TV Database The Twilight Zone (1959)

As a Singaporean Chinese, I was never really into westerns, or period dramas for that matter, not even Singaporean period dramas or wuxia films. I was always more of a sci-fi or horror guy. That said, I could understand the infuriation that comes from working with a diva actor. The obvious real life stand-in for Rance McGrew (Larry Blyden) here that I could think of is Marlon Brando, but yellow-bellied and probably a lot more obnoxious. There are also plenty of modern actors and actresses today punching down or dismissing the inaccuracies of the thing they're portraying, but most of the examples I could think of were related to portrayals of fictional characters like Ariel and Snow White, not a real life person like Jesse James.

That being said, I think that creative liberties are certainly allowed when it comes to the free expression of fiction. It's obnoxious when you do it for an agenda or profit, sure, but that's the price of that sweet American freedom yall love celebrating about. It's amusing then to think that a supernatural entity would rise up from the grave to correct this technicality, and I'm sure western fans were delighted to see a ghost of Jesse James restore the honor done to his legacy, but for me, it was a middling take that's only somewhat amusing, not even a chuckle or a giggle, but more a "Eh" like I'm Larry David.

I guess it's also because of how weightless the story is. The legacy of westerns and cowboys isn't exactly that much worth protecting anyway, especially when you consider some of the atrocities associated with Americana mythologizing and Manifest Destiny delusions. It'd be another thing if this was Pocahontas' ghost coming back to haunt the set of the animators at Walt Disney though. YIKES.

Woody: "I don't have a choice, Buzz. This is my only chance."
Buzz: "To do what, Woody? Watch kids from behind glass and never be loved again? Some life."

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"I'm too tired to listen
I'm too old to believe
All these childish stories
There is no such thing as faith and trust and pixie dust"
- Jonatha Brooke, I'll Try

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I didn't have much of a childhood. It's usually filled with bullying and surviving school or my Asian parents' physical discipline that left emotional scars. I did play with the other kids, but because of my lack of social skills, I'd eventually end up a loner. So it makes sense that as I grew older, when I was finally free as an adult, I'd try to recapture that missed period of my life, arrested development if you will, whether it's building a sandcastle in my 30s or just revisiting old cartoons like I'm still 12. But growing up in our era today that's far more cynical than the '60s, it's hard to retain that childlike naivety and pretend that the innocence wasn't hollow pretense, just a fragile mask over the harsh reality that is called the real world. It's why shallow stories like many shounen anime about the power of friendship like One Piece and Naruto feel hollow to me, saying nothing but empty platitudes about how the magical power of belief will rescue you from the existential crisis that's staring at you in the mirror.

All that is perhaps a little heavy for a review about a Twilight Zone episode about an old man's desire to return jubilance to his decaying life, but while I might sound pessimistic over its message, I could relate to that temptation of returning to a simpler and perhaps more innocent time. I remember carrying that kind of sentimentality watching Spielberg films during my teen years, particularly over his much-criticized "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence", which felt like Steven's take on childhood innocence at its most potent. There's just something wistful about looking back in your life at a time when things felt more exciting, like you had more to live for, especially when you're in a state of decay like in a retirement home, forgotten or tolerated, but rarely acknowledged as a person of worth. Charles Whitley (Ernest Truex) saw the simple game of "Kick the Can" as a bright spot in his decrepit life, and he earnestly chased it because that's what being alive truly means, as opposed to being kept alive. If to society, it meant that he should "act his age" and "be like everyone else," then society can shove it where it doesn't shine and save that herd mentality for someone who cares for that communistic collectivism crap. Charles was alive, and he would declare it to the world or die trying.

And you can easily see why Spielberg saw it suitable for his usage in The Twilight Zone Movie (not just because of the tragic Vic Morrow incident) because this is the kind of story that's right up his alley: innocent, wide-eyed, pining for a more zestful time in the past when the world was full of wonders, not horrors. It's broad, it wears its heart on its sleeves, and perhaps that's thematically perfect for a sentimental show like Rod Serling's Twilight Zone, fighting against the would-be cynicism of a time when America was full of fear and prejudice.

Carl Jung believed that every human wears a mask—a “persona” crafted not for self-expression, but for survival in a society that punishes too much truth. It’s not deception, exactly, but a compromise: a curated version of the self we present to others, shielding the chaotic mess beneath. In The Twilight Zone’s “A Piano in the House,” that compromise is shattered, one key at a time. What begins as a parlor trick with a player piano becomes a surgical dissection of ego, fear, and performance—the ultimate teardown of the social self, rendered in minor chords and twisted smiles.

This was a particularly entertaining episode because the gimmick allowed for multiple personalities to be examined and explored. Of course, it's all done through the uncomfortable setting of a dinner party hosted by a blatant misogynist that's a product of the '60s: controlling, gaslighting, even sadistic—basically the kind of villain you'd see walking out of Mad Men today, martini in one hand, superiority complex in the other.

Fitzgerald Fortune (Barry Morse) isn’t just a critic by profession—he’s a critic by identity. He doesn’t engage with people; he dissects them. His obsession with control bleeds into every interaction, from the way he talks to his wife (Joan Hackett as Esther Fortune) like she’s an underachieving stage prop, to how he gleefully exploits his guests' emotional unraveling for sport. But unlike other Twilight Zone villains who hide their cruelty behind charm, Fitzgerald wears his contempt like a tailored suit. It’s not subtle—it’s theatrical.

The real genius of the episode lies in the device itself: a player piano that doesn’t just play music, but plays people. The moment it begins its mechanical tune, the masks fall. Each guest is peeled open, revealing their repressed fears, secret shames, and longings they’ve tried to keep locked beneath polite society’s surface. It’s Jungian horror dressed as parlor entertainment—each confession less a revelation and more a psychological stripping that leaves the room colder with every note.

And of course, the piano isn’t just a party trick—it’s a scalpel, and no one in the room stays untouched. The true brilliance of the episode isn’t just in revealing other people’s hidden selves, but in asking whether someone like Fitzgerald, so obsessed with control, is immune to exposure himself. The tension doesn’t come from jump scares or twists—it comes from the slow, inevitable erosion of ego. A Piano in the House doesn’t hand out easy lessons or redemption arcs. It simply pulls back the curtain and lets the truth, however uncomfortable, echo in the silence that follows.

In the end, A Piano in the House isn’t just about revealing what lies beneath—it’s about what happens when the music stops and you’re forced to sit in the silence of who you really are… a shadow self that, 30 years later, a certain Japanese company named Atlus would come to explore in depth through tarot cards, eldritch abominations, and really kick-ass soundtracks.