Billion-Dollar Kiss

by Jeffrey Stepakoff

  So now the networks were back to just one revenue stream: advertising. TV’s profitability was directly related to how many people were watching, and that number would soon max out. No longer was TV a growth industry. Suddenly, the idea of programming the least objectionable dreck to the biggest, laziest audience wasn’t such a great policy. Searching for new ways to maximize profits, the networks began to think about focusing on the most valuable parts of their audience, instead of just trying to get the biggest. Thus began the focus on demographics, delivering the most desirable groups of viewers to advertisers. For starters, this meant urban eighteen to thirty-four-year-olds, those with disposable income. And not surprising, it was quickly discovered that this group, for which the car companies were willing to pay a premium, were not all that into The Beverly Hillbillies.

  Now, two big things converged here. At exactly the same time that the networks realized they had to start making shows that would attract affluent audiences, a new generation of independent producers was empowered by the FCC’s Fin-Syn rules to do just that. Suddenly, objectionableness became desirable.

  Two independent production companies led the charge to create controversial or so-called relevant programming: Norman Lear’s Tandem Productions, creators of All in the Family, and MTM. These little companies were everything that the big factories like Universal were not. Realistic character and relatable storytelling were always more important than laugh tracks and car chases. And at MTM in particular, writers were quite literally the foundation of the company. Tinker started the company by finding two writers whose work he admired, James L. Brooks and Allan Burns, of whom both had written for the highly regarded comedic drama Room 222, and asking them to create a series for Mary Tyler Moore. He gave the writers unprecedented freedom to develop the pilot as they saw fit and then ultimately to run the series with similar autonomy. When Mary Tyler Moore was sold into syndication in 1977 for more than $50 million, the wisdom and value of investing in writers was clear.

  The eponymous show also created a franchise that spun off numerous hits: Rhoda, The Betty White Show, Paul Sand in Friends and Lovers, Phyllis, Lou Grant. And it created a model for how to develop original programming that would lead the studio to important dramas like Hill Street and St. Elsewhere. Although many of the company’s shows were not ratings monsters, advertisers loved them because of the upscale demographics. Mercedes advertised on Hill Street; safe to say this was not the case with Simon.

  MTM was a tightly held company that was not beholden to shareholders. It played by its own rules. During the 1985 WGA strike, for example, when the major studios locked writers out, MTM continued to pay its writers their full salaries. Comedies were shot on film instead of cheaper videotape. Sophisticated dramas were created that might take years to develop a loyal audience. And the company was entirely free to sell these shows to any network it chose—or not to. If a network had a problem with a series, MTM execs would go to the mat.

  Most of the producers of television at this time, from the big studios to the little production companies, had a similar function. Remember, TV shows are deficit-financed, meaning the studio makes them at a loss, rents them to the network, which makes money selling advertising, and only recoups its investment when (or if) the show goes into syndication. Understandably, whenever there was a creative difference of opinion—say with a casting choice, or a story line, or even the hiring of a particular writer—studio executives would throw their weight around. And the studio usually won. If the network wouldn’t acquiesce, there were always other networks. If all the networks were scared of a project, the studios could always sell new episodes to local stations (called first-run syndication), as Norman Lear discovered with Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. Of course, the network was free not to pick up a show, cancel one already on its schedule, and buy from other production companies, but because of the Fin-Syn rules, it could not tell everyone to go to hell and just make its own shows. So even though the studio had all the blood in the game, the network had to play by the rules of the game.

  This scenario created a system of checks and balances, a healthy and productive forum for discourse, where the longevity of a series was weighted more than its overnight ratings, where the overall quality of a series trumped selling out a character for a salacious story that might produce a big but short-lived audience. The result was, more often than not, quality TV. This was the case for big factories and small independents alike, and the real winner was the consumer, the viewer.

  The major studios, however, were not quite as zealous about protecting their shows as independents like MTM were. This was partially simply a difference in corporate culture, and partially because the studios had numerous revenue streams.

  During my internship, I was in a meeting where the president of Universal Pictures, Tom Pollack, remarked that if the movie division couldn’t resolve its financial troubles with good product, the company would still be fine because they always had the studio tour, and if that stopped being profitable they could always sell the backlot to a condo developer. (I’m sure these thoughts were bandied about in the same half-serious way at 20th Century and MGM before Century City and Culver City became residential communities.) The small independents, however, didn’t have the luxury of destination studio tours and real estate with its own zip codes. The independents understood that the only way they could compete with the big studios was to create not just a successful show or two, but a business that could consistently churn out hits year after year. Hence, Tinker created more than a company. He created a culture of training, the repercussions of which extend well beyond MTM.

