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MAS*H the Way It Was Meant to Be Seen
When the TV series M*A*S*H was being produced, creators Larry Gelbart and Gene Reynolds didn’t want a laugh track. They were making a show about war, about surgeons trying to save lives in impossible conditions, and canned laughter felt… wrong. CBS studio executives disagreed. They’d never produced a comedy without a laugh track and weren’t about to start. The compromise? No laugh track during operating room scenes. Gelbart later said, “I always thought it cheapened the show. The network got their way.”
M*A*S*H Without the Laugh Track
When M*A*S*H released a DVD set that included a soundtrack option that removed the laugh track, I was enthralled. I heard so many lines that I’d missed because the laughter had drowned them out. If you haven’t watched M*A*S*H without the laugh track, it’s a whole different experience.
CBS relented and agreed not to use the laugh track in surgery, but surgery wasn’t the only place where the horror of war existed. The 4077th wasn’t a hospital that happened to be near a war, it was the war. The wounded arrived in waves. The dead were counted in batches. The futility and exhaustion and gallows humor weren’t confined to the operating room; they permeated every scene, every conversation, every quiet moment between the chaos.
And the laugh track cheapened all of it.
Without it, M*A*S*H becomes what it was always meant to be: a comedy about tragedy. The jokes land harder because they’re not punctuated by canned applause. The silences hit differently. You realize that Hawkeye’s wisecracks aren’t just punchlines, they’re survival mechanisms.
Upscaling Changes Everything
A few years ago, I got a tool that used AI to upscale video. I used it to upscale M*A*S*H, and it was transformative.
I suddenly saw all kinds of details that I hadn’t noticed before. Trapper John’s duffel bag has “John Francis Xavier McIntyre” stenciled on his duffel bag. Clear as day. I’d watched that scene a dozen times and never caught it.
There are numerous places where you can see things that were missed in the original broadcast. Little details that were always there, just buried in the grain and resolution limits of 1970s television.
Now, I know that you can watch M*A*S*H in “high def” on streaming now.
But that’s crap.
The Widescreen Problem
They made it 16:9.
You cannot take a show that was shot in 4:3 and make it 16:9 and call it good. When you do that, you’re either cropping the top and bottom (losing part of the frame) or stretching the image (distorting everything). Either way, you’re seeing maybe 60% of what was meant to be seen.
Friendsmostly got away with it, but even then, they went back to the original film and lost a lot of the DVD extras, extended scenes that had been included in the DVD releases but weren’t available in high-res for the widescreen transfer. And even with Friends, there are scenes where you can see the actors talking to stand-ins, or set dressing that was never meant to be in frame. The show was blocked and lit for 4:3. Anything outside that frame was never intended to be seen.
But of the shows I’ve seen so far, Friends is the only one that comes close to making the 4:3-to-16:9 transition work.
Seinfeld was famously ridiculed for their 16:9 treatment. When it hit Netflix in 4K, fans immediately noticed that visual gags were being cut off. In the episode “The Pothole,” the pothole, you know, the thing the episode is named after, doesn’t even appear in the widescreen version. It’s cropped out. Jokes were literally removed from the frame.
If a show was shot in 4:3, it’s okay to make it higher definition. But keep it in 4:3. That’s the aspect ratio it was designed for. That’s how the cinematographer framed it. That’s how the director blocked it. That’s what the audience was supposed to see.
My Version
My version of M*A*S*H is in 4:3. Upscaled. No laugh track.
It’s how the show was meant to be seen, and I, and my friends and family who come over, are the only ones who can see it that way.
Every time someone watches it at my house for the first time, they’re surprised by how different it feels. The jokes are sharper. The drama is heavier. The details are visible. You’re not watching a sitcom with a laugh track awkwardly bolted on. You’re watching a war comedy, emphasis on both words, that respects its audience enough to let them decide when something is funny, and when it’s just sad.
Streaming services want everything in widescreen because it looks “better” on modern TVs. They want everything in 4K because higher numbers sell subscriptions. But in the process, they’re butchering the original intent, cropping out jokes, and covering up the flaws that were never meant to be visible in the first place.
