panes of glass and the branches of a tree outside. Buz seems very alone in that room in there, crying at the window.

Entering the Texas Lions Camp. Obviously there has been enough of a catharsis for Buz to decide to enrol here. I’d love to know how much time is supposed to have passed. I wonder what it was like for them in the meantime?

Oh wow. There’s so much in this short drive, reaction-wise… Buz, you can see, is still depressed and trapped within himself. There’s something poignant about the setup here, with the single case strapped in the middle of the luggage rack instead of the two side by side. Tod is pensive, Buz is pale-faced. He asks Tod what he sees. Poor Tod is trying so hard to be upbeat. He tells him how beautiful the place is.

‘We just passed the chapel,’ Tod says.

‘What do you suppose they pray for?’ Buz asks in an empty voice.

Tod gives him a look…

Yes, Buz is very obviously depressed and nervous, sitting very still and upright, biting his lips into his mouth. I wonder what it’s been like for Tod fielding him in this mood all this time?

Tod continues to try to be upbeat, listing all the wonderful things that the catalogue spoke of.

‘The way you describe it, I wonder why more people don’t poke their eyes out,’ Buz says. There are so many ways he could say these lines. He says them with a kind of dull disinterest which perfectly reflects his depression.

Tod’s reaction is wonderful. He looks at Buz with a kind of incredulous expression.

‘What’s the matter? Did you think that was funny?’ Buz asks.

Poor Tod stays silent. He’s given up on trying to be upbeat. He looks like he just doesn’t know how to handle this black, bitter version of Buz. I imagine he’s split right now between feeling for Buz and being rather relieved that he’s going to get a break from being the caregiver to a depressed, unskilled blind man.

Tod is waiting outside while Buz is in the administration centre getting introduced to the staff. I don’t think he knows what to think about the state that Buz is in. I imagine he doesn’t want to leave him there, but knows it’s the best thing. It’s difficult, all round.

Buz is taken around the table to be introduced to each staff member by Frank Robinson, the head of the place. Robinson is an actor, Paul Tripp. The others are real members of staff.

Cotton Guidry, to whom Buz is being introduced here, is the mobility instructor. According to this site  he “was one of the few who had worked with Richard Hoover in the Chicago veterans training center in the 1950's and 60's when the long white cane was developed and techniques and theories first brought to bear.” So a good teacher for Buz, then!

Lastly Buz is introduced to his cookery teacher.

‘Cooking? Are you kidding?’ he asks in amazement.

‘Don’t you want to be able to cook your own breakfast without having to depend on anyone else?’ she asks.

‘Well, I don’t – I don’t have that problem,’ he replies, resorting to humour to cover his nervousness. ‘You see, I have a house full of servants, and all I have to do is look hungry and the cook shoves a steak in the oven.’

She tells him he could earn a living by cooking.

‘Well, I might be known as the only cook who has a cook,’ he says with a small laugh. He’s doing his best to hold it together, it seems. I still don’t think he actually believes in the possibility of moving forward.

The door squeaks open and a woman walks in.

‘Hello,’ Mr Robinson calls.

‘I’m here,’ she replies.

This is Celia (Barbara Barrie). I love her. She acts so wonderfully.

Buz is introduced to her. She has been assigned to ‘guide you through the early stages of your training,’ Robinson tells him.

‘Are you blind too, Miss Monteiras?’ Buz asks. (I have no idea how her surname is spelt).

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘The blind leading the blind? That’s the picture around here, huh?’ Buz asks. He’s still in an awkward place, I feel. He’s not one of the blind, but he’s not one of the sighted, either.

Mr Robinson takes Buz over to the window and makes one of those wonderful speeches that I love Route 66 for.

‘Outside that window is a whole world,’ he says. ‘As things stand, you can’t enter it. As things stand, your blindness is a prison. With training, the limitations of blindness can be pushed back farther than you know. But there are two parts to the training. What we do. What you do…’

I love Robinson’s character. He’s warm and kind and fatherly and empathic - everything Buz needs. You feel that he really feels for Buz’s despair and fear, but not in such a way that let him wallow. He will help him out of it.

