Revenge of the Nerd

by Curtis Armstrong

  Coincidently, Allyce and I filed for divorce from our respective spouses on the same day, and we didn’t plan it that way. It had been awhile since we’d been at work and when I saw her I said, “Hey, how was your week?”

  “I filed for divorce,” she said.

  “So did I!!!”

  I then suggested that under the circumstances we should probably have an affair. She was polite enough to say she’d consider it, but ultimately declined on the grounds that it was probably too soon for both of us, plus she was pregnant with her soon-to-be-ex’s child, which would certainly have complicated matters. It turned out that the rumors of our affair spread without our help. Allyce and I were photographed together arriving at a pro-choice rally in West Hollywood and the National Enquirer, tired of printing the same old “Bruce and Cybill Hate Each Other” story, printed a “Curtis and Allyce Love Each Other” story instead. It didn’t sell anywhere near as many copies as the Bruce/Cybill issues, but it was awfully sweet and I’m sure they meant well.

  In 2016, Allyce confessed that as early as the pilot episode she found working with Bruce and Cybill a trial. When I asked if she had a sense in retrospect which of the two had led the way into difficult behavior, she put it succinctly.

  “For her,” she said, “it was really a thing where no one had ever said no to her. She’d started out as a model and went on to have all those big connections, and had just come to expect that she would get her way no matter what, you know? If anyone ever said no to her, they were gone. It happened on the show all the time. That’s why she was the way she was. Bruce was just an asshole.”

  Like me, Allyce found herself in the middle of everyone else’s dysfunctional relationships.

  “I’d be on the set with Cybill,” she told me, “and Glen would walk onto the stage. And she’d freak out. She’d grab me and start dragging me off the set. She’d say, ‘I have to get away from him! Please! I can’t talk to him! Come with me!!’ and drag me into her trailer to keep from facing him.

  “With the two of them [Bruce and Cybil],” she said, “I really think it wasn’t professional jealousy so much as sibling rivalry. Like two spoiled children and Glen was Daddy. Constantly fighting for his attention, each of them thinking, ‘He loves me more.’ But there was no competition. Bruce was Glen’s favorite. Glen loved Bruce.”

  Allyce’s recollections confirmed for me that sense of a twisted family dynamic at work on Moonlighting. She had been the “middle child” before I arrived and when I got there I shared that position with her.

  One of the residual effects of this was the bewildering yet inevitable way that Allyce and I enabled everyone else in their behavior. One notorious aspect of working with Bruce and Cybill was understanding that there were certain basic things that professional actors gave other professional actors that we would never get. Like getting their lines read off-camera. For those who’ve never worked on a film set, I must explain: the way that filming works is involved and complicated. When we shoot what’s called the master shot, everyone is on-camera at once. When we then come in for coverage, the camera may be on just two or three people, and when doing close-ups, obviously, there will be only one person. But when doing, for example, close-ups, it is considered a professional courtesy to stand next to or behind the camera and read your lines to the actor in close-up, just as you did in the master shot. Many of the greatest, most famous actors do this every day.

  Not Bruce and Cybill. It had started with Cybill refusing to do Bruce’s off-camera. Bruce hung in for a while, continuing to do her off-camera even knowing she wouldn’t do his. Then he stopped, too. He would still do my off-camera, but eventually quit even doing that. It was the guest stars, though, who really suffered.

  Every episode of Moonlighting would have the client sitting in David or Maddie’s office explaining what the problem was they wanted them to solve. The client would usually be seated in the chair, David or Maddie sitting facing them across the desk. These were very long, sometimes emotionally difficult scenes to do, and the onus was always on the guest star to deliver. But the rule on Moonlighting was all of Bruce’s or Cybill’s coverage would be shot first. Then as the cameras were turned around to face the guest star, they would disappear, leaving it to the guest star to get through the scene however they could with only the script supervisor to feed them lines.

