CBS’ executives called a meeting to determine how best to solve the problem. They piled into the board room, holding their scotches and dry martinis. One man stood in the front of the room, casually swinging a golf club and looking at no one in particular.
“What are we going to do, boys?” he asked of no one in particular. Grumbling filled the room as each avoided sticking out his own neck. Finally, someone spoke up.
“Well... we do have that stupid island show. What was it called? 'Mulligan Island'?”
The suggestion sparked the interest of the golf-happy exec, who stopped swinging his club and looked the suggester dead in the eye. “Yeeees… let’s take a look at the pilot for that one,” he slyly suggested. “Have my secretary bring in the reel.”
In a matter of minutes, the group was subjected to a calypso-style theme song describing an inane premise. “Holy geez, screw this!” one of them yelled.
“Who composed this?” asked the boss as he walked over to the reel’s case, reading a name off of the side of it. He turned to his secretary. “Get me Johnny Williams. Now! And get me some vomit bags for the boys!”
Small groans evolved into full-on wailing as they continued to watch the pilot. Sweat poured down their faces and stained their white collars. A few begged for mercy; one passed out from the pain.
“This is terrible!” someone shouted.
“But we don’t have anything else to put in its place!” another countered. “Aaaaraaaaauughhh!”
The film ended, its terminus flapping around on the receiving reel. Everyone sat in shock. Finally, the boss hit the stop button. The secretary knocked on the door.
“A Mr. Williams, sir,” she said, cracking open the door.
“Ah, great. Have this reel destroyed,” he ordered. “Actually… hold on to that. Just bury it somewhere.” He greeted the composer with a warm handshake.
“So, Mr. Williams,” he said, looking him straight in the eye, “What the hell were you thinking?”
Johnny didn’t know how to respond. “What do you mean, sir?”
“It’s just that you’ve written the stupidest song of all time,” he countered in a booming voice. “How do you explain yourself?”
Johnny looked down into his hands, cowering slightly. He looked up into the executive’s eyes. “I was contracted by a Mr. Sherwood Schwartz, sir,” he said. “I was to give a quick back story on all the characters in this show to explain the premise so that they could get to the episode with no delay.”
“Ah, so I suppose that’s why these castaways just immediately started building huts and all kinds of silly rubbish, eh?”
“Yes, sir. They hired Bob Denver, that guy from ‘The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis.’ You know, the one with the goatee? Well, he’s supposed to play the title character, a dimwitted sidekick.”
“Ah, that makes perfect sense. To be juxtaposed with a dimwitted boat captain, a dimwitted millionaire couple, and some dimwitted secretaries?”
“And the professor!” someone yelled from the back of the room.
“Uh, I suppose so. Yes, sir,” Johnny sheepishly answered.
“I knew I recognized the guy,” the executive said. “We cancelled that piece of junk, and now we’re going to be filling the same slot with the same moron?” He lit a match and puffed on his cigar, looking up at the ceiling.
“Well, you tell this Mr. Schwartz, whoever he is, that we want his crummy show. There’s just going to be some changes.” Someone accidentally emitted a terrified shriek.
“Oh, Mr. Schwartz is highly respected!” the composer responded. “He’s written for Bob Hope, Ozzie and Harriet, Red Skelton—”
“Apes could write for Red Skelton!” the executive angrily shouted. “And we want a new theme song. Something that’ll be mercilessly stuck in your head for decades, not some calypso garbage like the thing you’ve composed. That’s how you sell a TV show!”
“Yes sir. I’ll have him contact you.”
A few weeks later, Schwartz had retooled his program, replaced some of the actors, and written a new theme song. Several introductory episodes were shot and edited just in time for his meeting with the hardened board of executives.
He took his first steps into the goliath CBS building and walked up to the secretary’s desk holding a stack of reels. “I’m here for the ‘Gilligan’s Island’ meeting,” he told her.
“Right this way!” she said, standing up and leading him to an elevator. “They’ve been expecting you,” she said, then turned and snorted a bit. Arriving at the top floor, she cracked open a large oak door and stuck her head in.
“Mr. Schwartz is here,” she announced. “You can go right in,” she said, and pulled the door wide open. He walked into a hazy room full of grizzled men staring at him with amusement and contempt. The executive set down his golf club and snuffed out his cigar.
