Few writers have been as prolific as Stirling Silliphant, whose literate yet action-filled scripts for the classic TV series Route 66 (1960-64) made me want to be a writer. Over the decades, we became friends. Indeed, thanks to his urging, NBC produced a miniseries of my novel, The Brotherhood of the Rose, A pleasant, stocky man with sandy hair, a boyish smile, and a wonderful tenor voice, he was 70 when I last saw him. During our final dinner together, he confided in me that he was being offered fewer and fewer writing assignments. "In a youth-oriented industry, I'm perceived as too old," he told me. It didn't matter that he had received an Academy Award for 1967's In the Heat of the Night, or that his script for 1968's Charly had given Cliff Robertson the opportunity to deliver an Oscar-winning performance, or that Stirling had written some of the most financially successful movies of the 1970s (The Poseidon Adventure and The Towering Inferno), fill the industry cared about was the young, new flavor of the month. In fact, most of the executives with whom Stirling had meetings were so young (in their mid-twenties) that they had never seen In the Heat of the Night, Charly, or The Towering Inferno, As for Route 66, the series had been on TV so long ago that it was re-run as a nostalgia series on Nick at Nite. Hardly the "with it" factor that executives worship. The intelligence of the industry had so declined that Stirling's agent advised him not to take a complete list of his credits to a studio interview because a: the executive wouldn't believe that anyone could write that much and b: the executive would feel intimidated.
Stirling eventually decided to chuck it all and move to Thailand, where he believed that in a past incarnation he had been an Oriental. He had what he called "a Beverly Hills garage sale," relocated to Bangkok, and became a Buddhist. We exchanged letters and tried to make plans for me to visit him, but something always interfered. In 1996, at the age of 78, he died from prostate cancer.
Front Man
Tell me that again," I said. "He must have been joking."
"Mort, you know what it's like at the networks these days." My agent sighed. "Cost cutting. Layoffs. Executives so young they think Seinfeld is nostalgia. He wasn't joking. He's willing to take a meeting with you, but he's barely seen your work, and he wants a list of your credits."
"All two hundred and ninety of them? Steve, I like to think I'm not vain, but how can this guy be in charge of series development and not know what I've written?"
This conversation was on the phone. Midweek, midafternoon. I'd been revising computer printouts of what I'd written in the morning, but frustration at what Steve had told me made me press my pencil down so hard I broke its tip. Rising from my desk, I clutched the phone tighter.
Steve hesitated before he replied. "No argument. You and I know how much you contributed to television. The Golden Age. Playhouse 90. Kraft Theater. Alcoa Presents. You and Rod Serling and Paddy Chayefsky practically invented TV drama. But that was then. This executive just started his job three months ago. He's only twenty-eight, for Christ's sake. He's been clawing his way to network power since he graduated from business school. He doesn't actually watch television. He's too damned busy to watch it, except for current in-house projects. What he does is program, check the ratings, and read the trades. If you'd won your Emmys for something this season, he might be impressed. But The Sidewalks of New York ? That's something they show on Nickelodeon cable reruns, a company he doesn't work for, so what does he care?"
I stared out my study window. From my home on top of the Hollywood Hills, I had a view of rushing traffic on smoggy Sunset Boulevard, of Spago, Tower Records, and Chateau Marmont. But at the moment, I saw none of them, indignation blinding me.
"Steve, am I nuts, or are the scripts I sent you good?"
"Don't put yourself down. They're better than good. They don't only grab me. They're fucking smart. I believe them, and I can't say that for..." He named a current hit series about a female detective that made him a fortune in commissions but was two-thirds tits and ass and one-third car chases.
"So what's the real problem?" I asked, unable to suppress the stridency in my voice. "Why can't I get any work?"
"The truth?"
"Since when did I tolerate lies?"
"You won't get pissed off?"
"I will get pissed off if- "
"All right already. The truth is, it doesn't matter how well you write. The fact is, you're too old. The networks think you're out of touch with their demographics."
"Out of-"
"You promised you wouldn't get pissed off."