‘Buz, the blind are people,’ he says. ‘Some are good, some are not. Some are brave, and others, like the rest of us, fumbling around in their own darkness. We don’t try to make anyone over. We try to make anyone who comes here capable – to earn a living, to feed and dress himself, avoid accidents, to make money, and pay taxes.

‘The beggar in the street – he’s self-made. Not the people here. A man must want what we have to give him. He must want it so much he’s willing to go through the pain of being his own mother, when he gets born all over again.’

‘Your friend’s waiting outside to say goodbye to you,’ Robinson tells Buz.

‘What do mean, goodbye?’ Buz asks. He looks scared.

‘Well, he can’t take your training for you,’ Robinson reminds him. ‘What’s he going to do? Hang around here while you do what you have to? Is your blindness supposed to be his prison too?’

‘That’s not fair. I never meant it that way,’ Buz protests.

This is probably a good reminder of just why he’s here. He doesn’t want to be dependent on Tod. He doesn’t want Tod to have to fill that role. It’s a good spur to remind Buz of the positive reasons for him being here. But, poor thing, he looks scared at having to make that break.

Tod is waiting outside, looking pensive. He’s obviously got tired of leaning against the car and has gone to sit down in the passenger seat. He jumps out of the car when he sees Buz, but doesn’t seem to know whether he should go to him or not.

I wonder how Buz feels at being in the hands of a blind guide?

Oh, the awkwardness. Both of them with their hands in their pockets, not knowing what to say.

‘Great conversationalists, aren’t we?’ Buz asks gloomily.

‘I’m not going to be very far away, you know,’ Tod tells him. ‘You can get me on a ten cent phone call any time you say.’

‘I don’t want you wrapping yourself up on account of me,’ Buz says. You can still see some of that anger and bitterness in him. His friendship with Tod has been so skewed that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Tod reminds him that if it had been the other way round, Buz wouldn’t be running for the hills.

‘I’ve been sitting here figuring how to act,’ Tod says. ‘I wondered if I should write – how you’d feel about somebody reading your letters to you.’

This is the first real verbalisation of the awkwardness that Tod feels. He has no idea at all how he should interact with Buz at the moment. Buz would rather have someone read his letters to him than not get them. Nice, tacit way of saying he still wants Tod in his life, all awkwardness aside. Poor Tod is so wound up. He’s fidgeting. He’s still deeply worried about Buz’s depression.

What I want to know,’ Tod asks. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, sure. I’m – I’m all right,’ Buz replies in the kind of tone that says just the opposite.

‘I mean your attitude,’ Tod says with deep awkwardness, coming to stand by Buz.

What he really wants to know is if Buz is going to go looking for any high windows or roofs or deep water.

‘My attitude?’ Buz repeats. He sighs. ‘So they teach me to walk with a cane. Walk where? To the corner to sell papers. So they teach me to type. Type what? Envelopes, two cents apiece. I’m still a man that lives in the dark. I – I go to sleep in the dark and I wake up in the dark. That’s my attitude.’

He says all this in a soft, hopeless way. He’s still very much pre-adjustment. He has no idea how much this place can help him.

‘If I could give you one of my eyes, I would,’ Tod says.

He sounds tearful. I like this echo of Buz’s plea to God to share his eyes. God didn’t listen. Tod is ready to make that sacrifice, but there’s no way to do it. Buz’s smile in response to this is a nice, silent acknowledgement of Tod’s feelings.

Buz tells Tod that when he’s finished the training, ‘We’re splitting up.’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Tod says.

‘I mean it,’ Buz tells him.

Tod agrees, but you know he’s just agreeing for the sake of agreement. There’s no point in arguing about it now.

Tod goes to get Buz’s case from the luggage rack. He rubs his hand over his face as he walks away, and you wonder for a moment if perhaps he’s crying a little. You can see his frustration and anger at this situation in the way he handles the strap.