I get it. Most people don’t care. They just want to watch the show.
But if you’ve ever wondered why Seinfeld feels off on Netflix, or why M*A*S*H doesn’t hit the same way you remember, or why you can see boom mics in the widescreen version of Friends, this is why.
Because 4:3 wasn’t a limitation. It was a decision.
And my version of M*A*S*H honors that decision. No laugh track. No cropping. Just the show the way Gelbart and Reynolds wanted you to see it.
Do you watch anything in its original aspect ratio? Or am I the only one who cares about this? Let me know in the comments.
In Defense of My Perpetually Broken Wrangler 4xe
I drive a 2025 Jeep Wrangler 4xe Willys in that classic ’51 green—heavily themed with M*A*S*H stickers, because if you’re going to lean into the military aesthetic, you might as well commit to the bit. And in the year I’ve owned it, this beautiful mess of contradictions has been recalled twice, bricked by a software update, and taught me more about the joys of surface rust than I ever wanted to know.
Stellantis is imploding. They just took a $26.5 billion write-down on their EV strategy—you know, the one they waited way too long to get into—and the quality issues are being blamed on the aggressive cost-cutting that preceded it. They fired engineers, offshored work, and then had to hire 2,000 engineers back in 2025 when everything started falling apart. It’s the corporate equivalent of throwing your toolbox out the window and then wondering why you can’t fix anything.
And yet, I love this truck.
The Recalls
Let’s get the bad stuff out of the way first, because there’s a lot of it.
In October 2025, Stellantis recalled 24,238 Wrangler 4xe PHEVs after an over-the-air software update bricked vehicles. Just… stopped working. Owners were stranded, had to get towed to dealerships, and some dealers didn’t even know what was happening. I didn’t install the update that weekend because word spread fast on the forums. Smart money said “don’t touch your Jeep this weekend,” so I didn’t. Crisis averted, but only because I was paying attention.
Then came November’s fire risk recall. Over 320,000 vehicles—basically every 4xe made between 2020 and 2025—had battery cells that could potentially catch fire. Even when parked and turned off. The fix? Park it outside. Away from structures. And don’t charge it. For a month.
So my electrified hybrid that I bought specifically for the electric range sat outside in the driveway like a very expensive lawn ornament, plugged into nothing, while Stellantis figured out how to not burn down my house.
This was, apparently, my first battery recall. I’m told this is part of the experience.
Welcome to Wranglers
Shortly after I bought the thing, I was installing running boards—because heated steering wheels and power everything don’t mean you shouldn’t have to hoist yourself into the cab—and I noticed surface rust. On the frame. On my new truck.
I texted a friend who drives a balls-out awesome lifted Rubicon, the kind with armor plating that’s seen more trail miles than most people drive in a year. Her response: “Yep. Welcome to steel-frame cars.”
That’s it. No pearl-clutching. No “take it back to the dealer.” Just the calm acceptance that if you buy a Wrangler, you’re signing up for rust, recalls, and the occasional reminder that this vehicle was never meant to be refined. It was meant to survive.
The Paradox
Here’s the thing that confuses people: my Wrangler has heated seats. And a heated steering wheel. And adaptive cruise control. And a plug-in hybrid powertrain that gets me 25 miles of pure electric range before the gas engine kicks in.
It also has:
- A frame that rusts if you look at it funny
- Body panels that gap like a teenager’s orthodontic work
- Wind noise at highway speeds that sounds like you’re in a wind tunnel
- A turning radius that makes parallel parking a meditation on patience
- Recalls that tell you not to park it in your garage
- Software updates that brick the entire vehicle
And you know what? That’s the point.
A Wrangler isn’t trying to be a Lexus. It’s not competing with the Mercedes GLE or the BMW X5. It’s a vehicle that evolved from the Willys MB—the tiny, utilitarian, go-anywhere machine that won World War II and then became the template for every civilian off-roader that followed.
The people complaining about quality issues and recalls are the same people who should be driving a Nissan Rogue Platinum. You want luxury? Buy luxury. You want a vehicle that will drive through a creek bed, shrug off a dent, and still get you home? Buy a Wrangler. But don’t expect it to apologize for what it is.