“I hope this is good, Schwartzy,” the executive threatened. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Sherwood queued up the first reel and flipped the switch. Instantly, a completely new theme song filled the room. Its lyrics were punctuated by the sounds of someone gagging.
The executive stopped the reel at the end of the introductory credits. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Why do we need to fit the entire backstory into this silly theme song?”
Sherwood became defensive. “I don’t believe in exposition,” he said with confidence. “I would like each episode to begin with the viewer understanding the castaways’ predicament. We can accomplish this in just one minute at the beginning of the show.”
“Who wrote this?”
“Oh,” said the executive, caught off guard. “I thought you… looking at you, I would have expected that you’d have better taste.”
Sherwood gave him an angry scowl.
“I like this ‘And the rest’ thing at the end, though. Viewers want to watch this Denver guy, the captain guy, the cranky millionaires, and that hot bimbo. No one’s going to care about the rest of those jerks. Good job.”
He flipped the switch to start up the reel again. The episode played for hardly more than five minutes before a board member fled the room, shouting “I can’t take it!” Several utilized their barf bags.
As the reel ended, the executive looked at Sherwood and flipped the room lights back on. He clapped once. Then again. Then again, slowly increasing the tempo of his clapping. Everyone else joined him until the room erupted into all-out applause.
As it ended, Sherwood couldn’t hide his confusion. “Hey, I thought you hated it? One guy ran out of the room crying, and some of you threw up. This guy was stabbing into the table between his fingers with a pocketknife.”
“Let me tell you something, Schwartz,” the executive began. “In all my years in television, I’ve never seen someone create a program so bad and still win a prime-time slot. Congratulations.”
Sherwood didn’t know what to make of this.
“You see, we’re screwed, my boy. It’s either run your program or air something old and stale. We’d rather keep the time slot warm until next season when we can show something that isn’t more irritating than a cold toilet seat in the middle of a hurricane.”
“Uh… thanks?” Sherwood said. “So you want the whole season, then?”
“Don’t have any other choice. But we’re filming it all on low-quality stock, black and white. None of this fancy color crap. If it’s going to be a stupid empty island, might as well not be modern. But you only get one season!”
Sherwood shook some hands and left the room, off to tell his staff the great news. One season meant 36 episodes! They were going to make a lot of money.
The knock on the executive’s door nearly caused his golf club to go flying out the window. “What is it?” he angrily shouted while biting down on his cigar.
“A Mr. Denver is here to see you,” the secretary said.
“Denver… Denver… where have I heard that name before?” he pondered. “Send him in.”
Bob Denver walked into the room.
“Mulligan!” the executive shouted. “Nice to see you. Here to resign?”
Bob didn’t seem too amused. “No, I’m here to talk to you about the theme song. Have you guys got a few minutes?”
“Yes, yes, it’s terrible. Sit down,” the executive offered. “I told that no good Schwartz not to write that dumb song himself. I mean, it’s catchy. Gets stuck in your head. Drills itself way down in there and makes a nest. But geez-o-pete, could it be any stupider?”
“Oh, it’s not that. I quite like the song,” Bob replied, “It’s just that Dawn and Russell’s characters aren’t in the lyrics.”
“What do you mean? Oh, you’re talking about the rest of those jerks,” he replied. “Who cares?”
“It’s just that it’s only two names. I feel like we can make this work. Instead of saying ‘And the rest,’ why don’t we say ‘Professor and Mary Ann’?” he suggested, singing the notes.
Everyone in the room burst into laughter. Their screaming cackles drowned out Bob’s voice as he angrily looked around the room and tried to further defend his case. After a few minutes, the hysterics died down enough for Bob to continue.
“I’m serious, you guys. Dawn and Russell deserve the respect.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” the executive shot back at him. “We’d have to reshoot the entire introduction, which would cost way too much. And the season’s about to end, anyway. Yep, your little show is about to be cancelled.”
“Why would you do that?” Bob cried.
“Because it’s a turd on television,” he said, giving him a big thumbs-down and making a loud flatulence noise with his mouth. “It’s only there to keep the night’s programming moving along.”
“Even though it’s hugely popular?”
Again, the room burst into incredible laughter. “It’s hugely popular!” someone mocked in a high-pitched voice over the roar of shrieking and chortling.
“No, really!” Bob shouted. “Check the ratings.”
The secretary was called in with the week’s ratings. “Yep,” she confirmed, “It looks like this show’s a hit—in all demographics.”