Tod gives Buz his case and his coat and says, ‘Stay in there, champ,’ and you want to scream, ffs, Tod, just give him a damn hug!! But he doesn’t. They’re both very manly about it. Buz smiles weakly and nods a little, and Tod walks around to get into the car. Buz is left holding his coat as if it’s the only thing he has to cling to. Tod gives him a long look as he gets into the car, but that damn awkwardness is still there, and will be for some time, I imagine. Tod is very careful as he starts the car and rolls it away from Buz.

And the engine roars into life and coughs, and Tod is driving away and Buz is left standing alone in the middle of the drive, holding his coat in his hands and listening to the engine noise as it fades into the distance. Sob.

Again, how much time has passed? I’d love to know what the time span for this episode is in the scriptwriter’s mind. Celia is teaching Buz to walk with a cane. They look a bit awkward as she tries to show him how to sweep it in front of him. He is unsteady and almost loses his footing.

They stop on the path and Celia tells him that she wants to teach him to teach his fingertips how to see. Buz isn’t sure about this. For all she says they’re alone, he’s still very self conscious. I’m not surprised this was one of George Maharis’s favourite episodes. It must present such a challenge to him, character-wise.

Buz can’t bring himself to touch her face. He feels funny about it. I wonder if this is due to feeling self-conscious about this new mode of experiencing the world, or because he’s starting to feel something for Celia? It’s hard to tell exactly how he does feel about her.

She shows him how to do it, almost poking his eye out in the process. It’s obvious just how much the contact lenses cut down his vision when you see how delayed his blinking reaction is. He doesn’t blink until she actually touches his eyelashes.

Celia thoroughly explores his face (hmm… the idea that blind people touch people’s faces like this tends to be dismissed as a silly myth, but the fact that the writer was blind for a year suggests he might be writing from experience? Or not…)

Buz looks a little uneasy, but he lets her do it. She delineates his features, proclaims he has ‘man’s hair’ (Buz smiles). She says, ‘I think you’re very handsome.’

It’s nice to see some proper smiles from Buz after all this time, but he looks subdued again when she guesses he has dark eyes.

All through this you can hear birds calling in the background. I love the real-life sounds you get on this programme. You can imagine how he feels as he stands there with the weak late-winter sun on his face and hearing the birds calling around around him, with this woman touching his face.

‘It’s very personal,’ he comments. He looks thoughtful and rather unsettled by the whole thing.

‘Do you want to try?’ she asks him.

He touches her forehead but he can’t bring himself to continue. It’s an uncertain, unconfident Buz that we see here, in contrast with Celia’s forthright confidence.

Celia tells him it’s time for him to go to the dispensary for his physical. Buz turns to walk, and she steps back away from him. He realises she isn’t there and sticks his arm out, looking.

‘Now, come on. Where’d you go?’ he asks.

Celia asks if he wants to try it alone. This seems like the first turning point for Buz. Up until now he’s been totally dependent on other people. You can see the cogs turning in his mind as he tries to work out if he can do it. Celia tells him how far it is and which way.

‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’ he asks in disbelief.

‘Don’t you think you can make it?’ Celia challenges him.

‘All right, we’ll give it a try,’ Buz says finally.

Celia understands his psychology well enough to know that if she gives him a challenge he’ll try to prove he can do it. (Actually, this reminds me of Spock’s psychology.)

‘You’ve got a cane in your hand, Buz. Stick it out,’ Celia reminds him as he walks. ‘Remember, there’s a whole world waiting at the end of that cane. Buildings and people and cars and sidewalks and steps and holes in the ground all waiting to bump you and trip you.’

Buz does stick it out, but he’s awkward and uncertain at first. Then he seems to gain confidence, and stops bothering to feel so much with the cane.

Almost inevitably, there is a branch across the path. You have to half wonder if Celia had someone put it there deliberately, but I imagine not. Buz isn’t using his cane properly. It’s about a foot off the ground. He trips, and it’s a good, proper fall.

Celia reacts as she hears him fall, but she doesn’t go to him. She seems to voice Buz’s own frustration and anger. Is it because she’s frustrated that he’s got into trouble so soon, or because she’s feeling for him?

‘Pick yourself up!’ she shouts. ‘It’s no disgrace to fall. We all do it. Pick yourself up!’

