L’il Abner and Political Correctness

Originally published June 25, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1336

When I was nine or ten years old, something like that, my dad—who was a reporter at the time—did a lot of reviews of local theater. Road companies and such like came through places in North Jersey, and if there was something that my father thought would be appropriate for me (and presumably if my mother wasn’t interested) then he’d bring me along.

Knowing how much I was into comics, it seemed a natural fit as far as my dad was concerned when the musical Li’l Abner rolled into town.

I have no recollection of who was in it at the time. I don’t even remember most of what I saw of the show that evening (most of my familiarity comes from the film version). But what I do remember is that on the ride home, my father kept singing the show’s big song, “Jubilation T. Cornpone,” a hymn sung by the denizens of hillbilly town Dogpatch, U.S.A., to the memory of the man who founded the town—a Confederate officer with a stupendously hideous track record whose battles had such names as “Cornpone’s Misjudgment,” “Cornpone’s Catastrophe,” and “Cornpone’s Humiliation.”

I’ve no clue why my dad thought this was one of the catchiest songs he’d ever heard, but all I know is that the whole ride back, he was singing it or humming it or drumming on the dashboard. We’d gone to any number of shows together and I’d never seen him get that into a song.

Not too long after, I got the record out of the library (quite the little spendthrift I was) and I memorized the song—and most other of the songs sung by the character of “Marryin’ Sam” (Stubby Kaye on Broadway and in the film; Kaye’s rendition of the part was one of those that tended to cast a long shadow and informed others who might essay it, much like—say—most anyone who does Tevye is echoing Zero Mostel to some degree). I found that, even at a young age, the songs were within my vocal range.

I wanted to play the part. I was sure I could handle it. It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seen a role on stage and said, “I want to do that.” Unfortunately, there wasn’t a tremendous amount of call for ten-year-old Marryin’ Sams. Furthermore, unlike apparently everyone else’s junior high or high school, no school I ever attended mounted a production of Li’l Abner. The closest I ever came was at a Heroes Convention in Charlotte where I did a spontaneous duet of “The Country’s in the Very Best of Hands” with George Perez, who has a community theater track record and played Abner some years back.

So a few months ago, I was out to dinner with some folks from the Bayway Arts Center (including one of the owners) in Long Island, where I was in a production of 1776. Understand, I’ve had no hobbies for as long as I can remember. There was family, work, the occasional movie—and that was it, that was my life. So lately I’d been dabbling in community theater, and this production of 1776 was a nice bit of wish fulfillment, even though my role was a fairly small one.

So there we were, out at dinner, and we were talking about parts we’d like to play. And I said, “My dream part is Marryin’ Sam. But nobody ever performs Li’l Abner anymore.” And the owner, Jerry, said, “Actually, we’re doing it during the summer.” My eyes lit up (it was really cool, except for the moths that were attracted). I kept a careful eye on Newsday‘s casting call notices and, when auditions came up for the show months later, I was there. I figured I didn’t have a shot, because I’d never played anything larger than a small supporting role in my life, and Sam is basically the second male lead. He’s got as many songs as Abner. But I had to try.

On Wednesday, I was called by the director and offered the role I’d wanted to play for over three decades. Not only that, but my 14-year-old daughter, Gwen, was cast in the ensemble as “Scarlett,” the Dogpatch gal to whom Sam actually sings “Cornpone.” Twenty years from now, I want her to be able to look back fondly on that summer of 1999 when she was in a show with her dad. It runs at Bayway Arts Center during July, and Malloy College Theater through August.

When I got the role, I went to my local, very well stocked comic book store and picked up a copy of the Li’l Abner trade edition, volume 18—the one in which Abner and the long-suffering, long-pursuing Daisy Mae “get hitched.” The sequence in the comics bears zero resemblance to the way it was done in the show, but it’s classic and brilliant Al Capp, back before the series devolved into the bile and bitterness that would come to characterize not only the strip, but its creator.

What I found interesting in reading the volume, however, was Capp’s “intro,” actually a reprint of an article he wrote for Life Magazine in 1952, in which he explains just why he decided to marry off his hero after Abner’s many successful dodgings of matrimony. The marriage was a major event in its day, as big—if not bigger—than the wedding of Clark and Lois. In the article, Capp explains why he decided to tie down his perennial bachelor after eighteen years of fruitless pursuit by Daisy Mae (and other assorted females). It’s rather astounding to read now, because Capp puts his finger on a problem which, at the time, had no name. Capp wrote, in part:

My kind of comic strip finds its fun wherever there is lunacy, and American life is rich in lunacy everywhere you look… For the first 14 years I reveled in the freedom to laugh at America. But now America has changed. The humorist feels the change more, perhaps, than anyone. Now there are things about America we can’t kid.

I realized it first when four years ago I created the Shmoo. It was a totally boneless and wildly affectionate little animal which, when broiled, came out steak, and, when fried, tasted like chicken. …Mainly the response to the Shmoo was delight. But there were also some disturbing letters. Some writers wanted to know what was the idea of kidding big business, by creating the Shmoo (which had become big business). Other writers wanted to know what was the idea of criticizing labor, by creating the Shmoo (which made labor unnecessary).

It was disturbing, but I didn’t let it bother me too much. Then a year later, I created the Kigmy, an animal that loved to be kicked around, thus making it unnecessary for people to kick each other around. This time a lot more letters came. Their tone was angrier, more suspicious. They asked the craziest questions, like: was I, in creating the Kigmy, trying to create pacifism and thus, secretly, nonresistance to Communism? Were the Kigmy kickers secretly the big bosses kicking the workers around? Were the Kigmy kickers secretly the labor unions kicking capital around? And finally, what in hëll was the idea of creating the Kigmy anyhow, because it implied some criticism of some kinds of Americans and any criticism of anything American was (now) un-American. I was astounded to find it had become unpopular to laugh at any fellow Americans…

So that was when I decided to go back to fairy tales until the atmosphere is gone. That is the real reason why Li’l Abner married Daisy Mae. At least for the time being, I can’t create anymore Shmoos, any more Kigmies; and when Senator Phogbound turns up now, I have to explain carefully that, heavens-to-Betsy, goodness-no, he’s not typical; nobody like THAT ever holds public office.

Yes, that’s right: Al Capp was among the first to identify, react to, and feel stifled by something that we have only recent assigned a name to: political correctness. We seem to be under the impression that it is a relatively recent phenomenon, but apparently nothing could be more wrong. Capp pegged it as a problem more than four decades ago, and PC attitudes colored and shaped the futures of Li’l Abner, Daisy Mae, and the other denizens of Dogpatch. Granted, Capp was under no obligation to “give in,” as it were. Perhaps he should have stuck to his guns and not pursued a storyline that he felt was sufficiently PC to pass muster. Perhaps his waiting “until the atmosphere was gone” was one of the contributing factors that made him and his strip as relentlessly unpleasant as it eventually became.

Because not only did the atmosphere never go away, but it became worse and worse. On the one hand I always felt that Daisy and Abner belonged together, but on the other, I wonder what the strip would have been like if Capp hadn’t knuckled under to perceived pressure. What sort of stories would have been told, what characters created, if Capp had had his druthers. Obviously, we’ll never know.

Li’L Abner may set some sort of record as the earliest victim of the politically correct.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. C’mon by and see the show.)