  The creators and showrunners of many of TV’s greatest and most popular shows learned their chops at the studio, including: Glen and Les Charles (Cheers, Newhart); Ed Weinberger (Taxi, Phyllis, The Cosby Show); Stan Daniels (Taxi); James L. Brooks (The Tracey Ullman Show, Rhoda, Lou Grant, The Simpsons, Mary Tyler Moore); Allan Burns (Rhoda, Lou Grant); Gary David Goldberg (Family Ties, Brooklyn Bridge, Spin City); Barry Kemp (Newhart, Coach); Hugh Wilson (WKRP in Cincinnati, Frank’s Place); Jay Tarses (The Days & Nights of Molly Dodd, Buffalo Bill, The Slap Maxwell Story); Mark Tinker (St. Elsewhere); John Masius (St. Elsewhere, Providence); Bruce Paltrow (St. Elsewhere, The White Shadow); Anthony Yerkovich (Miami Vice); Dick Wolf (Law & Order); Tom Fontana (Homicide: Life on the Street, Oz); Glen Gordon Caron (Moonlighting, Medium); Marshall Herskovitz (thirtysomething, My So-Called Life); Joshua Brand and John Falsey (Northern Exposure, A Year in the Life, I’ll Fly Away, St. Elsewhere); and Milch and Bochco. Former MTM writers and those that trained under them are still responsible for some of the best shows on the air. Important TV writers whose names you’ll still see in credits, like John Romano, Lydia Woodward, Russ Woody, Mark Frost, Jeff Melvoin, Earl Pomerantz, David Mirkin, Barbara Hall, Doug Steinberg, and Kerry Ehrin, all trace their lineage back to MTM. Would Boston Legal have ever existed—not to mention Ally McBeal, Picket Fences, Boston Public, The Practice, or Chicago Hope—if Bochco hadn’t hired and trained David E. Kelley?

  Three simple principles—hire good writers, train more, protect them and their work—are responsible for MTM’s success and its impact on modern television. This was the time-honored role of the studios, especially the independent ones. However, these doctrines would soon no longer apply.

  Along with thinking about shows that did not use writers and focusing on demographics, the networks employed a third strategy to ensure profitability. In the wake of the 1988 strike, arguing that the loss of audience to the growing cable markets was making the network TV business unsustainable, the networks began a well-funded lobbying campaign to overturn the Fin-Syn rules so the nets could once again own what they aired instead of renting it from independents. In the mid-nineties, the networks would be successful.

  Not only would this ultimately facilitate the end of MTM, it would lead to the end of all independent television production companies. In 1992, right at the end of the second golden age of television, there w
ere sixteen new series produced by independent studios and production companies. As of this writing, there are none.

  When I was watching all those great quality shows back in my apartment in Pittsburgh, I had no idea how much MTM and other independent production companies had to do with them and the TV renaissance. I don’t think many people did. But as I started working in the business, the demise of the independents would soon affect my life in a very big way.

  SEVEN

  The Funny Business

  “We use all parts of the buffalo.”

  —SHOWRUNNER JEFF GREENSTEIN TO THE WRITERS IN HIS STORY ROOM

  The best way to get a job writing television is to already have a job writing television. Once someone has hired you, you are now immensely hireable. Agents who wouldn’t return your phone calls suddenly call you at home just to let you know that if you ever need anything their door is always open. Executives whose names you’ve read in the trades stop you on the lot after a meeting just to say hi. Once you get your first job you are suddenly a proven commodity. Not necessarily proven to be successful, but proven to be considered possibly successful by someone proven to be successful. And the system is set up to market such a commodity quite effectively.

  Once I was working for Milch and also had a produced episode under my belt, I was off. I suddenly had big fans all over town. I took meeting after meeting. There is an entire infrastructure of agents and executives in the television business whose primary task is just to keep up with writers. They call it “tracking.” Your spec scripts are photocopied. Everyone “reads” you. Assistants, who are often writers trying to break in or wannabe executives, pass copies of your work to their friends, who study it and talk about you and your work at parties. Your name goes on lists (marked A, B, or C) in closely held files and up on dry-erase boards in conference rooms as you are officially “approved” by studios and networks. You’re in. Your name becomes a part of that loud buzzing noise you hear all over L.A. You become a piece of the golden puzzle that every executive studies during the day and dreams about at night—how to put together the right elements to make a hit show. Like Sisyphus and his boulder, the pursuit of such a prize drives men and women to near insanity.

