One of the great Americans of the 1970s, Lieutenant Columbo, made his first television appearance on February 20, 1968, in the made-for-TV movie “Prescription Murder.” Sure, he was a tad disheveled, and didn’t have a first name—but his understated intelligence, basic decency, and indelible but lightly-worn second-generation ethnicity made him an exemplar of the best that post-war America had to offer. Columbo was portrayed by Peter Falk, and it is impossible to imagine anyone else in the role. Moreover, Falk, like Columbo, had a real fire that burned beneath all that overt affability, as reflected in his intimate, midlife friendships with two of the most intense actors the era, Ben Gazarra and John Cassavetes. Falk’s determined perfectionism and Kubrick-like commitment to shooting as many takes as necessary helped assure the series’ sustained high quality.
The brainchild of school chums Richard Levinson and William Link, Columbo had a novel structure. Its central conceit was to abandon the conventional mystery-story structure, a bold and inspired move. Each installment starts with the murder (Columbo doesn’t even show up until the second segment). And since the audience already knows “whodunit” the drama shifts instead to three things: the delicate relationship between the (often charismatic) killer, who initially underestimates our aw-shucks lieutenant; the various struggles the murderer faces as the investigation pulls at barely-visible loose threads of what appeared to be the perfectly-staged crime; and the thrilling question of how Columbo will crack the case—denouements that were often nothing short of brilliant.
Not to be underestimated is the appeal of Jeff Greenfield’s observation that Columbo was, implicitly, a class warrior. His suspects were invariably among the rich and powerful elite (one reason they tended to underestimate the under-dressed working-class detective), and he brought them to justice—in a decade where such justice seemed in very short supply. All that and an impressive roster of luminaries, in front of and behind the camera.
A few years after Prescription Murder, a second stand-alone T.V. movie followed, after which the show emerged as a series, with feature-length installments running in an irregular monthly pattern from 1971 to 1978. (It was revived years later, but we’re sticking with the pitch-perfect last line from that first run: “this far, and no farther.”) The first proper “episode” (we think of them as movies), Murder by The Book, was written by Steven (Hill Street Blues) Bochco, directed by Steven Spielberg, shot by Russell Metty (cinematographer for Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil), and featured cunning guest murderer Jack Cassidy (who, like Robert Culp would be a three-time killer on the show). That set the bar pretty, pretty high.
Here are our ten favorite Columbos (as always respecting the Andre and Wally rules about such things), in chronological order. It was not easy to winnow down to ten – an episode featuring Martin Landau, the legendary Paul Stewart, and, wait for it, Julie Newmar, did not even make it to our final round of cuts – so yes, we know we’ve left out some great ones.
Murder by the Book (9/15/1971). As noted, this one got the series off to an especially strong start. Watch for Falk’s entrance, which establishes his quiet humanity. The scenes that precede the two murders here have an uncharacteristic (and effective) level of tension and suspense. The best of the Cassidy episodes, though we are fond of “Now You See Him.”
Guest Murderer Jack Cassidy, with Falk, in Murder by the Book
Death Lends a Hand (10/6/1971). No sophomore slump for Columbo—this second regular offering is one of the best. Our favorite of the Robert Culp stories, here as the head of a fancy detective agency who offers to triple the lieutenant’s salary in order to throw him off the trail. (“Would I get to stay on the Kennicut Case?”) Ray Miland brings a ton of class and dignity to this one (he would return as a bad guy thirteen months later in The Greenhouse Jungle); also not to be overlooked are what might seem like throw-away scenes with the golf pro.
Suitable for Framing (11/17/1971). The fist great “gotcha”—the ending of this episode could not be better, and is worth the price of admission alone. Ross Martin as an arrogant art critic is one of our less likeable killers, though neither the first nor the last who thinks his contacts in high places have gotten Columbo kicked off the case. Kim Hunter, Don Ameche and Vic Tayback round out a strong cast.