"But after I shifted from television, I won an Oscar for The Dead of Noon."
"Twenty years ago. To the networks, that's like the Dark Ages. You know the axiom - what have you done for us lately. The fact is, Mort, for the past two years, you've been out of town, out of the country, out of the goddamn industry."
My tear ducts ached. My hurried breathing made me dizzy. "I had a good reason. The most important reason."
"Absolutely," Steve said. "In your place, I'd have done the same. And your friends respect that reason. But the movers and shakers, the new regime that doesn't give a shit about tradition, they think you died or retired, if they give you a moment's thought at all. Then isn't now. To them, last week's ratings are ancient history. What's next? they want to know. What's new? they keep asking. What they really mean is, What's young?"
"That sucks."
"Of course. But young viewers are loose with their dough, my friend, and advertisers pay the bills. So the bottom line is, the networks feel unless you're under thirty-five or better yet under thirty, you can't communicate with their target audience. It's an uphill grind for writers like you, of a certain age, no matter your talent."
"Swell." My knuckles ached as I squeezed the phone. "So what do I do? Throw my word processor out the window, and collect on my Writers Guild pension?"
" It's not as bad as that. But bear in mind, your pension is the highest any Guild member ever accumulated."
"But if I retire, I'll die like - "
"No, what I'm saying is be patient with this network kid. He needs a little educating. Politely, you understand. Just pitch your idea, look confident and dependable, show him your credits. He'll come around. It's not as if you haven't been down this path before."
"When I was in my twenties."
"There you go. You identify with this kid already. You're in his mind."
My voice dropped." When's the meeting?"
"Friday. His office. I pulled in some favors to get you in so soon. Four p.m. I'll be at my house in Malibu. Call me when you're through."
"Steve..."
"Yeah, Mort?"
"Thanks for sticking with me."
"Hey, it's an honor. To me, you're a legend."
"What I need to be is a working legend."
"I've done what I can. Now it's up to you."
"Sure." I set down the phone, discovered I still had my broken pencil in one hand, dropped it, and massaged the aching knuckles of my other hand.
The reason I'd left L. A. two years ago, at the age of sixty-eight, was that my dear wife -
-Doris-
- my best friend -
- my cleverest editor -
- my exclusive lover -
- had contracted a rare form of leukemia.
As her strength had waned, as her sacred body had gradually failed to obey her splendid mind, I'd disrupted my workaholic's habit of writing every day and acted as her constant attendant. We'd traveled to every major cancer research center in the United States. We'd gone to specialists in Europe. We'd stayed in Europe because their hospice system is humane about pain-relieving drugs. We'd gotten as far as Sweden.
Where Doris had died.
And now struggling with grief, I'd returned to my career. What other meaning did I have? It was either kill myself or write. So I wrote. And wrote. Even faster than in my prime when I'd contributed every episode in the four-year run of The Sidewalks of New York.
And now a network yuppie bastard with the cultural memory of a four-year-old had asked
for my credits. Before I gulped a stiff shot of Scotch, I vowed I'd show this town that this old fuck still had more juice than when I'd first started.
* * *
Century City. Every week, you see those monoliths of power behind the credits on this season's hit lawyer show, but I remembered, bitterly nostalgic, when the land those skyscrapers stood upon had been the back lot for Twentieth-Century Fox.
I parked my leased Audi on the second level of an underground garage and took an elevator to the seventeenth floor of one of the buildings. The network's reception room was wide and lofty, with plentiful leather couches where actors, writers, and producers made hurried phone calls to agents and assistants while they waited to be admitted to the Holy of Holies.
I stopped before a young, attractive woman at a desk. Thin. No bra. Presumably she wanted to be an actress and was biding her time, waiting for the right connections. She finished talking to one of three phones and studied me, her boredom tempered by the fear that, if she wasn't respectful, she might lose a chance to make an important contact.
