Mollie, Kate, my granddaughter, Sophia, and her mom, Eva.
All together for the first time in eighteen years to promote a Family Ties reunion on the Today Show in 2008. (Left to right) Tina Yothers, creator Gary David Goldberg, Michael Gross, Michael J. Fox, Justine Bateman, and me.
We Have to Stop Now, season two, cast photo. (Left to right) Me, Shannan Reeve, Ann Noble, Jill Bennett, Cathy DeBuono, Maryfrances Careccia, John W. McLaughlin, and Suzanne Westenhoefer.
Chapter 9
The cast of Family Ties.
Years later, Gary's wife, Diana, said that as they drove away from our house that night, Gary told her that he found the way David spoke to me so embarrassing that he didn't want to work with him. I couldn't remember anything David had said that stood out; I had no sense of that night being different from any other night.
Apparently, I also didn't remember Gary discussing over dinner the germ of what would eventually become Family Ties. The project Gary described at that time was a one-hour drama, not a sitcom. But the concept was the same. Gary's idea, largely drawn from his own life, was to create a show organized around a left-leaning married couple, Elyse and Steven Keaton, whose three children grow up to be surprisingly right-wing. All great pitches can be stripped down to the bare essentials and still seem to brim with possibilities. The pitch that Gary used to sell Family Ties to NBC came down to four simple words: "Hip parents, square kids."
Little Tina Yothers, a nine-year-old who'd been acting in commercials since she was three, was the first one cast. She played Jennifer, the youngest daughter. A young, energetic twenty-one-year-old Canadian actor named Michael J. Fox would assume the role of our eldest son, Alex. A dark-haired, pretty sixteen-year-old newcomer named Justine Bateman would play our daughter, Mallory. After I accepted the role of Elyse, I learned they were testing actors for the part of the husband, Steven. David started pressuring me to get Gary to meet with him.
This was so awkward on many levels. First of all, I had no influence on Gary; he was very much his own man. Why would he listen to me? Secondly, the thought of working all day with David and then going home to him, too, made me choke with apprehension. But I did as I was told. I was sure he'd find out if I didn't. I went to Gary's office like a good messenger, if not exactly a good pitchwoman.
"David would like to be considered for this."
"Hmmm, interesting idea," Gary said, distractedly. "We'll think about it." Then he sort of looked away and became very busy shuffling papers.
By the time I got home, David already heard they were testing actors he knew from New York. Why wasn't he among them? Hadn't I asked? I assured him I had; I'd done all I could.
After a couple of days, when he saw no invitation to audition was forthcoming, David sent me back to be more adamant: David really wants to test for this. It would be such great stunt casting!
This was horrifying to do. I was so ashamed. I felt like the cleaning woman demanding a corner office. As if!
And again, I got the same courteous, inconclusive "We'll see ..." Now, in fairness, this must have felt grotesque to David, too. I mean, hadn't Gary sat in our house and discussed the idea in front of both of us? Gary had come to see him, not me. From my childhood, I'm very sensitive to how hurtful being passed over is, and Gary's silence must have been hugely painful for David. However, it was hard to remain concerned for him when I was feeling so poorly used. I was overwhelmed with gratitude when Michael Gross secured the role of Steven Keaton and put an end to the awkward situation.
Michael was a tall, pale, gangly New York stage actor who had been appearing in the off-Broadway play Bent when his agent received a call to have him put a few scenes on tape as an initial try-out for Family Ties. The way the story has been told, it was Gary's daughter, Shana, who was responsible for Michael's getting cast. Apparently, Gary was reviewing a handful of audition tapes and when Michael's came on, Shana, then five, said, "I like him. He's funny!" Soon Michael was being flown out to Los Angeles to meet with a roomful of network executives. To this day he likes to joke that Shana still takes 10 percent of his residuals.
Michael and I met for the first time on day one of work, and we immediately became fast friends. I'm sure it's because I appealed to his New York sensibility when my first words to him were, "You need a tan."
As we shot the pilot, I thought we were an unlikely family. Dark-haired Justine bore no trace of a resemblance either to me or to Michael Gross. I figured her to be an incredibly beautiful child we found under a rock somewhere. Then there was little Tina, who was darling and so willing, but being so young, she had few stage instincts. She learned on the job.
As for Michael J. Fox, he was cast in the role of the Nixon-loving Alex after Matthew Broderick turned it down. Even after the pilot was in the can, and so well received that NBC immediately ordered thirteen episodes for the fall season, Gary had to go to bat for Michael Fox. The head of programming at NBC, Brandon Tartikoff, proclaimed Fox, at five-four and a half, too short ever to become a TV star and didn't want him to be part of the series. But Gary lobbied strenuously for him and prevailed.
