PRAISE FOR
RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON’S
CREATED BY
“As I read Created By, my life flashed before me (only sexier), Paddy Chayefsky rolled over in his grave, and television’s A-list frantically searched their offices for the hidden cameras Richard Christian Matheson surely placed there.”
—Brandon Tartikoff, former president of NBC
and former president of Paramount Pictures
“Part fantasy, part paranoia, part tongue-in-cheek putdown of pop culture, Created By … bites like a vampire.”
—Daily News, New York
“[Created By] is truly a novel of its time.… Set in steamy ’90s Hollywood, its language is the dialect of the deal, the free association shared among minds with the attention span of half a sentence.… [Matheson is] exploring, among other things, the relationship between television violence and our own thoughts and behavior—and Hollywood’s cynical use of that relationship.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“A great, supernatural thriller.”
—Richard Donner, director of Lethal Weapon (1,2,3) and The Omen
“Richard Christian Matheson’s powerful novel is a macabre fantasy in the tradition of Edgar Allan Poe, and dead-on in its portrayal of contemporary television. The book will haunt you, as it did me, long after you’ve put it down.”
—William Friedkin, director of The Exorcist, The French Connection, and To Live and Die in L.A.
“Matheson excels magnificently. A great read with finely etched characters and a dry, sardonic wit. I’m jealous.”
—Stephen J. Cannell
“This book is like a heat-seeking missile going right for the flesh of the television business and searing it off the bone. I feel as though I know Alan White … as a matter of fact, I may have once been married to him.”
—Barbara Corday, former president of Columbia Pictures Television and former vice president of CBS in charge of prime-time programs
“Awash in Tinseltown glitz and hypocrisy, Created By drags us behind the scenes into a world where no one is worth any more than his or her latest success. It’s a world where the sharks and monsters of the business world are about to meet up with the genuine article, and where the creator of what can accurately be called a ‘monster hit’ is learning the true meaning of that term. This is a novel that grabs you immediately and refuses to let go.”
—West Coast Review of Books
“One of the most exciting books I’ve read in the last five years.… Every studio should be dying to buy it—if they’re not too frightened of the truth.”
—Aaron Spelling
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, places, organizations, and entities are intended only to give the novel a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters, entities, and incidents depicted in the novel either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
CREATED BY
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published October 1993
Bantam paperback edition/September 1994
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the excerpt from “EVERYONE’S GONE TO THE MOVIES.” Words and Music by WALTER BECKER and DONALD FAGEN. © Copyright 1973 by WINGATE MUSIC CORP. All Rights Controlled and Administered by MCA MUSIC PUBLISHING, A Division of MCA INC, New York, NY 10019.
USED BY PERMISSION. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1993 by Richard Christian Matheson.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-3693.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78873-3
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
For my father, Richard.
My remarkable teacher and friend.
My brilliant inspiration.
I love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deep appreciation to Pat LoBrutto, whose passion helped bring this book to life. Thanks, pal. Many thanks to my editor, Lou Aronica, for a highly perceptive eye and abundant humor. More to Jennifer Hershey, for patience, taste and thoughtfulness. And to Binky Urban and Heather Schroder for impeccable instincts, all the way around.
A final thanks is in order. I’d like to acknowledge some of the writers I worked with in television who shared a gift: Thomas Szollosi, Kenneth Johnson, Oliver and Elizabeth Hailey, George Kirgo, Nick Corea, Donald Bellisario, Andrew Schneider, Dinah and Julie Kirgo, Jerry Davis, Tony and Nancy Lawrence, Babs Greyhosky, Harve Bennett, Renee and Harry Longstreet, Karen Harris, Bill Sandefur, Herb Wright, Steven E. DeSouza, David Frankel, Sid Ellis, James Hirsch, Frank Lupo, Patrick Hasburgh, Gy Waldron, Lynn Montgomery, Barbara Corday, Norman Steinberg, Steven Spielberg, Aaron Spelling, and most of all Stephen J. Cannell.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Teaser
Act One
The Pitch
Setting
Character Motivation
Casting
Back Story
Dissolve
Messages
Subtext
Outline
Transition
Lunch
Ugly Gossip
Lunch Two
Zoom
Subtext Two
Two Months Later
Creative Differences
Demands
P.O.V.