I'm not bad-looking. Although seventy, I keep in shape. Sure, my hair's receding. I have wrinkles around my eyes. But my family's genes are spectacular. I look ten years younger than I am, especially when I'm tanned, as I was after recent, daily, half-hour laps in my swimming pool.
My voice has the resonance of Ed McMahon's. "Mort Davidson to see Arthur Lewis. I've got a four o'clock appointment."
The would-be-actress receptionist scanned a list. "Of course. You're expected. Unfortunately Mr. Lewis has been detained. If you'll please wait over there." She pointed toward a couch and picked up a Judith Krantz novel. Evidently she'd decided that I couldn't promote her career.
So I waited.
And waited.
An hour later, the receptionist gestured for me to come over. Miracle of miracles, Arthur Lewis was ready to see me.
* * *
He wore an Armani linen suit, fashionably wrinkled. No tie. Gucci loafers. No socks. His skin was the color of bronze. His thick, curly, black hair had a calculated, wind-blown look. Photographs of his blonde wife and infant daughter stood on his glass-topped desk. His wife seemed even younger and thinner than he was. Posters of various current hit series hung on the wall. A tennis racket was propped in a corner.
"It's an honor to meet you. I'm a fan of everything you've done," he lied.
I made an appropriate humble comment.
His next remark contradicted what he'd just said. "Did you bring a list of your credits?"
I gave him a folder and sat on a leather chair across from him while he flipped through the pages. His expression communicated a mixture of boredom and stoic endurance.
Finally his eyebrows narrowed. "Impressive. I might add, astonishing. Really, it's hard to imagine anyone writing this much."
"Well, I've been in the business quite a while."
"Yes. You certainly have."
I couldn't tell if he referred to my age or my numerous credits. "There used to be a joke," I said.
"Oh?" His eyes were expressionless.
'"How can Mort Davidson be so prolific?' This was back in the early sixties. The answer was, 'He uses an electric typewriter.'"
"Very amusing," he said as if I'd farted.
"These days, of course, I use a word processor."
"Of course." He folded his hands on the desk and sat straighter. "So. Your agent said you had an idea that might appeal to us."
"That's right."
The phone rang.
"Excuse me a moment." He picked up the phone. Obviously, if he'd been genuinely interested in my pitch, he'd have instructed his secretary that he didn't want any calls.
An actor named Sid was important enough for Arthur Lewis to gush with compliments. And by all means, Sid shouldn't worry about the rewrites that would make his character more "with it" in today's generation. The writer in charge of the project was under orders to deliver the changes by Monday morning. If he didn't, that writer would never again work on something called The Goodtime Guys. Sid was a helluva talent, Arthur Lewis assured him. Next week's episode would get a 35 ratings share at least. Arthur chuckled at a joke, set down the phone, and narrowed his eyebrows again. "So your idea that you think we might like." He glanced at his Rolex.
"It's about an at-risk youth center, a place where troubled kids can go and get away from their screwed-up families, the gangs, and the drug dealers on the streets. There's a center in the Valley that I see as our model - an old Victorian house that has several additions. Each week, we'd deal with a special problem - teenage pregnancy, substance abuse, runaways - but mostly this would be a series about emotions, about people, the kids, but also the staff, a wide range of interesting, committed professionals, an elderly administrator, a female social worker, an Hispanic who used to be in the gangs, a priest, whatever mix works. I call it - "
The phone rang again.
"Just a second," Arthur Lewis said.
Another grin. A producer this time. A series about a college sorority next to a fraternity, Crazy 4 U, had just become this season's new hit. Arthur Lewis was giving its cast and executives a party at Le Dome tomorrow evening. Yes, he guaranteed. Ten cases of Dom Perignon would arrive at the producer's home before the party. And beluga caviar? Enough for an after-party power party? No problem. And yes, Arthur Lewis was having the same frustrations as the producer. It was mighty damned hard to find a pre-school for gifted children.
He set down the phone. His face turned to stone. "So that's your idea?"
"Drama, significance, emotion, action, and realism."
"But what's the hook?"
I shook my head in astonishment.