Buz is angry and frustrated, and probably more than a little bit sore. He swipes at the ground with his cane. He looks mortified. I suppose he needs the falling as much as he needs the success, to prove to himself that he can get past these things.

(You can see in this scene that he’s still wearing his watch out of habit – and with the face on the underside of his wrist as always :-))

I love Barbara Barrie’s pose here – she looks like a dancer, standing with her arms out and her head on one side, listening.

Well done, Buz. He does pick himself up and carries on walking. He looks sore, physically and mentally, but he carries on, using the cane more sensibly this time, while Celia stands in the background like a ballerina on a music box, reminding him of the way.

Everyone’s reading!!

Again you can see Buz starting to feel that he’s really achieving something as he learns to read Braille. He seems to think that O comes after F in the alphabet, but we can forgive him that for being so pleased at himself as he feels over toward the end and says, ‘And this little baby here is X.’ This is more like the Buz we know and love. Also he’s looking very handsome in a tieless shirt and jacket.

I could watch his hands all day. True, they’re not as pretty as Spock’s hands, but they’re endearing and remind me of my husband’s – mostly in that it looks like he bites his nails. He manages to read the word ‘to’, which is a start.

Oh, the intimate atmosphere conjured by the fire at the side of this room. The only sound beside Celia’s talking is the spitting and cracking of the flames. You can almost feel the heat. Celia is showing Buz the tactile plan of the Camp, making for some lovely hand-based intimacy.

Buz looks content to just stand there with her touching hands and talking. Aww…

Celia starts to falter and draws her hands away. ‘I can’t concentrate today,’ she says. ‘Would you like to take a walk?’

The silence and the crackling fire and their hands in that close up shot, his large and hers tiny. So perfect and intimate.

‘Sure. I’m a little restless myself,’ Buz tells her. (This is code for, I know what you’re thinking, baby, and I’m thinking it too. You can tell that by his tone of voice and the subtle smile on his face.)

Yeah, I basically put this one in because I wanted to.

So they arrive at the amphitheatre. That’s clear across the camp. The previous shot that came in across the plan of the camp showed the amphitheatre at the far side before tracking across to them standing together, as if showing us their walk in reverse.

(I’m finding myself imagining the conversation Buz might have with Tod depending on how far he took the relationship with Celia. On the phone, Tod saying, ‘You want me to mail you what?’ and Buz saying, ‘Well, I can’t get out to buy them myself, see, and Celia and I – well – we really dig each other, and – ’ And Tod sighing and saying, ‘Okay, okay. I’ll mail some to you. I’ll wrap them up real good and mark them private. But just – be careful, won’t you? I mean, you don’t want to end up with any little Buzes or Buzettes running around.’)

Buz and Celia make their way up the steps/seats of the auditorium. I could watch this scene all day. It’s so nice to see how far he’s come. He helps Celia up the steps until they decide to sit.

There’s something rather romantic about them sitting here, elevated, in the empty seats that could seat a hundred people. No audience but themselves, no play to watch but their own lives, which is a drama in itself.

Buz sits there on the steps without speaking. He looks like he’s listening out to the sounds of birds and the wind in the trees.

‘You’re so silent,’ Celia says. ‘What are you remembering?’

Buz is caught up in thoughts.

‘A girl walking,’ he says. ‘Wheels turning.’ (He’s missing the Corvette, perhaps…) ‘Light. New snow, an old tree. Red, green, blue. Pink. Brown dirt.’ (I love the way he says pink, and then brown dirt as if he’s really imagining the stuff) ‘Freckles.’ (Tod’s?)

I like this eclectic mix. They seem like real things, things that fit with Buz’s life. It’s like a kind of poem.

Celia tells him how there are ‘special joys in this darkness.’ She’s teaching him how to see the world anew. Buz looks like he still needs a little convincing, but he takes it in. It’s bittersweet.

‘Can I – can I touch you?’ he asks. ‘I think I know how to look now.’

So he lifts his hands to her face and traces his fingers over her cheeks and eyebrows and nose and ears. This is so sweet and tender. No wonder she falls in love with him.