Everyone in the room sat in stunned silence, motionless, their jaws hanging open. Someone suddenly puked under the table.
“So this thing’s bringing in some money, eh?” the executive said. “Well, we’re not going to waste more of it by re-shooting a scene just to add in the names of two fictitious dingbats.”
“Oh, yes you are!” Bob replied.
The executive walked up to Bob and stood right in his face, any trace of amusement completely vacant. “And why’s that, buddy?”
Bob opened up the envelope he was carrying and pulled out a stack of papers, spreading them on the table. His finger landed on a specific line. “See that?” he asked.
Everyone crowded around to look. It was his contract with the show, and it stated that Denver could choose to have his named placed anywhere he liked in the credits.
“That’s right. I can force you to re-shoot the credits,” he threatened. “So you might as well do what I’m asking and add in their characters’ names.”
The executive stepped back and looked at the scrawny actor. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Did that no good farm girl put you up to this?”
“No, actually,” Bob replied. “And I don’t plan on ever telling them.”
And so a new season began—in color—with the new theme song.
For two entire seasons, the castaways endured hardships and experienced great adventures. Another 62 episodes made their way to television. The entire production crew hated it. The critics hated it. But for some reason, the general public just fell in love with Gilligan and his band of hopeless acquaintances.
Then, in the summer of ’67, Sherwood Schwartz made his way back to the CBS building, clutching a briefcase and stacks of loose papers falling to the ground. “Here for the ‘Gilligan’s Island’ meeting!” he shouted, bursting through the front door of the CBS building.
He ran into the meeting room and slammed his briefcase down on the table. “Glad to see you all, glad to see you. I’ve got some great ideas for the upcoming season,” he said. “A Skipper lookalike appears on the island in this episode, and in these two we have elaborate dream sequences that involve—”
“Not gonna happen!” the executive screamed in his face in a sing-song voice. He then strolled back to the front of the room and lit up his cigar, puffing it and blowing smoke up into the ceiling of the room.
“What do you mean?” Sherwood asked. “Ok, if you don’t like those ideas, I’ve got a great one where the gang builds a cannon out of—”
“Stop, stop, stop,” the executive said. “We’re canceling your show.”
“What? Right now?”
“Yeah. It’s done, buddy. We’re moving ‘Gunsmoke’ to your time slot. So deal with it.”
“What? Why would you do that?” a shocked Sherwood inquired.
“‘Cause President Paley and his wife Babe want it that way. The show’s getting terrible ratings running so late on a Monday night, so we’re pushing it back to your 7:30 slot.”
“Couldn’t you put ‘Gillilgan’s Island’ on later? I mean, they haven’t even been rescued yet!”
“Nah, screw those idiots. No one likes them anyway.” He picked up his golf club and began to swing it, looking several hundred yards through the wall. “We’ll just send out a press release saying they all died or something.”
“They starved to death!” someone shouted.
“They were murdered by natives!”
“They all got really bad syphilis!”
“Yes, yes, any of those would do. Draft that up, Schwartzy.”
Sherwood looked around the room in horror. “No!” he screamed. “No!!!”
He shoved his way out of the large oak door. “No!!!” he shouted, running to the stair well and bursting through the door, stumbling down the steps. He wailed in horror as he descended floor after floor, screaming in disbelief.
“NOOOO!!!!!” he shrieked as he ran through the lobby, shocking everyone that watched him screaming and running at full speed, ramming into the front door of the building. The sounds of squealing tires echoed from outside the doors as the maddened writer ran off into the distance.
Sherwood Schwartz went on to produce and write the theme song for The Brady Bunch.
Johnny Williams dropped the “ny” and composed for film, writing the scores for E.T., Jurassic Park, and dozens of other movies.
Bob Denver was arrested for marijuana possession in 1998 after Dawn Wells allegedly mailed a large box of the contraband to his home.
This story is factual to the best of my knowledge and is therefore proclaimed as “true.” Any embellishments are added purely for satirical purposes. This story used the following references with the purpose of being as accurate as possible:
Shales, Tom. "Hey, little buddy! 'Gilligan' DVD drifts into port". The Washington Post, February 8, 2004, page N1.
Stevens, Dana. "Gilligan's Dreams"Stoddard, Sylvia. "TV Treasures – A Companion Guide to Gilligan's Island". St Martin's Paperbacks, 1996.