Act Two
Ten Weeks Later
Reviews
Overnights
Go - Ahead
Inspiration
Sympathetic Character
Close-Up
Ten Percent
Flashback
Three Months Later
Talk Show
Preemption
Perks
Hero’s Fear
Villain Nears
Transition Two
Feedback
Station Break
Complication
Love Interest
Subtext Three
Ten Percent Two
Script
Break Up
High Concept
Violence
Guest Appearance
Ten Percent Three
Subtitles
Arc
Ugly Twist
Subtext Four
Partial Reveal
Conflict
Suspects
Advice
Horror
Reverse Angle
TV Guide
Hero’s Collapse
Subtext Five
Awards
Crisis Point
Realization
Moral Support
Ten Percent Four
Revenge
Reversal
Hidden Motives
Twist
Finale
Climax
Ten Months Later
Epilogue
About the Author
“The adage in television is that the fluke is the hit.”
Brandon Tartikoff,
Former President of NBC
“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
C. G. Jung
“Everyone’s gone to the movies, now we’re alone at last …”
Steely Dan
COMING ATTRACTION
Q. With “Hill Street” and “L.A. Law” you have really pushed the line as far as what you can do on network television.
A. We’re going to go farther.
Q. You don’t think that you’ve already gone further than any other show?
A. Yeah. But not enough. I want more. I think that you’re going to see all kinds of things in the next half-dozen years on television that you can’t even imagine today.
Excerpt from interview with producer/writer Steven Bochco, July-August 1988 American Film
teaser
May 12
Los Angeles
What is it? I’m getting something?”
Alan smiled. Maybe she was as incredible as everyone had said. He’d been sitting with her for five minutes and it was happening: the top-hat-zap.
“I’m not sure. The new pilot, I suppose.” Alan made a nervous face. It was borderline creepy hanging out with this broad. The way she sat there, staring.
Watching.
The trappings weren’t much, sure. Just a hold-it-in-your-hand condo in a so-so part of town. The whole dinky place had a blown-up Vegas swap-meet look and there was velvet everything. Cruddy art, too. Piles and piles of that ultrabrocade, Liberace nightmare stuff. As they talked, Alan couldn’t ignore a swag lamp that hung overhead, golden cupids encaged by cat gut that dripped glycerine in slo-mo. Sort of the tacky tears of time trickling into schmaltzy eternity. Nearby, the electric Elvis air freshener hummed.
Not at all the right setting for a famous psychic. Rich oil sheiks sought out this woman. Incredibly wealthy celebrities. Major league ball players having bad seasons. Lovers who feared defection. Terminal disease sufferers. Gamblers. They all came. Filled with wonder and hope. Lots of hope.
All the guys at Paramount who’d gone told Alan they swore by her. Absolutely fucking swore. As in the Holy Virgin or even J.C. himself. The faith ran that deep. Maybe even deeper when you got right down to it.
Shows that were going to have legs or ones that were fated to be flushed. It didn’t matter. She knew. She could pin it just like the gas man reads your meter. That’s how weird it really was. One felt more than vaguely naked.
And her specialty was picking shows. She’d even been on big salary with one of the networks to do that very thing. They sat her every day in a hidden little office and let her look at pilot proposals, pilot scripts, casting ideas, you name it. And, man, she had the fucking touch.
She’d seen Bell’s pilot “Mike and Pooky” two seasons back and loved it. Watched the whole half-inch cassette in her office at the network H.Q. in L.A. and laughed her head off. Loved it. Dialogue. Pacing. Acting. Action. It was all there, ready to roar like a rocket.
And when the suits marched in with tasseled feet and asked her what she thought, she said it didn’t have a chance in hell. Three and out. Maybe four.
Her visions had been a kindness.
“Mike and Pooky” got creamed first two weeks against some old Sly movies the other networks put in America’s face.
After a month, the network pulled the plug. No chance to catch on. Find its audience. Bell had freaked. All his Emmys, Humanitas, and WGA chrome, brass, and crystal didn’t make a bit of difference. That’s what was so fucking crazy. Didn’t matter if you had a star that tested out better than sex. Didn’t matter if you had a premise that was plated at the mint. None of it mattered.
And there was that goddamned psychic pulling down twenty-five large and calling them like some pointy-hatted deity.
The network had poured god knows how much into the promotion of “Mike and Pooky” and they were as frazzed as Bell. Over lunch last week, at Lorimar, some gay line producer swore up and down that the network had dropped at least five million. Double truck spreads in Newsweek, The Stone, Time, TV Guide. Radio and television spots. Talk show jibber-jabber with the groins who played Mike and Pooky, charming Jay, walking on the comedy sun-surface with Dave, doing a Pearl Jam ballad with Paul and the band.
But it didn’t help. The pilot got a fourteen share and it just wasn’t enough. Bye-bye, Mike. Bye-bye, Pooky. Turn in your wax figurines to be melted down. Back to potato chip commercials and method workshops.
And she’d done the same thing for the last six years, employed by the network. She’d only missed a few times. She even claimed she could get 80 percent accuracy. Time had proven her right.