He’s not really trying to work out her face with his fingers any more. He’s cupping it in both hands, and we all know where that’s going.

‘The others have two eyes. We have ten,’ she tells him.

I’m amazed she can stay composed enough to speak. She has a little difficulty, but she gets it out.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Buz tells her. *melts* And then he kisses her.

And that’s where we leave them, sitting together in the auditorium, all alone, kissing. Sigh…

Next thing we know, it’s night (how long has passed, again?? I feel like this episode spans a long, unseen, amount of time.) and Celia is going to talk to Robinson. I so love his character. He’s so nice and steady and kind.

(Suddenly I’m thinking of Simon and Garfunkel singing Cecilia, and Mrs Robinson.)

Celia sits with Robinson on the bench to talk with him.

‘I think I – ought to tell you,’ she says, ‘that I’ve fallen in love with Buz Murdock. Not politely and formally in love but – head over heels, upside down in love.’

Poor Celia. This is so lovely. And I love the way Barbara Barrie acts this, completely in character, with a great deal of restraint and wistfulness and quiet tears. She asks if he thinks Buz should be assigned another instructor, but he doesn’t think so.

‘How does he feel about you?’ Robinson asks.

‘Well, he’s just begun to feel again about – anything,’ she says perceptively. But she has hopes…

The mirror scene to this is in Buz’s room, with Buz’s roommate Chet. There’s such a contrast between the intimacy of the scene between Celia and Robinson on the bench, in the dark private of outdoors at night, and the more unrestrained, bachelor-type interaction between Buz and Chet in the brightly lit room.

Buz is shining his shoes. It’s another step on the ladder to normal for him. He’s just in his room shining his shoes while his roommate listens to music. It could be any college anywhere. (Incidentally, Chet is listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, which is also what Buz chooses to play in Chuck Briner’s apartment in …And The Cat Jumped Over The Moon.)

‘I want to tell you something, but I don’t want you to get angry,’ Chet says. He obviously knows Buz enough to know that he can be a little volatile.

(He’s played by Dallas Mitchell, who was also in the Star Trek episode Charlie X, as Nellis.)

‘Go ahead, I’m listening,’ Buz replies.

‘Well, it’s if you didn’t know it, that Celia Monteiras is in love with you. That’s the message. Beginning, middle, and end. I thank you for your kind attention.’

Buz is completely stymied. He hadn’t been expecting that, and all the pressure that comes with those few words.

‘I don’t understand what your message means,’ he says.

‘Well, it means that somebody is in love with you,’ Chet says. ‘That raises the normal question, are you in love with somebody?’

‘What I feel and who I feel about is none of your business,’ Buz retorts.

His level of defensiveness and anger through this scene is interesting. I can’t help but feel that if he really didn’t care that much for Celia he’d be concerned for her, but not so angry. My interpretation (rose-tinted, perhaps) is that he does feel for her, more than he ever expected or wanted to, but that he also feels the pressure of adjusting to his blindness. He probably doesn’t think that a relationship between two blind people will ever be viable in the outside world. He isn’t far enough along to think that they could live independently, without relying on a sighted partner or friend.

Also, like Celia said, he’s just beginning to feel again about anything – or at least, he’s only just beginning to rediscover his true self. He probably feels that his own emotions are enough to deal with at the moment. This is all too much, too soon. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen when he finishes this training.

Chet tells him that this is a place where the blind protect the blind from every unnecessary hurt, which makes it his business. Poor Buz. I don’t feel that he’s the type to want his romantic relationships spread around everyone he lives with. I don’t feel that he wants to think of himself as ‘the blind.’

‘After she finds out that her feeling’s all one way, then where does she hide?’ Chet asks. ‘This is a small community. Now, where does she hide her hurt pride? Or do you plan to leave her any pride at all?’

Poor Buz…

Artsy screenshot as the scene changes. I thought it seemed fitting to Buz’s reflection on his feelings for Celia.

Buz and Celia are out in the grounds somewhere, sitting at a table. Buz’s distress is obvious to us, but perhaps not to Celia. She is listening to fish jump in the water nearby, alerting him to the noise and what it is – still being his instructor. When she touches his arm and he lifts his head you can see that he’s agonising over what to say to her.

