I’m old enough to have seen The Twilight Zone when it was in its regular run on 60s television. I watched it avidly, because it had the perfect composition of creepy/scary/otherworldly that fed and accelerated a kid’s imagination. It’s only now, having been treated courtesy of the Syfy Channel to a second round of the show, that I recognize what a perfect encapsulation of narrative intrigue the show was and is.

It’s a kick to see how many famous actors—Robert Duvall, William Shatner, Dennis Hopper, Robert Redford—added their early panache to the series, which was also notable for rarely straying into the truly cheesy for its special effects, though it was not a big-budget production. But it wasn’t the acting, cinematography or production values that made the show timeless. It was the writing.

Big-Issue Writing Without Schmaltz
The essence of The Twilight Zone is in the writing, the inviolate genesis of so mediums that provoke our thinking. And the reason the writing of The Twilight Zone was so compelling was that the 30-minute shows were a distillation of the biggest themes of existence: What is the nature of good? What is the nature of evil? How are morals compromised, and why? How can it be that the powerful can be so weak, and the unprepossessing so strong? What is the essence of fear, the power of the unknown? What is death?

Those issues, when spelled out above, can look so sententious, a formula for gloppy entertainment and tasteless treacle. But that’s not the case in The Twilight Zone, and not the case when those matters, which are serious, are taken seriously. Yet also presented as entertainment, a fine contradiction. And in matters of fine contradiction, the host, creator and prime writer of the series was a master.

Rod Serling, Writer as Philosopher-Magician
Somehow, often using the simplest of language, Serling was able to tap into the well of human nature, finding definitive examples of the pompous and the blustery, the ordinary, the humble, the unassailably good. And though the show could very well tip toward the preachy (against nuclear power, for example), its motions toward advocacy were mostly submerged in the drama. Space exploration could be both the source of enlightenment and destruction. Humans could be more soulless than robots. The spark of creativity, of love, could be found in the most arid of environments.

Rod Serling’s consistently good writing was matched by his compelling on-screen persona: the oracular host, biting off words with a steady, clipped, declarative voice that was that of an unequivocal judge, but one always in on the big joke. And the ever-lit cigarette, the smoke wafting into the air like the dashed dreams that so many of the shows depicted. Those cigarettes contributed to ending Serling’s life at a cruelly young age, but his legacy is clear: the small man with the big mind and the sonorous voice, still making viewers—and writers—reflect on what it is to be human.

You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That’s the signpost up ahead—your next stop, the Twilight Zone.