“What about the new pilot?” Her eyes were somehow very sad. Too much despair. Too much everything. But then how would anyone look who knew what was coming tomorrow. And the day after. And next week. And five years from now. And could see you dying in some hospital ward. Or maybe worse.
“What do you see?” Alan’s fingers braided, nervously. “Will I do well with it?”
She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, polished toes tugging at blue shag. Her body faintly vibrated, curled in the chair as if she watched a favorite movie on TV. All she needed was buttered popcorn and a kitty.
“Write down the name of the show …” Her eyes opened a bit; shutters. She gestured to some writing implements on the desk. Then, her stare was petitioned back by the trance and heavy lids sealed, again.
Alan picked up a felt pen and scrawled THE MERCENARY on a sheet of white paper. It looked great, he thought. Bold and gutsy. The kind of title that made you want to go out on a midnight raid and slit villagers’ throats.
He slid the paper back to her and she didn’t move. The strange, hammocked eyes were restive. A minute passed.
More.
Alan needed to cough but drowned it with some Hires she’d given him. It was warm, tasted like the skull soda they give lunatics so they can dress themselves.
She stirred a little, opened eyes. Traced her finger over Alan’s words. Slowly, again and again. It was eerie. Maybe ten times from the T to the Y. Then, she stopped, froze; peered up at him, from her little writing desk. Smiled. “I see a great deal of money … you’re going to be successful.”
She stared off, as if savoring an evocative painting, she alone saw.
“It’s going to be a huge hit. I love the whole thing. I love all the E’s in the title. E is very good for you. People or places with that letter …”
Alan’s smile fanned. It was a rush. Like your best friend in high school telling you he’d talked to the girl you had a crush on and finding out she didn’t sleep at night thinking about you.
But it was a lot more. He’d been totally balls-out nuts working on this pilot idea for “The Mercenary” and the outline bible was the best thing he’d ever done. It had all the colors, textures. He knew it would make America insane and spin on the meanest, biggest ceiling fan they ever saw.
Mimi was still trancing, surfing the solar system. Jesus, thought Alan as he watched her, this lady might be the wall and the plug. And she was sparking to his idea.
She’d told Franky his sitcom for the Fox Network, “Let’s Get Serious,” was going to pull numbers and yank a fat pickup for a full twenty-two, first three out. And that’s what happened. One year ago, today.
That was Mimi.
Like you wind a clock and it ticks. That’s what she did. Franky had explained the whole thing this way: your life was a book and as Mimi sat with you, she zonked into some starry, forever place, sat on a rock, skimmed a few chapters, then galaxied back, opened her eyes, and abrafucking-cadabra she’s in her tacky little condo smiling up at you and the Elvis air freshener.
At least you hope she’s smiling.
Tell that one to Bell, Alan thought. No smiles on that clog in his bloodstream. Just a ten-million-dollar cancelled albatross winging over a traumatized brain.
“Any
problems? Delays?” Alan had to know. The network hadn’t even heard the idea yet. And those clawhammer smiles could smash your head.
Mimi sighed.
But it wasn’t weariness. It was just giving the channel some room to breathe and stretch and feel good about doing the reading; making the timeless data feel at home so it would stay awhile.
He needed some coffee. He always needed coffee.
All day, at Paramount or Universal or Columbia or wherever somebody was renting his thought process, he’d drink as much head diesel as he could hold. Fucking stuff was probably eating everything inside. Take an X ray, get a big blank. “Sorry, Mr. White, you don’t appear to have any internal organs left. You really should consider a nondairy creamer.”
“No delays. But it’s …”—she took his hand like a mother—“it’s going to be very difficult, Alan.” She grasped his hand more tightly. “This show of yours. It’s extremely special. I want to be here for you if you need me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He said nothing. It was the way she was looking at him, the way she was gripping his fingers harder than she needed to. The fear that seemed to flash across her face, a REM death mask.
“Maybe not,” he confessed.
“Success can be … very dangerous.”
He felt the bromides slinking near; Dear Abby thongs rounding the corner, out for a stroll. Thanks, lady, but I’ll put up garlic and mirrors if it really gets …
“… religion may not help.”
Alan stared. Spoke softly. “Did you just read my mind?” He was more uneasy than he sounded.
She didn’t reply. Looked away in private travail.
“Right,” he muttered. “So, what’s going to go wrong? Am I going to have a heart attack or something? Go bankrupt?” His eyes twinkled. “Get stuck on a bad cruise?”
She didn’t smile.
Alan sensed the crystal ball going black. He wanted to leave.
“Could just be … challenges.” She gestured without detail.
“I … is there something you’re not—”
“Alan …”
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