Celia resumes (presumably) reading from the book in front of her. ‘For those who love live under private skies, where stars have mouths and even stones have eyes,’ she reads.

Poor Buz and his angst. He tells her that he’s leaving. I’d love to know more behind his thoughts here. I mean, he’s left women before. It’s never been this heart-rending for him. Is it because she’s blind? Or because he’s blind? Is he trying to protect her or himself? Is he afraid of falling too deep?

Celia knows straight away the reasons behind his leaving, no matter how much he protests it’s because he gets restless and it’s nothing to do with her. The excuse that he’s gone as far as he can go with his training is a pretty thin one.

‘My buddy, Tod, he’d carry me with him,’ he says. ‘I was thinking I’d go back east, to New York. I’ll find some place there.’

It’s interesting to imagine how this would play out, if he had actually done it.

Celia tells him she doesn’t believe him.

‘What do you want? That’s the way I am. That’s the way it is,’ he protests, starting to sound defensively angry. ‘Look, you made a mistake about me, that’s all. You’ll get over it.’

‘What kind of mistake?’ she asks.

‘Who I am and the kind of person that I am. I mean, you really don’t really know how you feel about me.’

(translation – he really doesn’t really know how he feels about her, either)

‘I love you,’ Celia says.

‘Look, Celia,’ Buz says desperately. ‘No, just don’t say that. It’s not right.’

‘It may not be right for you, but it’s right for me,’ she retorts.

Interesting choice of words, ‘It’s not right.’ There could be so many different interpretations. I think it’s partly because he doesn’t think a relationship between two blind people can be viable long term.

Celia pushes the Braille book into his hands and commands him to read.

‘There’s beauty and light and poetry in your hands. Read. … You can’t now. If you leave now you never will,’ she protests.

She urges him to stay, to get another instructor, she will stay away from him. He needs a year at the Camp before he’s properly rehabilitated. Again, my interpretation of this is that he needs to leave because if he stays he knows it is possible he will fall in love. Otherwise, why not stay and, as she says, stay out of her way, and have a new instructor? Why is he so intent on running?

Buz falters, talking of finding another school to go to, telling her again that it has nothing to do with her.

Desperate, pleading him not to lie, Celia gets up and runs from the table. Buz shouts at her not to run.

Buz gets up to follow. I’d like to get in his head now. I mean, knowing Buz, how he’s a guy who likes to act rather than sit back, he’s probably intensely frustrated now that he can’t just run straight after Celia and grab her. He stands up to follow her, and steps off the concrete that the bench is on, but he hesitates with his hand on the table.

Celia runs through the trees, a tiny figure in the largeness of her surroundings. I love the light on the tree trunks and on her – the black and white works beautifully for this scene. A moment later Buz realises he has to follow her. He overcomes his reluctance to leave the anchor of the table and goes after the sound of her running and falling.

It’s almost inevitable that she falls down a steep slope into water. Most of Route 66 seems to involve trying to get George Maharis to jump into water. I wouldn’t complain, except it was jumping into this water that led to his hepatitis. Celia falls in a wonderfully balletic way, though, pirouetting down the slope and falling like a rag doll into the freezing water at the bottom.

Buz runs through the trees too, hearing the splash of her falling. He’s got by the same sudden slope that caught her, and falls much less gracefully.

He swims straight towards her panicked splashing and grabs her, and tows her toward the shore. I can’t work out here whether he’s supposed to be able to see or not. I mean, I assume George Maharis isn’t wearing the contact lenses for this bit. He gets her back to the shore and out of the water very adeptly for someone who’s blind. I don’t know whether this is just poetic license, because he has to get her out somehow, or whether it’s that his sight actually comes back in the water, but he just doesn’t realise until he’s back on the shore.

So we enter another one of the beautiful, intimate scenes that this episode is so good at. Buz drags Celia into a little concrete alcove and turns her to him as if she is a child in need of comforting. He passes his hand over her face as if to reassure himself that she’s there.