  Allyce and I were so ashamed of Bruce and Cybill’s behavior, we would show up on the set and read their lines for them. I remember the look on some of these people’s faces when they realized that they were being left in the lurch. We couldn’t stand it. In all my years in the business I don’t recall ever hearing of a supporting cast volunteering to read the stars’ line’s off-camera because the stars were so inconsiderate as to leave before the scene was finished. I honestly don’t know, now that I think of it, whether it helped the guest stars or whether it just made an awkward situation worse. But just like “good” children, we did whatever we could to mitigate our rebellious older siblings’ unconscionable behavior.

  Both Allyce and I learned quickly how to act to a piece of tape on the camera just to survive. One morning I came into work thrilled because our guest star that week was the great American stage actor Colleen Dewhurst, who had started filming the day before. I went to the makeup trailer and found her sitting in the next chair.

  “Miss Dewhurst,” I said. “Hi. My name’s Curtis Armstrong. I’m on the show. It’s really a pleasure to meet you.”

  She looked at me through her cigarette smoke and growled, “You on this show?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Okay, then maybe you can tell me something,” she rumbled. “Just who do those two assholes think they are?”

  Even Colleen Dewhurst didn’t warrant an off-camera.

  In our 2016 interview, Allyce also told me a story I had never heard before, which occurred during the filming of “Atomic Shakespeare.” It’s a harrowing example of how bad working on that set could be.

  Allyce had shot a scene with Bruce in a master and they were coming in to do Bruce’s close-up. Bruce liked to act without other actors there, perhaps because it could allow him to justify not being there for other people. But on this day, for some reason, the director, Will Mackenzie, sought Allyce out and asked her if she would come and do Bruce’s off-camera. She was sort of surprised.

  “Really?” she said. “Are you sure he wants me? He doesn’t usually…”

  “Yeah,” said Will. “It’s fine. Come do your lines with him. It’ll help.”

  So Allyce stood by the camera and they started the scene. Then Bruce stopped in midline.

  “Cut, cut, cut!” he said. “Allyce isn’t close enough to the camera.” So Allyce got closer and they rolled again.

  “Cut, cut, cut!!” he snapped again. “Allyce isn’t close enough to the camera!!” She made another adjustment, now with her face against the mat box. They rolled again. This time, Bruce cut again midsentence and stormed off the set.

  Allyce felt that somehow this all was her fault, so she went to his trailer to apologize. When he opened the door to her knock and saw it was she, he grabbed her by her costume, pulled her to him and snarled, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be that funny?! Do you?!!! DO YOU??!!’ His voice raised to a near-shout. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO BE THAT FUNNY???!!!”

  * * *

  As the spirit flagged on the show, Cybill chose to make a stand and told ABC at the end of season two that if they wanted her back on the show, Glen Caron would have to be fired. And ABC, amazingly, caved. Suddenly the creator of the show was gone. While many of the other executive producers, including Jay Daniel, Chic Eglee, Jeff Reno, Ron Osborn, Kerry Ehrin and Roger Director chose to stay, naturally the feel of the show changed, since virtually every page of every script, regardless of who wrote it, was rewritten by Glen himself. This was one of Cybill’s primary complaints, as every night new pages would be delivered to everyone’s house at 4:00 a.m. for their shooting call at 7:00 a.m
. the same morning.

  Admittedly, this was tough sledding, especially for Bruce and Cybill, who had massive amounts of dialogue to learn every episode. The rewriting—and the resistance to the rewriting—also contributed to delays in shooting. On one memorable occasion, we had shown up on set and had just finished shooting the master of the first scene on the schedule when new pages were handed to us on set. The master was basically trashed as a result and the editors had to piece the scene together using only coverage.

  The stories of Moonlighting’s adventures in filming are legendary. There was the Whoopi Goldberg episode, famous among fans for making absolutely no sense at all. Then there was the episode we were filming up against the deadline for the writers’ strike in 1987. The strike was called, and we hadn’t finished the episode. As usual, we were down to the wire on delivering the episode for broadcast. We couldn’t hand it in seven minutes short. What to do?

