Fatal Fridays and Father Figures

The death of Canadian actor Chris Wiggins last month, “from complications due to Alzheimer's disease,” went largely unnoticed by the press, the internet, and, near as I can see, the whole goddamn planet. Even I, a fairly devoted fan, did not hear the news until almost a month after the fact. Wiggins had a very long career which spanned radio, television and film, but like many so-called “character actors” he never broke through to the level of notoriety where people recognized him by name. By face, perhaps, and even more often by voice, for Wiggins had one of those deep, dusty, manly-yet-professorial voices which tend to stick pleasantly in your memory; but when he died, there was little in the way of general recognition, much less public mourning. I find this especially hard to swallow, since Wiggins was, in my mind, both a key part of one of the crucial television shows of the modern era, and a template – maybe the template – for the warm-hearted, all-knowing father figure who is so vital to storytelling.

From 1987 until 1990, Wiggins portrayed the character of Jack Marshak on FRIDAY THE 13TH: THE SERIES. The title of this not-very-well-remembered show is the source of endless confusion and contributes greatly to the afformentioned fact, which is that it is nowhere near as recognized as it deserves to be. To compress the story into a few words: in the 1980s, the “Jason Voorhees” Friday the 13th film franchise raked in enormities of money for Paramount Pictures, and the powers-that-be there decided to cash in further on the popularity of the name by spawning a television series which made use of it. The executive producer of the film series, Frank Mancuso Jr., had zero interest in carrying the Jason character into television, but he was informed that what was needed was the name, not the hockey-masked villain: he was granted carte blanche and told he could create “anything he wanted,” so long as it was scary and called FRIDAY THE 13TH. This cynical ploy to kick more candy out of the bloody Friday pinata should have failed miserably, for seldom has a show been created with more nakedly dubious and exploitative motives. But as is so often the case in Hollywood, it's the happy accident that ends up making the painting. Free from studio interference, Mancuso and his writing staff came up with a devilishly delicious concept whose influence can be felt to this very hour.

The history of “horror television shows” is long and distinguished, and goes back many decades, far beyond the scope of this particular piece: FRIDAY'S CURSE did not invent, nor did it perfect, horror television, and it clearly had its own progenitors, such as KOLCHAK: THE NIGHT STALKER and perhaps even THE TWILIGHT ZONE. However, the series' influence, conscious or unconscious, on those that followed, cannot credibly be denied. THE X-FILES had a similar three-person dynamic (Mulder, Scully and Skinner as the crusty, disapproving, but ultimately protective “Dad”) and a similar supernatural-horror theme. FOREVER KNIGHT, though different in conception, used the same composer (Fred Mollin), the same city (Toronto), and many of the same directors and actors in guest roles, while retaining the horror atmosphere and moral complexity involved in fighting evil with what was not always purely “good.” BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER pitted an even tighter family unit, “fathered” by a character very similar to Marshak, against armies of bump-in-the-night monsters, and occasionally touched on the same themes (witness the episode “Lie To Me,” written and directed by Joss Whedon, about a boy dying of cancer who contrives to sell out his friends in order to achieve immortality). Other shows, such as ANGEL, FRINGE, SUPERNATURAL, etc. show the clear stamp of these influences as well. The fact that FRIDAY is not granted more social cachet among fans of horror TV seems largely to the fact that it went off the air before the Internet could make it famous.

The idea behind FRIDAY THE 13TH: THE SERIES, which, to avoid confusion, I will henceforth call by its Canadian handle of FRIDAY'S CURSE, was this: a wicked old man named Lewis Vendredi made a pact with the devil, to wit, in return for wealth and immortality he would peddle cursed antiques to unsuspecting customers. When Vendredi, in a moment of guilt, renounced the pact, he was sucked into hell, leaving his store and its bulging inventory of accursed objects in the hands of two unsuspecting cousins, Micki Ryan (Louise Robey) and Ryan Dallion (John D. LeMay), who had never met. Only when they met the mysterious Jack Marshak (Chris Wiggins), a former friend of Vendredi's who has only just realized his part in spreading the cursed items throughout the world, do they grasp what they have inherited – and what they have been selling to the hapless public out of the store now named Curious Goods. The three characters promptly pledge themselves to recovering all the items, which, being magical, cannot be destroyed, and must therefore he stored in a special vault beneath the antique store. Of course, this is much easier said than done. The curses vary according to the item, and possess different degrees of nastiness and irony, not to mention owners with different degrees of motivation to keep them. In many cases the owners are benefiting, or think they are benefiting, from use of the items, which makes things even more difficult. Our characters, quickly tightening into a family unit, are spared nothing by the righteousness of their cause: whether trying to recover a china doll that slits throats or a wood-chipper that spits out money in accordance with the net worth of the victim thrown into it, whether laying hands on a radio that predicts murder or a glove that both cures and spreads fatal disease, they are constantly in danger, losing friends and loved ones to the diabolical items, and questioning their will to continue.