  I found the whole thing at once thrilling and deeply unsettling. I mean, a year ago I was poor. Now I found myself eating a lot of spicy tuna rolls with Hugo Boss–outfitted young men and Donna Karan–bedecked young women who were referencing scenes in my spec scripts and talking about my future.

  At one lunch at Teru Sushi on Ventura, after executive Bill Sheinberg finished an extensive critique of what I had ordered—he was impressed with my choice of tako (octopus) but not so much with the Philadelphia roll—he told me that his door was open if I wanted to bring him my ideas for new series. The son of a salesman, I nodded confidently and thanked him self-assuredly, but let me tell you, inside I experienced an acute queasiness that was not entirely from the tako. (I ordered this stuff, by the way, because the day before I was thrown out of the famed Sushi Nozawa down the street, and I mean literally shown the door, because I ordered a California roll.) Frankly, I was spending every day just trying to come up with riffs of dialogue and the occasional story to keep Milch happy. Not an easy task. Milch was very displeased with Jim Harrison’s pass at the script, grumbling about alcohol abuse and literally tossing it at me when I bravely said I liked it. I had quite a job on my hands already and, hell, I just got here. How could they already be talking to me about my own show?! But in fact, young writers like me with virtually no experience all over Hollywood were starting to hear similar proposals as the TV business began to heat up.

  I received invitations to write episodes for a variety of different shows. I accepted some. I wrote a Beauty and the Beast for Witt/Thomas and CBS that didn’t go so well. I wrote an episode of a new sitcom for 20th and ABC called Have Faith, which went great but the series got canceled. I wrote an episode of a drama called Sons and Daughters for Paramount and CBS which also went fine, but by this time my attention was focused on staff jobs. My job with Milch and MTM eventually ended without much ever coming of the script. It didn’t really progress the way that Milch wanted it to, and his attentions went elsewhere, mainly to his series that got picked up by ABC, Capital News. But that was fine with me because I had been invited back to Universal to work on a pilot for a new series, Major Dad. It’s pretty rare to hire young writers to work on pilots, but they wanted to take me off the market before the staffing season started.

  My agency was packaging the series, meaning that they collected a packaging fee and had a stake in the back-end of the show so I didn’t have to pay 10 percent commission. Essentially the show was created around Gerald McRaney, called Mackie by his friends, and it was in one’s best interest to be his friend. This was a man who gave huge hunting knives, the kind with which you slaughter a deer, as Christmas presents, and who was rumored to carry a .357 with him at all times. For some reason, and I strongly believe it was simply because I was from the South, Mackie and I got along great. I’m not sure anyone ever told him that he was doing comedy, which, oddly, worked just fine. The truth is, there was very little that was real funny about rocket launchers and MREs, but ever since Cosby you could put a laugh track under just about anything and make a profit. And from what I could see, Universal was damn good at this.

  As strange as the process of writing drama was with Milch, comedy was even stranger. Rick Okie was assigned by Universal to executive produce the show along with Earl Pomerantz. Rick remembered my work on Simon and introduced me to Earl, a quirky, big-hearted Canadian who reminded me of Gilbert Gottfried. I was hired to help punch-up the pilot, and when the show was picked up, I was hired as a story editor—but I soon learned that my title meant nothing except to connote pay class. Most sitcom staffs function as meritocracies, meaning the best story or the funniest joke wins. Unlike other jobs where you follow a long process of paying dues and climbing a ladder, in TV if you’re good you can go straight to the top pretty quickly.

  Major Dad was my first experience with the story room, or as most writers call it, the Room. Sometimes a conference room, sometimes, like on Major Dad, just the boss’s office, this is where the staff’s writers congregate to brainstorm stories and collectively write. In the case of sitcoms, a lot of time is spent punching-up the script, making it funnier by improving and adding jokes. Work in the Room is probably the most important work on a TV series. It is the heart of a show. And yet this was the first I’d ever really heard of it. Just like I had no reference point for bosses like Milch, they don’t teach you anything about the story room in school. This was probably because so little actually gets reported about story rooms, since they’re off-limits to everyone except a show’s writing staff. Outsiders of any kind, even actors and executives, no matter how powerful they may be, are never allowed in the Room while legitimate story work is in session. I had heard that Bochco wouldn’t even let an assistant into the Room.