A Note on the Bronco
I need to address the elephant in the room—or more accurately, the shiny, too-pretty-by-half Ford in the parking lot.
The new Bronco has heritage, and I’ll give Ford credit where it’s due: they did build the GPW during World War II. That “W” stood for “Willys,” because Ford was building someone else’s design, but they built hundreds of thousands of them alongside the Willys MB. So yes, Ford has as much right to claim Jeep heritage as anyone.
But here’s the problem: the Bronco is too pretty. It’s too polished. It’s what happens when a marketing department gets hold of a heritage brand and decides to sand off all the rough edges. The Bronco wants you to think it’s capable, but it also wants you to feel good about taking it to Whole Foods.
A Wrangler doesn’t care about your feelings. It is capable, and it doesn’t need to convince you. It’ll get you to the trail and back, but it’s going to rattle your fillings loose and leak a little oil in the driveway while doing it.
The Fun Part Nobody Talks About
You know what all the recall notices and quality complaints don’t mention? How much fun this thing is.
Last summer, I pulled the doors off and drove around town like that. Just… no doors. Top rolled back, music up, nothing between me and the world. You can do that in a Bronco, but it’s just not the same. (How many doorless Broncos have you seen? Compare that to how many doorless Jeeps you’ve seen, I rest my case) You definitely can’t do it in your crossover. But in a Wrangler? It’s Tuesday.
People stare. Kids wave. Other Jeep owners give you the wave—you know the one, the two-finger salute off the steering wheel that says “yeah, we get it.” It’s ridiculous and impractical sometimes, you get caught in a huge deluge rainstorm and have to put on dry clothes when you get home, and I did it every chance I got.
Then winter came, and we got a foot of snow. Not the pretty, fluffy kind—the heavy, wet, “this is why people move to Florida” kind. The city hadn’t plowed yet. My neighbors were stuck in their driveways.
I put the Wrangler in 4-Low and drove through it like it wasn’t even there.
A foot of snow. Unplowed streets. Didn’t even slow down. The Jeep just… shrugged and kept going. No drama. No wheelspin. Just quiet, confident traction and the satisfaction of knowing that while everyone else was waiting for the plows, I was already at the coffee shop. I have a very steep 100-foot long driveway. The street I live on has “Ridge” in the name, I cannot leave my house without going down a hill (which means I have to go back up that hill when I come home), the Wrangler doesn’t even notice. It goes up my driveway with a foot of snow the same way it goes up it in August. It just defies gravity.
That’s the thing about a Wrangler. When everyone else’s car becomes a very expensive driveway ornament, yours becomes the vehicle that makes you the most popular person on the block. “Hey, can you give me a ride to—” Yes. Yes, I can. Hop in.
Why I Love This Mess
So why do I keep defending a vehicle that’s been recalled twice in a year? That I had to park outside for a month? That I couldn’t even drive one weekend because Stellantis couldn’t figure out how to push a software update without bricking 25,000 trucks?
Because the Wrangler 4xe is honest.
It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. It’s not trying to be a luxury SUV with off-road cosplay. It’s not hiding its rough edges behind seventeen layers of sound deadening and soft-touch plastics. It’s a Wrangler with a battery pack and some modern conveniences bolted on, and it makes no apologies for that.
When I slide back the top and pull off the doors—yes, you can still do that on a 4xe—I’m driving something that’s fundamentally the same as the vehicles that rolled off the line in 1941. Steel frame. Body-on-frame construction. Go-anywhere capability. The fact that it also has Apple CarPlay and regenerative braking is just… extra.
Stellantis is a mess. The recalls are real. The quality issues are documented. The rust is definitely real.
But when I’m sitting in the driver’s seat with the top off, doors off, nothing between me and the world but a roll cage and some MASH stickers, none of that matters. Because at the end of the day, I didn’t buy a Wrangler because I wanted a nice car.
I bought it because I wanted a Jeep.
And Jeeps suck. That’s what makes them awesome.
Have you owned a Wrangler? What’s your “welcome to Wranglers” moment? Let me know in the comments.
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