Reviewed by Ed Lengel

If the age of American pop culture icons hasn’t passed, it has certainly changed. Today, with the Internet and social media dominating popular entertainment, and podcasts, video games, satellite radio, and more outlets swamping public attention, television has to fight harder to survive in a saturated market. And even then, hundreds of television and cable channels offer non-stop programming vie with each other to captivate audiences. Celebrities are everywhere—and these days—“influencers” and podcast hosts probably garner more attention—on the average—than movie or television stars.

For multiple generations born or living from the 1950s to the 1990s, however, television was a cultural juggernaut, a common frame of reference. Most Americans had television sets at home by the early 1960s. For about twenty years, until the end of the following decade, families, friends, and even community groupings (think of the patrons at the iconic Boston bar Cheers, from the 1980s TV show, who rooted for baseball and football games together) used television as a common frame of reference, and even of bonding. With only three major networks available most of the time, and those offering only eighteen-hour programming, people tended to watch the same programs and commercials, and discussed them at work, home, and during family meals. Not until the advent of cable television and videocassettes in the late 1970s did this common language begin to erode, and then only gradually.

For a long time, then, if you said, “just one more thing,” in a mixed gathering, almost everyone would know what you meant: Columbo. From the first episode, “Murder by the Book,” —on September 15, 1971, until the last, “The Conspirators,”—on May 13, 1978, the television series depicted the adventures of a rumpled Hollywood homicide detective, portrayed by actor Peter Falk (1927-2011), captivated Americans of all ages as it appeared on the NBC Mystery Movie on Sundays and Tuesdays. Those evenings, families watched Columbo. Or they went out to a movie theater or didn’t watch anything at all. Columbo’s second, intermittent run, from 1989-2003, was not nearly so effective or impactful; but many people watched it anyway, because they had so adored the original series.

In Just One More Thing, Falk offers a series of lighthearted anecdotes about his life and acting career—including but not limited to—Columbo, which is how most people knew him, and strangers all over the world would address him. Everything from his trademark one-eyed squint, the result of a medical operation when he was just a toddler—to his choice of wardrobe, notable his trademark seersucker suit and battered raincoat, are discussed. Falk remembers friendships with other film and television artists, such as John Cassavetes and Patrick McGoohan, and his own interest in drawing. There are plenty of jokes, and remarks calculated to raise a smile; and aficionados of the original series will get a good sense of how Columbo reflected Falk’s actual personality.

That said, Just One More Thing is neither a memoir, nor a close examination of Columbo, its creation, and its impact on American pop culture. After sharing a number of life episodes in roughly chronological order over the first several chapters, Falk abandons any pretense of autobiography and reverts to random snippets about this and that. One has the impression that Falk, who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease for much of his final two decades—or his ghostwriter—pasted together a narrative from this and that memory. Even so, the book is vastly entertaining—the kind of thing you’d get from a bar chat over a few beers.

Columbo’s pervasiveness resulted in large part, it’s easy to see, from Falk’s acting ability. But the role also fit him perfectly. Without it, he would probably be remembered primarily as a minor character actor; but without Falk, Columbo would never have reached the end of a single season, let alone carried on for more than thirty years. The show’s signature concept, as a detective series, was that it began by depicting the murder, revealing the murderer, and—then—how he or she committed the crime. The excitement is in watching how Columbo—who generally suspected the villain immediately, needed to prove it—and then spars with—and eventually bests—his criminal counterpart. The villain, moreover, is invariably portrayed by a well-known actor, so that the viewer can’t wait to see how they square off. At the end, the trap invariably snaps shut, so that Columbo catches the criminal. Sometimes he despises the villain; but at other times he reveals a sneaking empathy.

In the end, Columbo is a product of an era in which most people still read books, with many of them being classic detective novels. Falk’s—and the show’s—genius is their familiarity. Everything from Falk’s clothes, cigar, gestures, and ways of speaking are familiar, and endearing. Viewers who tuned in knew they would be spending time with a friend, excited but also relaxed. Other television programs from the same era—say, The Rockford Files with James Garner or Magnum, P.I. with Tom Selleck—provided the same reassuring mix of intrigue, entertainment, and warm familiarity. Detective novels and characters from Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, to Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe (and sidekick Archie Goodwin), achieved the same chemistry. On television, on certain nights of the week, you knew what, and who, you were going to get; and that you would have an enjoyable time. The lack of those feelings of comfort and familiarity are a genuine cultural loss.

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Ed Lengel is an author, a speaker, and a storyteller.