  Writers’ rooms casually developed in response to the demands of the modern television production schedule. Story rooms did not exist in the early days of television. A playwright did not need a lot of help punching-up an existing stage play purchased by Playhouse 90. As far as I can tell, there is no mandate from the WGA that a story room exist on a TV series. Likewise, there are no rules that specify the behavior in the Room. So anything, and I mean anything, is fair game for finding a story. I saw people talk about the most embarrassing, most personal things in their lives, things they would never publicly reveal, things they might not even tell a spouse, but that often led to material for episodes.

  As odd as I found the Room to be on Major Dad, this was just the tip of the iceberg. The culture of story rooms is usually set by the showrunner, and some of the story rooms in which I would later work were…well, I’ll get to that, but here’s the sort of thing I first encountered.

  During a story-room session where eleven writers were punching-up a script I wrote, Earl couldn’t understand
a speech I wrote for the major (Gerald McRaney), who was instructing his daughters in the proper military way to fold a shirt. I tried to explain it several times, which was difficult because of the pressure in the room. Finally, without missing a beat, without any forethought or trepidation whatsoever, my boss ripped off his shirt, handed it to me, and exclaimed “Show me!” For the next few minutes, using Earl’s shirt, I explained in detail how to fold while Earl dictated the speech to a secretary. For the next few minutes, eleven male and female writers sat there and watched Earl’s hairy man-breasts while he did this. I don’t know if he was just so focused on getting out that script that he didn’t care that he was partially naked, or since being naked is a figurative requisite for writing comedy he figured—what the hell! All I know for sure is that nobody at Ogilvy & Mather advertising ever took off clothing in a meeting. I’d never been in a situation where the person in charge was so invested that he literally gave the work the shirt off his back.

  First an obsessive-compulsive genius-junkie, then a comic-stripper. At the time, I figured it was just a weird coincidence that I had ended up with such oddball colleagues, but this was only the beginning.

  Although the dynamics of the story room vary from show to show, production schedules do not. All sitcoms follow a very structured production schedule, which gives shape to a writer’s week as well as the story process. About two-thirds of sitcoms follow a Monday-to-Friday schedule. Some, like Major Dad, follow a Wednesday-to-Tuesday schedule. They all go something like this:

  Day One: A brand-new script is read at the table by the actors. This is fittingly called the “table read.” It’s a fun and bonding way to begin the week’s work on a new episode. (That is, if a script has actually been written by this time.) The read-through is attended by all the writers, directors, representatives from various production departments like hair and makeup, sets, and properties; if the show has children in it their parents, guardians, and tutors are present, covering executives from the studio and network attend, and even agents are often present. It’s the first time the writers get a sense of how the episode will play, and whether or not it’s funny. After the read (assuming that confidence is high that a final script will soon appear even remotely resembling the draft that exists on Day One), the actors meet with the director and start learning lines. The crew begins to construct sets. During hiatus week when you’re not shooting an episode (usually one week out of every four), the writers map out future episodes. So now, based on one of those ideas, one of the writers will go off and write the script for the next week. Another will go off and develop or write the one for the week after that. The rest of the writing staff goes to the story room, orders lunch, often puts in orders for dinner, too, and settles in. Ideally, the script will be in such great shape that the writers can spend the entire day (and night) doing nothing but punch-up. This is a process in which the entire staff goes through a script line by line and simply tries to make it funnier. On Major Dad, Day Ones, especially on episodes that came later in the season, rarely had the luxury of strictly doing punch-up. I worked on episodes that had nothing but a two-paragraph concept at this point. If you didn’t know before the read-through, you know now what kind of structural work you have to do. Often scenes are restructured and rewritten. Often new scenes are developed and written. Sometimes entire acts (and even entire scripts) are reworked. Again, depending on the state of the script and how the showrunner likes to do things, the entire staff will often do this work as a group. An assistant or two usually sits at the computer typing up the agreed-upon changes. Sometimes the script is projected on a screen for all to see as the assistants input the changes. It is not uncommon for a staff to split up into groups and work on the script in teams. If the material needs a lot of rewriting, this is often the only way to do it. Although I have heard of shows (often run by family men) that finish the work before six even on Day Ones, most sitcom staffs work well into the evening on this day.