There’s steam rising from his clothes. Apparently this is because it was so cold they were pouring hot water over him.

That moment of realisation. Have you noticed how different Buz’s face looks when he can see? Less – flat – or something.

He can’t believe his eyes – literally. As he realises he starts to sob.

I love this scene, from him pulling her into the alcove to the end. It’s just perfect, and oddly heart wrenching. And interesting that his crying at the start of the episode was always characterised by him putting his hands over his eyes. Now he is not.

She reaches out her hand as she hears him crying, and he realises and grabs it and rubs it to warm it. There’s such tenderness in this.

‘Don’t cry, baby. It’s all right,’ he tells her.

She is like a little child here, held in his arms, and it seems that all his feelings for her are spilling over.

‘I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you,’ she murmurs.

‘I never could have made it without you, baby,’ he cries. ‘I drew my strength from you.’

‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ she repeats as if it’s a litany.

‘How could you hurt me?’ he asks. ‘How could you hurt me because you loved me?’

She shushes him, and pleads, ‘Don’t cry.’

Damn, I wish they could carry on after this episode for a bit, instead of Buz getting back in that car and driving away. Is it wrong to wish his sight hadn’t come back just so they could be together? I think he might have reconsidered his feelings after this.

‘Don’t you understand?’ he sobs. ‘I’m crying because I can see.’

She seems too far gone from the shock and the cold to properly understand, to take in what he’s saying.

Oh my god, the acting here is just sublime. (sorry for gushing. But just watch it instead of reading this.)

‘Celia, I can see,’ he repeats. ‘I’m looking at you, and – the tears.’ And he touches her tears, and then his own. ‘Celia, I can – I can taste tears. I can – I can touch tears. But I’m crying – because I can see the tears that I’m crying.’

He keeps stroking her face and looking at this person that he’s so close to but has never seen before.

And he rests his head against hers, stroking her cheek and sobbing against her. Oh lord… *Anna dies of the adorableness*

So, perhaps this is the next day, perhaps more time has passed. Everyone’s lined up to say goodbye to Buz. It’s all very believable as he takes his leave of each one in turn. He tweaks his Braille instructor’s nose and calls him, ‘Baby.’

The way he says goodbye to his counsellor, you really feel that she meant a lot to him. He takes hold of her face gently in both hands and kisses her forehead.

And then there’s Frank Robinson. Have I said how much I love this guy? I won’t repeat myself…

‘Good luck, Buz,’ Mr Robinson tells him.

Celia is left for last, apart from the others, over by the car as if she no longer belongs to the camp. He straightens out her lapel in such a tender way, and she smiles. But they’re separated by the open car door. Conscious choice?

Tod is sitting in the car, looking awkward, as if he really feels they should be alone.

‘I guess we’ll see each other again,’ Buz says.

‘Well, I won’t be here,’ she tells him. ‘I passed my entrance exams, and I’m entering the University of Texas.’

Good for Celia! So she’s got a future too.

Buz seems pleased, but a little restrained. I wonder if it’s strange to him to think of her moving on as easily as he is.

‘I’ll see you there, then,’ he tells her. ‘And I’ll get to dance the first dance with you at your prom.’

(You see – he didn’t have to say that. He could have just said, best of luck, dear. Good bye. But no. He wants to see her again.)

‘I accept,’ she says. So we can look forward to this in their future. Maybe that’s where he disappears to later?

He takes her chin in his hand and kisses her. She is typically undemonstrative, but she smiles a little. And then he gets into the car… Oh…

He’s wiping tears from his eyes. Oh, Buz…

And as Tod drives him away he turns in his seat to watch her. The two suitcases and sleeping bags are together on the luggage rack again.

She’s left standing along with her hands in her pockets, while everyone else waves behind her. Such a sad image. Buz wipes his eyes again as the car pulls out, and finally turns to face the road.

As everyone goes their separate ways, she is left standing alone. After a long hesitation she says, ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ but there’s no one to hear.

I don’t like this last line – it seems a bit too clichéd to end on. But it’s a bit of hope, I suppose, mingled with poignancy.