FRIDAY'S CURSE was a horror show pure and simple, televised in a late time slot and meant, quite literally, to "produce the effect of girlfriends jumping into boyfriends' laps." And indeed, it was a remarkably gruesome show for its time – there are things they got away with that would probably not escape the prime-time sensors even today, in this era of nearly unlimited license (at the end of the episode “Hate On Your Dial,” for example, the Ku Klux Klan burns several men at the stake, a horror shown in graphic detail). The overriding theme, however – what made it special, what makes it rise above the now-hokey conventions of the 1980s and a relatively modest budget – was not its capacity to frighten or gross-out the viewer but rather the deeply philosophical and gritty view it took of the struggle between good and evil. Though the villains of FRIDAY'S CURSE were frequently of the mustache-twirling, tie-you-to-the-railroad-tracks-and-cackle variety, they were also, on many occasions, just ordinary people who tried to use cursed items to achieve noble or at least understandable ends, such as saving a dying loved one, curing themselves of illness or debility, or obtaining desperately-needed wealth. Sometimes the plots could be downright Byzantine in terms of trying to figure out who the bad guy really was. In “The Shaman's Apprentice,” for example, a First Nations (what we would call Native American) doctor, the subject of racist bullying at his hospital, obtains a cursed gourd which allows him to cure terminal patients in exchange for killing those in his life who have tormented him and frustrated his career. In “Crippled Inside,” a girl who ended up paralyzed after an attempted gang rape is granted increasing mobility with every one of the would-be rapists whom she tracks down and kills. In “The Playhouse,” two abused and neglected children find their only refuge in a fantasy domain which exacts a terrible price for its pleasures. And in the terrifying and deeply disturbing “Better Off Dead,” a doctor murders prostitutes to “feed” a cursed syringe which temporarily cures his daughter of her violent insanity. In many cases there is at least some sense of understanding, if not necessarily sympathy, between the audience and the antagonist – often to the point where our protagonists, by taking away the cursed toys, seem to be nearly equally at fault.

I use the word “protagonists” specifically, for as I mentioned above, the characters of FRIDAY'S CURSE, while heroic in spirit, are often conflicted in their motives and confused in their actions. Unlike so many television programs which return their cast to status quo ante at the beginning of each episode, never showing the weathering effects of their adventures, Micki, Ryan and Jack each go through periods of bitterness, doubt and self-pity over the perils of their mission and the seeming hopelessness of their quest. Each, having suffered a personal loss because of their war with Satan, or seeing the opportunity to grasp happiness for themselves, makes plans to quit the group, only to be pulled, Mafia-style, back into the life. They are, of course, the “good” in the show's “good versus evil” contest, but their good of a more-or-less realistic type. It suffers fatigue. It trembles at the knees. It wakes up at three in the morning wondering if today is the final Friday. And this is where Chris Wiggins really came to the fore, both as an actor and as the character of Jack Marshak.

