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We refer to him by different names—Lucifer, Mephistopheles, Beelzebub—but by any other name, he'd smell of brimstone. These, the ingredients to a one-man stew: a disc jockey, a radio show, and a painting we call "The Flip-Side of Satan."
And joining the roster of condemned disc jockeys on the walls at KAPH is yet another photograph—that of J. J. Wilson.
Ironically, Mickey Rooney was originally approached for the lead role in "The Flip-Side of Satan," another tale of an amoral jockey—this time a radio disc jockey named J. J. Wilson. Reportedly, Rooney had difficulty memorizing the extensive dialogue and wasn't terribly fond of the part, so Arte Johnson stepped in to essay the role. At the time, Johnson was riding a tremendous wave of popularity stemming from his status as an ensemble cast member of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In (which, in 1971, was a pop-culture phenomenon). In the same year, Night Gallery producer Jack Laird hired two other cast members from Laugh-In, Jo Anne Worley ("House—With Ghost") and Ruth Buzzi ("Witches' Feast"). While primarily regarded as a comic performer, Johnson was no stranger to drama, having appeared in Ben Hecht's Miracle in the Rain (1956), The Subterraneans (1960), The Third Day (1965), and P. J. (1968). Johnson approached this role with relish and enthusiasm, having been given the opportunity to break out of his comic mold. "It was off the beaten track for me," he recalls. "I was coming from a TV show that was all comedy; people thought of me as a sketch performer and that I could not sustain a character. That's the logic of the business."
"The Flip-Side of Satan" had a strange and circuitous genesis. The script is credited to Night Gallery story editor Gerald Sanford and freelancer Malcolm Marmorstein, supposedly based on a short story by Hal Dresner. In actuality, Dresner had written a comedy screenplay for his friend Tony Randall featuring the character of J. J. Wilson in 1969. The project never got off the ground due to Randall's commitment to his new television series, The Odd Couple. In 1971, Jack Laird bought the rights to Dresner's script, farmed out the concept to Marmorstein and Sanford, and the character of J. J. Wilson suddenly metamorphosed into a self-centered cad holding a first-class ticket to Hell. In 1985, the television series Tales from the Darkside offered their own twist on this episode, titled "The Devil's Advocate." Jerry Stiller starred as an acerbic overnight radio talk show host (again, a one-man show), who begins to transform slowly into a Satanic beast with the passing of each hour. Night Gallery composer Gil Mellé composed the satanic AM tunes for this episode. Jerrold Freedman ("Marmalade Wine") directed. All in all, a nasty little tale from one of the darker corners of the Night Gallery. NIGHT GALLERY #34303 To
read more about this episode and the making of Rod Serling's Night Gallery,
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East coast disc jockey J. J. Wilson hits the airwaves at his new job: the midnight-to-six shift at KAPH, a tiny five
thousand-watt radio station in the middle of nowhere. The station is deserted, and a note in the broadcasting booth directs
him to play only the records on the playlist—no variations. When he drops the needle on the first platter, a funeral dirge
for organ greets his disbelieving ears. Disgusted, Wilson dials up his agent, Sid, to complain, but the conversation quickly
turns to Emily, Sid's late wife, who committed suicide after some sort of emotional breakdown. Sid's suspicions about
Wilson's possible involvement with Emily leave the oily deejay scrambling to counter the accusations. It was pure
coincidence, Wilson claims, that Emily was away on the same weekends that he was off fishing with Bert Fox.
After cueing up the second, equally unpleasant platter, Wilson calls Bert Fox and presses him to cover for those weekend
trysts with Emily. "I just don't like hurting people, Bert, you know that," smirks Wilson. "Besides, Sidney's been like a
father to me. I like to think I kept Emily from doing what she was destined to do much sooner." Hanging up the receiver,
Wilson notices as he turns up the volume that record number two has a spoken narration—sounding much like his own voice.
Some sort of Satanic ritual from the sound of it. Wilson cuts off the music, explaining to his listeners about how the boss
jocks at the station must be ribbing the new guy. Pulling one of his own LPs out of his briefcase, Wilson cues it up—and
from the grooves comes the incantatory voice he heard on the previous record: "Oh, Lucifer, the condemned has entered into
the crucible from which there is no escape...." To his further shock, Wilson finds he is trapped in the broadcasting
booth; the telephone's outside line is now dead; and beneath the photos of the past deejays for KAPH lining the studio
walls, the listed dates for their tenure lasted no longer than a day! "The Prince of Darkness will receive the condemned,"
intones the recorded voice as Wilson, frantically scrambling to shut down the station, reaches for the power switch—and is
grounded, rigid, to the floor as thousands of amps of electric current arc through his body.
Night Gallery's only presentation of a one-man show, "The Flip-Side of Satan" could be viewed as Gallery's horror equivalent
to The Twilight Zone's "Last Night of a Jockey," which featured a solo performance by Mickey Rooney as a crooked jockey with
the misguided belief that excessive height would return to him the honor and self-respect he had relinquished.
The unusual structure of the play and the spare, claustrophobic surroundings of an antiquated, run-down radio studio left
quite an impression on the diminutive performer. "It was an incredible experience," marvels Johnson. "It was very
difficult—you know, one person in the show. There was only me and it was pretty overwhelming. I remember this episode
because it was so eerie—it was scary! I was locked in a very small area doing a soliloquy, and it was a very odd situation.
This was not my first dramatic role, so this was not innovative in that sense of the matter. But it was a very good, solid
piece of material."