  I got a call the evening before giving me a call time and telling me we couldn’t shoot scripted material, but we were going to do “something.” “Bruce,” I was told, “had an idea.”

  We didn’t even try to wrap up the episode. The show just cut to Bruce and Cybill walking among our writers, who were all seated at desks holding strike placards. Bruce explained that there was a writers’ strike so we couldn’t finish the episode, but instead, he was going to have “Bert” Viola come out and sing the Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’ hit “Wooly Bully.” No reason, really, just a way to fill up the remaining time. Under protest, Viola does.

  It was one of the most famous Moonlighting episodes, even if no one can remember what the rest of the episode was about. We were able to get away with it because it was, literally, unscripted. Nevertheless, Glen got in trouble with the Writers Guild for breaking the strike by filming anything, scripted or not.

  There was the episode that featured an introduction by Cybill’s friend Orson Welles (in his last filmed appearance before his death); the episode shortly after the premiere when a critic for TV Guide, who had given the show a vicious review, appeared in the cold open of the show recanting his review, after which he was handed an envelope of money on screen; the black-and-white noir episode; the musical episode; and most famously, the Shakespeare episode.

  “Atomic Shakespeare” was written by Jeff Reno and Ron Osborne and is based on Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Amazingly, it’s still used to introduce middle and high school students to Shakespeare. It took almost three weeks to shoot, primarily utilizing Universal’s Court of Miracles for exterior locations, and was, I believe, the first single episode of an hour-long network television show to cost over a million dollars to produce. It was directed by Will Mackenzie. I was the only member of the cast to have actually played Shakespeare and this was the first episode in which I had a chance to do some real work. That, the “Bogart” episode (“Here’s Living With You, Kid”), “Blonde on Blonde” and “Sam and Dave” were probably my favorite episodes on the show.

  These were the high points. The low points were so low that it may explain why now, after decades, no one has written a real history of the show. As Bruce and Cybill’s relationship deteriorated—and there seemed to be, literally, no bottom to its devolution—the show’s producers did pretty much everything they could to diffuse the situation except say “no,” and it was way too late for that. To minimize the time the two would have to work together, they brought in recurring women guest stars (Brooke Adams and Virginia Madsen) to work with Bruce and male guest stars (Mark Harmon and Dennis Dugan) to work with Cybill. All four did sterling work and were fine examples of how professionals can display grace under pressure. Dugan wound up staying on as one of the only directors that both stars could work with, but the show, once a critical darling and ratings success, became the target of vitriol and plunging numbers. Weirdly, as things got worse, Bruce and Cybill seemed more and more like two sharks smelling blood in the water. Each for their own reason appeared determined to see the show crash and burn and they finally got their wish in 1989, when ABC canceled it.

  * * *

  The last few weeks of Moonlighting seemed, even then, like we had shifted into an alternate reality. At one point, we were actually shooting three episodes at one time. Strangely, it was not all horrible. In some ways, I guess, the pressure was off and we were faced with a finite future. But Allyce, now a single mother, was suffering a kind of combat fatigue following the years of both personal and professional stress. “Here’s Living With You, Kid,” the only episode ever on the show that could rightly be called a “Viola” episode and the only one in which neither David nor Maddie made an appearance, was a dream come true for me and a kind of professional hell for her. After struggling through years of DiPesto episodes being farmed out to spec writers and B directors, here was an episode that was written by our staff and directed by one of our producers, Artie Mandleberg. That kind of respect had never been shown to Allyce’s episodes. It was a difficult shoot for everyone. Even our friendship, usually proof against anything this show could throw at it, suffered from the stress and never completely recovered.

