From a Twitch to a Scowl

 **From a Twitch to a Scowl**

By the time *Bewitched* reached its eighth season in 1971–1972, what had once been a joyful, inventive collaboration had begun to feel like a gilded cage for Elizabeth Montgomery. Though the show remained a ratings success and a cornerstone of ABC’s lineup, Elizabeth was increasingly restless, creatively stifled, and emotionally exhausted. For most actors, eight seasons spent embodying a single character is an extraordinary—and often exhausting—commitment. The repetition, the rigid production schedule, and the diminishing creative returns can wear down even the most dedicated performer. In Elizabeth’s case, the fatigue wasn’t just professional; it was deeply personal. She had grown as an artist and as a woman, and Samantha Stephens—once a vehicle for her wit, charm, and subtle feminist commentary—now felt like a costume she could no longer comfortably wear.

This growing disillusionment began to seep into her performance in ways that attentive viewers and colleagues couldn’t ignore. “Towards the end of the show, Elizabeth scowled a lot,” reflects TV historian Ed Robertson. “Especially at the end of the scene or during the final tag. She was visibly not happy doing the show then—and apparently that’s been well documented.” Those final moments of each episode, traditionally lighthearted and whimsical—often featuring Samantha delivering a knowing look to the audience or sharing a playful exchange with Darrin—began to carry an undercurrent of strain. Where once there was sparkle in her eyes, there was now a flicker of impatience; where there had been warmth in her smile, there was sometimes a tightness around her lips, a barely concealed weariness. The magic, quite literally, was fading.

Behind the scenes, the reasons for her discontent were manifold. The show’s writing had grown increasingly formulaic, relying on recycled plots and exaggerated antics that strayed far from the clever, character-driven humor of its early seasons. The departure of key creative figures—including producer Danny Arnold after the first season and, later, the gradual reduction of William Asher’s involvement due to their personal separation—left a void that was never fully filled. Without the collaborative energy that had once fueled the series, *Bewitched* began to feel less like a shared artistic endeavor and more like a corporate obligation.

Moreover, Elizabeth’s own ambitions had expanded far beyond the confines of suburban Westport. She had begun to explore more dramatic and socially conscious roles in television movies—projects that tackled issues like domestic violence, mental health, and civil rights. These roles energized her in ways that Samantha no longer could. She wanted to challenge audiences, not just charm them. She wanted to reflect the complexities of real women’s lives, not just conjure them away with a twitch of her nose. Staying on *Bewitched* felt, increasingly, like a betrayal of her own artistic growth.

Despite network pressure to continue—ABC reportedly wanted a ninth season—Elizabeth made it clear she was done. She had fulfilled her contract, pushed the character as far as she felt it could go, and was ready to reclaim her creative freedom. Her decision was final, and though it disappointed fans and executives alike, it was a necessary act of self-preservation. As she later told interviewers, she didn’t want to be typecast for the rest of her career; she refused to become “the witch” in the public imagination forever.

In retrospect, those final scowls weren’t signs of unprofessionalism—they were quiet acts of honesty. They were the unspoken confessions of an artist who had given everything she could to a role and knew, deep down, that it was time to let go. The twitch that once launched a thousand spells had, by the end, given way to a scowl that signaled liberation. And in walking away from *Bewitched*, Elizabeth Montgomery didn’t diminish her legacy—she honored it, by refusing to let it become a prison. Her departure marked not an end, but a bold new beginning—one in which she would continue to surprise, provoke, and inspire, long after the last spell had been cast.