"Why would anyone want to watch it?" Arthur Lewis asked.
"To feel what it's like to help kids in trouble, to understand those kids."
"Didn't you have a stroke a while ago?"
"What?"
"I believe in honesty, so I'll be direct. You put in your time. You paid your dues. So why don't you back away gracefully?"
"I didn't have a stroke."
"Then why did I hear- ?"
"My wife had cancer. She died..." I caught my breath. "Six months ago."
"I see. I'm sorry. I mean that sincerely. But television isn't the same as when you created..." He checked my list of credits." The Sidewalks of New York. A definite classic. One of my absolute personal favorites. But times have changed. The industry's a lot more competitive. The pressure's unbelievable. A series creator has to act as one of the producers, to oversee the product, to guarantee consistency. I'm talking thirteen hours a day minimum, and ideally the creator ought to contribute something to every script."
"That's what I did on The Sidewalks of New York."
"Oh?" Arthur Lewis looked blank. "I guess I didn't notice that in your credits." He straightened. "But my point's the same. Television's a pressure cooker. A game for people with energy."
"Did I need a wheelchair when I came in here?"
"You've lost me."
"Energy's not my problem. I'm full to bursting with the need to work. What matters is, what do you think of my idea?"
"It's..."
The phone rang.
Arthur Lewis looked relieved. "Let me get back to you."
"Of course. I know you're busy. Thanks for your time."
"Hey, anytime. I'm always here and ready for new ideas." Again he checked his Rolex.
The phone kept ringing.
"Take care," he said.
"You, too."
I took my list of credits off his desk.
The last thing I heard when I left was, "No, that old fuck's wrong for the part. He's losing his hair. A rug? Get real. The audience can tell the difference. For God's sake, a hairpiece is death in the ratings."
* * *
Steve had said to phone him when the meeting was over. But I felt so upset I decided to hell with phoning him and drove up the Pacific Coast Highway toward his place in Malibu. Traffic was terrible -
rush hour, Friday evening. For once, though, it had an advantage. After an hour, my anger began to abate enough for me to realize that I wouldn't accomplish much by showing up unexpectedly in a fit at Steve's. He'd been loyal. He didn't need my aggravation. As he'd told me, "I've done what I can. Now it's up to you." But there wasn't much I could do if my age and not my talent was how I was judged. Certainly that wasn't Steve's fault.
So I stopped at something called the Pacific Coast Diner and took the advice of a bumper sticker on a car I'd been stuck behind-CHILL OUT. Maybe a few drinks and a meditative dinner would calm me down. The restaurant had umbrella-topped tables on a balcony that looked toward the ocean. I had to wait a half hour, but a Scotch and soda made the time go quickly, and the crimson reflection of the setting sun on the ocean was spectacular.
Or would have been if I'd been paying attention. The truth was, I couldn't stop being upset. I had another Scotch and soda, ordered poached salmon, tried to enjoy my meal, and suddenly couldn't swallow, suddenly felt about as lonely as I'd felt since Doris had died. Maybe the network executives are right, I thought. Maybe I am too old. Maybe I don't know how to relate to a young audience. Maybe it's time I packed it in.
"Mort Davidson," a voice said.
"Excuse me?" I blinked, distracted from my thoughts.
My waiter was holding the credit card I'd given him. "Mort Davidson." He looked at the name on the card, then at me. "The screenwriter?"
I spared him a bitter "used to be" and nodded with what I hoped was a pleasant manner.
"Wow." He was tall and thin with sandy hair and a glowing tan. His blue eyes glinted. He had the sort of chiseled, handsome face that made me think he was yet another would-be actor. He looked to be about twenty-three. "When I saw your name, I thought, 'No, it couldn't be. Who knows how many Mort Davidsons there are? The odds against this being...' But it is you. The screenwriter."
"Guilty," I managed to joke.
"I bet I've seen everything you ever wrote. I must have watched The Dead of Noon twenty-five times. I really learned a lot."
"Oh?" I was puzzled. What would my screenplay have taught him about acting?
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