  But as we approached our finale, “Lunar Eclipse,” the sadness was sometimes overwhelming. I took to stocking my trailer with booze and having regular Friday-night bacchanals with the crew and other actors. Fridays were usually late nights anyway and I often didn’t make it home until dawn, drunk and miserable. But at the same time, there would be Curtis Armstrong Day …

  Given what a significant event it was during my Moonlighting years, it’s amazing how much of Curtis Armstrong Day I don’t remember. I do know that it came during a difficult time on the show. I do remember everyone was kind of stupid with exhaustion and tension and Curtis Armstrong Day was probably partially a means of releasing some of that tension. It definitely wasn’t the product of just one person’s inspiration. Many contributed and put an amazing amount of effort into making it happen. But my recollection is that it started with Bruce Willis.

  First, though, I should mention that Curtis Armstrong Day is a bit of a misnomer. It was officially known as Curtis Armstrong Week and it began with Bruce’s arrival on the set one morning—certainly a Monday—making the announcement, absolutely out of nowhere, that “It’s Curtis Armstrong Week, ladies and gentlemen!” This was greeted with the somewhat bewildered applause and polite laughter that greeted Bruce’s occasionally perplexing pronouncements, which were not uncommon. But he was in a good mood and that put everyone else in a good mood and I thought nothing more about it, other than bowing and thanking everyone for their support. It was forgotten pretty much as soon as it happened. Except that later on in the day, Bruce made the announcement again, for anyone who missed it the first time. And then again. And again. He asked Cybill on her arrival on the set if she was excited about Curtis Armstrong Week. Cybill displayed the feigned enthusiasm of a real pro. She had no more idea what he was talking about than anyone. And so it went on. For days. Now it was no longer just Bruce’s thing. Everyone was talking about it. Crew, writers, staff, actors—everyone wanted to know how I was enjoying Curtis Armstrong Week and the answer was, at that point, not very much. I was starting to look pale and nervous and would start noticeably at sudden noises. Something was definitely up. Now comments about “my week” were greeted with a stony stare. People thought that was funny.

  By the end of the week I was a shadow of my former self. We had been on the set all morning, though I don’t remember what the episode was we were doing. The morning seemed interminable. Finally, just as we were breaking for lunch, someone came up to me and said I had a call on the set phone. This was almost never good news. As the rest of the crew and cast went to lunch, I went to the phone.

  “Curtis! It’s Glen!” I hadn’t heard from Glen since his departure from the show sometime before. But he was at Warner Bros. at that point, doing Clean and Sober with Michael Keaton.

  “Curtis,” he said, “I’m kind of up to my neck here, but I just had to call to say congratulations
on Curtis Armstrong Week! Having a good time?”

  “Glen,” I wailed, “what’s going on? I have this feeling of impending doom…”

  “Don’t worry about it. Sorry I can’t be there. Have fun!”

  He hung up. The huge door of Stage 20 had opened for the lunch break and I walked out to head to the commissary, and that’s when the cheering started. Outside a crowd of maybe seventy-five people had gathered. Actors, crew, staff, friends, friends of friends were massed around two open cars and several studio golf carts, all festooned with balloons and signs reading “Curtis Armstrong Week.” A huge banner had been plastered over the door of Stage 20. Everyone, bizarrely, was carrying masks of my face, so it appeared that everywhere I looked I saw me. Throughout the crowd were extras and artists clearly hired for the occasion, including a group of amateur rappers and a gold-painted one-man band. A camera crew from Entertainment Tonight filmed as I was hustled into the front car, next to a costumed beauty queen, whose ribbon described her as “Miss Pacoima.” Bruce walked next to the front car. Cybill waved to the crowd from the second car as we set off on a trip around the 20th Century Fox lot. Savage Steve Holland was there, as was Brian Tochi. As we passed the Hooperman stage, there was John Ritter, waving and cheering. As we passed the building that housed the editing rooms for the show, our editors dumped huge hampers full of waste film on us like ticker tape. Bruce’s stand-in, Randy Bowers, and a couple of our crew followed along with their own cameras filming everything, eventually turning it into a pseudo-documentary, a copy of which I still cherish. It was all dreamlike and completely ridiculous at the same time. It was so chaotic that resuming work after lunch seemed pointless and Curtis Armstrong Day wound up being a half-day holiday, which I suspected was Bruce’s idea all along.