The word “gravitas” is often thrown around by movie-reviewers when trying to find the right word for that type of charismatic solemnity and gravity – that fatherly strength, that commanding officer's dignity – which makes us look to a particular man for leadership and wisdom in times of stress, tension or trial. Of course women can possess this gravitas too; Dame Judith Dench's performance as Q in the James Bond series carries the same weight, if not more, than some of her male predecessors brought to the role; but I am speaking here not of leadership per se, but masculinity in its paternal hat, the Dad-presence. This is what Wiggins brought to the table as Jack, what elevated the weaker and more shoddily-written episodes to the watchable plane, and made the best of them (“Night Prey,” “Faith Healer,” “The Maestro,” etc.) so hauntingly memorable. Some of it had to do with Wiggins' bearish physiognomy: he was big, bald, bearded, and (as I have mentioned), possessing of both a powerful, mellifluous voice and a presence that was both imposing and comforting. More of it had to do with his acting ability. On a show in which two of the three principle actors were relative novices and sometimes showed it in the early going, Wiggins was the seasoned professional, the crusty old veteran who knew all the angles, gave guidance when guidance was needed, and tackled the most difficult dialogue with skill and aplomb. Indeed, he had that particular gift of being able to deliver pretentious, unrealistic, melodramatic lines in such a manner that seemed at the very least unobtrusive, if not artistic. He also had a properly banal catchphrase, most often uttered with a shrug, when the outcome of a story was unsatisfying or depressing to our protagonists: “We do the best we can.” Jack Marshak was a character written to understand that while evil may be midnight-black in complexion, good – the realization is commonplace, but necessary – is often a muddy and depressing gray, a series of compromises woven around the sullen necessity of an unhappy ending.

In my own lifetime, I have occasionally encountered these wonderful father figure types on television (and I do not mean in the contrived ways that situation comedies normally deliver them – as paragons of virtue). The first time I remember any feeling in this direction was probably Lorne Greene's flared-nostril portrayal of Commander Adama in the original BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, but he was rather too perfect to be believable, even if Greene did combine delightful combination of Rushmore-like seriousness with a gentleness that was often touching to witness. No, it wasn't until I witnessed Harry Morgan as the feisty, country-wise Col. Potter on M*A*S*H, that I realized the almost mystical attraction this sort of actor-character had upon me. Later there was Patrick Stewart as Capt. Jean-Luc Picard on STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION, and Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles on BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER; but Wiggins had, in a sense, the toughest row to hoe. He lacked the military authority of an Adama, Potter or Picard, and he was not advantaged, as Giles was, by the fact his charge was a fatherless teenage girl and therefore all the more receptive to a Dad-presence. What's more, his share of the physical danger was equal to his “children” Micki and Ryan (and later, after Ryan's departure, Johnny Ventura) but, being older and heavier and grayer, he was less well-equipped to meet it. He had no fleet of Vipers to enforce his will, no soldiers or Starfleet officers under his command, no teenage superhero to put iron in his velvet glove. He had only his varied life experiences, his knowledge of mysticism, and his sense of personal honor. Somehow this made him at once less formidable and more approachable – again, more like a real father, whose weaknesses and flaws are laid bare by the worrying effect of life itself.

My maternal grandfather died before I was born. My paternal grandfather I scarcely knew. My own dad passed away when I was twenty-one. I never met Chris Wiggins, and now I never will, but in my affection for the character of Marshak I can feel now -- yes, even now, as a middle-aged man -- the longing (oh! what longing!) for the Dad-presence that never, ever seems to leave us, and in some ways only intensifies as we get older. I find it all the more fascinating that Wiggins himself, though long married, had no children. The Dad-presence, it seems, radiates outward from some of us so strongly that we need not intone the cant to precipitate the response.

In 2014, a blogger named Alyse Wax released a book about FRIDAY'S CURSE called Curious Goods, in which she interviewed just about every living person who had anything to do with the production of the show; unfortunately Mr. Wiggins was by then too ill to participate, a fact I found extremely disappointing.
However, the warmth with which he was remembered by his co-workers, the sage advice he gave that they still recalled over what is now a depressingly large gulf of years, told me that my affection for him as a human being, rather than merely as a character or an actor, was not misplaced. Louise Robey perhaps said it best when she recalled to Miss Wax an incident which occurred in the immediate aftermath of the show's cancellation in 1990 -- not because of ratings, but because as in the case of the original DR. WHO, the series fell afoul of an activist group "concerned" with its "demonic content." Wiggins turned to her and said, "Well, my dear, you've passed your apprenticeship."

Well, to the shade of Chris Wiggins, all I can say is: So have you, my friend. So have you.