Making a Case for ‘Murder, She Wrote’

Jessica Fletcher is now a murder victim. Sentenced to death several months ago by network hit men who relegated her to the homicidal slot on Thursday night opposite the wildly popular “Friends,” she was shoved overboard and drowned in the weekly TV ratings. Her death was witnessed by the faithful, those fans who have been with her from the beginning, many of whom were in that highly courted 18-49 age group when the show debuted 12 years ago, but have since crossed the line into the land of the forgotten ones, the 50-plus, who--say the demographic experts--abruptly lose buying power and presumably begin clutching every penny to their bosoms, saving up for their twilight years in “the home.”

Jessica has, over the years, become friend and inspiration to many. She is unfailingly gracious, often in the most uncivilized of circumstances or in the presence of relentlessly boorish people. One favorite exchange comes to mind. A bumbling, mannerless man tells Jessica, “Your writing’s pretty good, but face it, you’re no Mickey Spillane.” To which Jessica replies, “Yes, we all live in Mickey’s shadow.” Classic grace.

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B. Fletcher (Angela Lansbury) is that television rarity, a happy and successful single woman, an inspiration to those who valiantly try and often fail at this particular balancing act. She doesn’t expend one whit of energy trying to find herself a man--though she often attracts men. She is loved and respected and confident. She is never considered, nor does she consider herself, a “fifth wheel” at a table filled with couples; rather, she is a treasured guest, sought after and appreciated.

And she is busy. She jogs and rides a bike and fishes with her Cabot Cove buddies. She goes to the ballet, the opera and the theater. She records audiotapes for the blind. She is computer-literate. She is smart and tough and savvy, and gentle and concerned and kind. A real sport, Jessica is up for anything. She accepts invitations to archeological digs, tribal death dances and Mardi Gras with an equanimity that would seem to suggest that life may not end at age 49--or 59 or 80.

And for most people it doesn’t. That 50-plus over-the-hill gang still buys cars and homes and electronics. They, like Jessica, go on vacations to far-off lands. They ski, take up tai chi, run marathons and bungee jump, activities for which they buy ski equipment, videos, jogging shoes and extra life insurance. They listen to rock ‘n’ roll and pop and classical and country. Along with “Murder, She Wrote,” they watch “Frasier” and “Melrose Place” and “Law & Order” and “The X-Files.” And they buy products they see advertised on TV. Just like everybody else.

Some Fletcher fans are planning to tape “Murder, She Wrote” on Thursday nights and watch it on Sundays at 8 p.m., where “Murder, She Wrote” appeared so comfortably for 11 years. Others are planning to watch it on Thursday night, but tape “Cybill” and “Almost Perfect” on Sunday night, fast-forward to the commercials and boycott every product that is sponsoring those shows. Boy, those over-the-hill folks can be pretty diabolical!