Yes, It’s Cheesy. That’s the Point.

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Every time I post a clip of Farrah Fawcett appearing on The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour, The Brady Bunch Hour, or Donny & Marie, a familiar verdict appears in the comments: “It’s so cheesy.” That observation is entirely correct — but it is also the point.

1970s variety television was never designed to be gritty, ironic, or emotionally restrained. It embraced sequins, feathered hair, theatrical lighting, choreographed numbers, and skits built on exaggerated charm. These shows were colorful, stylized, and unapologetically theatrical. Above all, they were meant to entertain.

For example, in one appearance on The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour, Farrah and Cher played department store mannequins, committing to exaggerated stillness and stylized poses in a deliberately theatrical sketch. At one point, Farrah playfully quipped, “This month I’m that dizzy blonde from Charlie’s Angels, you know her name, Farrah something.” The line gently mocked her own television image while fully participating in the absurdity of the sketch. The humor was broad and knowingly heightened. It was not attempting subtle realism; it was leaning into spectacle — exactly as the variety format intended.

Some viewers also note that certain sketches contain sexual innuendos or humor that feels dated by modern standards. That’s also true. Variety television in the 1970s frequently relied on playful flirtation and double entendre as part of its mainstream appeal. But interpreting those moments without acknowledging the cultural context in which they were created risks flattening the conversation. What reads differently now was, at the time, part of the broader entertainment vocabulary.

Standards evolve. Humor shifts. Cultural expectations change. That evolution is not controversial — it is inevitable. But applying contemporary expectations retroactively to every archival clip misses what these programs were designed to do: provide spectacle, lightness, and shared amusement in a format closer to stage revue than prestige drama.

When Farrah stepped onto those stages, she participated fully, embracing the choreography and theatricality without apology or self-conscious irony. The flirtatious tone that occasionally surfaced was characteristic of the format, not singular to her. She projected composure and confidence within that structure, engaging with it rather than being overshadowed by it.

Calling something “cheesy” often translates to discomfort with a style that no longer aligns with current taste. Each era has its own visual grammar. The 1970s variety format prioritized brightness and exuberance over subtlety. Audiences tuned in for glamour, humor, and escapism.

Farrah’s willingness to engage that format wholeheartedly is part of what makes those appearances enduring. They capture a moment when television felt less guarded and more earnest. The choreography may appear heightened now, and the innuendos may feel quaint, but the intent was entertainment — not transgression.

Fun is not a flaw. Historical context is not endorsement; it is understanding. And sometimes what we label as “cheese” is simply joy presented without irony.
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If those performances still prompt a smile — even one paired with a modern raised eyebrow — then they continue to fulfill their purpose.