From the waist up, Don Knotts was perhaps the perfect assembly of male imperfections.
His high forehead, perched above a worried, wrinkly brow, set off his trademark googly eyes, ever-ready to pop out in alarm at whatever misfortune came his way. Below the eyes, his recessed chin tapered into a longish neck that highlighted a bulgy Adam's apple that Knotts worked up and down in synchronized tandem with petrified double-takes or facial tremors. Out of his mouth came a quavery, yet squalling tenor voice, shrilly sounding in disbelief at the latest unfair turn of events that threatened his well being.
In other words, he was unmistakable.
Still the staying power of Knotts, compared with other indelible American comics, seems a bit on the wane. A tribute Sunday in Santa Monica featuring a guest panel and screening of two of his films from the late '60s is aimed at reaffirming the reputation of the gifted physical comic who died in 2006.
"I think Don is really underrated," says Larry Karaszewski, co-screenwriter of "Ed Wood" and "The People vs. Larry Flynt," who is chairing the panel discussion about the late comedian. "In the '60s, there's a gap from Jerry Lewis to Woody Allen, and I think Don fills it."
At 5 feet 6 1/2 inches and maybe 140 pounds after a big meal, Knotts was the national definition of "nerd" before the word even existed. But his physical failings are what provided him with a foundation for his comedic impact.
In the early years of television, on "The Steve Allen Show," he found a reference point for his ungainly appearance: fear. In skits of the time, he was the unprepared weatherman or fidgety man-in-the-street interviewee, invariably petrified at appearing on camera.
But it was "The Andy Griffith Show," starting in 1960, that supplied Knotts with the final ingredient he needed -- a character. His run for five years as a series regular playing Barney Fife, the clueless deputy sheriff, provided an episodic context for Knotts' tics. An unauthoritative authority figure -- whose boss Andy allowed him to carry a gun, but only if he kept his lone bullet tucked away safely in his shirt pocket -- Barney's professional bluster and bravado were usually undone by personal ineptitude.
In assessing Barney's essence, fellow TV comic Tim Conway concluded: "He's the confident acting guy who has no business being confident."
