When I was younger, I never “got” the old Batman series. All I saw was the low-budget cardboard props and sets, the ham-acting, and the sheer silliness of it all. I thought it was dumb (except Julie Newmar. I always liked her).
But my Mom told me a story from when the show was actually running. 1966-1968, she was in college. Protests, counter-protests, and authoritarian crackdowns filled the news cycle.
The Vietnam War was escalating, and the news reports coming out of the media were little more than propaganda. If that many enemy soldiers were killed, week in and week out, there’d have been nobody left in North Vietnam to wave the white flag.
The shadow of the draft fell over every young man on that campus, and every young woman who loved a young man.
It was a tense time, even for a college student who only wanted to graduate, get married, and begin her teaching career. And there were a lot of students like that, male and female, who were, frankly scared.
But everyone would gather together around the dorm lobby TV (6:30 pm, I believe), to exchange the very real madness of their times for the surreal, campy madness of Adam West and Burt Ward. Batman meant something. That goofy, campy, surreal show really meant something.
In other words … Adam West was the hero the sixties needed, if not the one it deserved.