Etude in Black (9/17/1972). John Cassavetes. Need we say more? Ok, we will: story by Levinson and Link, script by Bochco, and it’s not just for the (real) thrill of seeing Falk and Cassavetes together—watch for the scenes with Blythe Danner, especially towards the end. Directed by Nicholas Colasanto (best remembered as Coach from Cheers; we loved him in Fat City and Raging Bull), Etude in Black also features Myrna Loy (yes, that Myrna Loy, from The Thin Man series and The Best Years of Our Lives, among other things).
Etude in Black: Columbo asks a question . . .
. . . And Blythe Danner knows the answer: Her husband (Cassavetes) is a murderer
A Stitch in Crime (2/11/1973). Leonard Nimoy as a murdering heart surgeon. They has us at “Leonard Nimoy.” (Shatner would get his chance in the meta-episode Fade into Murder where he plays a demanding T.V. detective.) But it’s a good murder (actually an attempted murder drives the plot) and a strong denouement. It’s also the first time Columbo gets mad, a rarity. Love the winding clock thing—one of those “little things” that bother Columbo that few others would have noticed.
A Stitch in Crime: Will Geer might want to choose a different surgeon
Any Old Port in a Storm (10/7/1973). Donald Pleasance owns a winery. Another episode where that would have been enough for us—but of course there is so much more in this well-paced offering, one of those in which Columbo develops a genuine rapport with the target of his investigation. Directed by Leo Penn, who also on hand for the series finale, The Conspirators. (In the fifties Penn refused to name names before HUAC and was blacklisted, which is worth keeping in mind the next time his son’s politics annoy you.) Julie Harris has a pivotal role as the dutiful assistant (the lynchpin of many a Columbo), and Vito Scotti, friend-of-Falk and popular character actor, makes the first of his five appearances.
Swan Song (3/3/1974). Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Johnny Cash. Terrific murder (of Ida Lupino!); very fine catch. Another episode that throws its sympathies in with the killer – you almost want him to get away with it – a reminder that, as with James Bond movies, since the hero is always the same character, a lot is riding on the charisma of the villain. The second time for Colasanto in the director’s chair, the script was by David Rayfiel, whose credits include Three Days of the Condor and Bertrand Tavernier’s Round Midnight. Just Sayin’.
Johnny Cash, under the thumb of Ida Lupino, in Swan Song
A Friend in Deed (5/5/74). Best. Ending. Ever. One of two episodes directed by Ben Gazarra (he would return a year later to helm the highly entertaining Troubled Waters, which featured Robert Vaughn, Patrick Macnee and Dean Stockwell), this one pushes the regular-guy-speaks-truth-to-power motif to its limit, as the murderer not only comes from money, he is Columbo’s boss (the police department’s deputy commissioner). Friend in Deed offers especially sharp dialogue from regular contributor Peter S. Fischer, well-composed frames via director Gazarra, a really fine performance by Michael McGuire (one of the series’ most anguished conspirators—the “I should have gone to the police” exchange speaks volumes), and Val Avery (in one his four appearances), as a jewel thief who knows the rules of the game.
A Friend in Deed: Columbo Always Gets His Man
Try and Catch Me (11/21/77). Eighty-year-old Ruth Gordon shows up as the world’s most sympathetic murderer – “my age, the circumstances,” she rightly observes – a reminder that Columbo’s kindness will only go so far (as he had warned her from the start). Mariette Hartley stirs the pot as yet another loyal, complicating assistant; better still is G.D. Spradlin, so believable we want to hire him as our attorney (“I would say something appears to be missing”). And a great catch, if most bittersweet.
Murder under Glass (1/30/78). Louis Jordan, on the other hand, not so much. The nastiest restaurant critic this side of Top Chef, Jordan’s Paul Gerard is so unsympathetic that in the final scene (quite good) Columbo actually tells him he doesn’t like him. But even with its unambiguously bad bad-guy (rarely a good sign), Murder under Glass, directed by Jonathan Demme, hits every mark as a top-shelf episode. Columbo’s answer to the question in that last conversation: “when did you first suspect me?” is a reminder of why he was one of the best there ever was. Even if he wasn’t real.
“This far, and no farther”