I don't know if Michael Fox didn't drive at the time or if he didn't have an American driver's license, but at some point I offered to give him a ride to work. He was living in Brentwood, about five minutes from my house, so many mornings in the first months I'd drive to his place, pull into the alley behind his apartment building, and honk the horn. I hoped this would be his signal to come out and jump into my car. Except when I hit the horn, I'd hear a shower go on. I'd think, Fuck! and then I'd have to sit there and wait until this wet boy threw himself into my Mercedes; he would just air-dry as I sped to work.
I adored him. I thought Michael Fox was a darling kid although he wasn't quite young enough really to be my son. It was nice to see how grateful he was to be on the show; he was confident but not arrogant and seemed to be a really well-adjusted young man. One of the things I quickly became aware of was his ability to get the most out of a single line of dialogue. At thirty-five, I might have been the veteran in the cast, the only one with any real TV credentials, but Michael Fox was the first to figure out how to take a Family Ties joke, break it apart with pauses, and squeeze three laughs out of it instead of just one.
Gary and his staff of writers, Lloyd Garver, Michel Weithorn, Alan Uger, and Marc Lawrence, created a wonderfully complex Alex: very opinionated, arrogant, conservative, impulsive, romantic, idealistic, naive--all fabulous traits upon which to build a character. And then, I think the writers fell in love with the Alex they created because in Fox's capable hands, he was comedy gold, good for the anticipatory chuckle and the follow-through laugh with every situation. They could think of a million setups into which to insert the brash, breezily confident Young Republican, and because his character was so well defined, the audience would be on the edge of their seats dying to see how they knew Alex would react. Once Gary, the staff, the NBC folks, and everyone else realized this, the writing, so to speak, was on the wall: the series' focus began to shift away from Elyse and Steven Keaton and home in on Alex.
I loved being on this show; I was so thankful to be working with such a creative cast and smart, funny writers. In the beginning I felt very positive and hopeful. The change came very slowly. On Monday mornings we'd assemble to read the new script, and sometime during the second season, it seemed that Elyse wasn't figuring very prominently in the stories. I didn't immediately recognize it as a trend. After all, there were five regular family members plus the neighbor boy, Skippy, who had to be kept alive during the span of the season. But as time went on, Elyse felt less like a lead and more like a supporting role. And no one ever came to me and said, "Meredith, I know you were hired as the star on the show but we're going in a different direction." A conversation wouldn't have changed the show's course or my ultimate feelings about it, but I sure would have appreciated the consideration.
Looking at it from a producer's perspective, I can see how it might have seemed like
the only way to go for the series. Fox was sexy, young, and bursting with talent. His fan base was large and growing. How could they not use him to his fullest? I had to fight feeling resentful toward Fox and the big shift that favored him. I was really fond of him and didn't want anything to get in the way of our personal relationship. I totally understood that this wasn't a situation he had manipulated. It just happened; it wasn't his fault.
I began to feel not just marginalized, but as if Elyse lacked a distinct character and voice of her own. It seemed that Steven and Elyse were becoming so interchangeable that once, as a joke, we tied our legs together and hobbled onto the set as one person. We felt it didn't matter which one of us said something as long as one half of the parental unit weighed in.
One thing about Elyse, though, was that no matter what happened, she loved her husband and kids. What I liked about the Keatons as a representative TV family was that when they disagreed about something, they'd talk it out. And when the fight was over, there was no lingering resentment. The love within the family was always palpable; there was a sense of mutual trust and respect, even for the youngest one. I could have used the Keatons' writers at my house.
At the Birney-you-can't-be-Baxter house, I felt we were divided into two camps, and what united the kids and me was our fear of David. It got to the point that I'd hear his Porsche drive into the cul-de-sac and I'd immediately fly into action.
"Kids, get your stuff out of the front hall!"
"Whose book bag is this? Hang up your jacket and put this in your room!"
"Did you get your homework questions answered? Better have something to show to your dad ... he's here!"
Now, I kept a fairly tidy house, I even had help to do it. But three active kids do contribute to a certain level of disorder and David seemed to take it as a personal affront. It could send him off the radar with anger.
Since I was rarely sure just what would set him off (was I a personal affront?), I would propel myself into a blur of straightening, cleaning, and cooking as soon as I heard his car. (Just recently, one of my daughters, grown and away from home for some time, reacted with a start when a Porsche drove up our street. That adrenaline rush of fear we'd all experienced was back in a shot.) Sometimes he'd come in and do nothing. Other times he'd just scan the kitchen with a distasteful look. Once, not liking what he saw, he opened up the silverware drawer and swept everything on the counter into it--a chopped onion, a knife, homework, pencils, coffee filters, a screwdriver, crumbs--and then slammed it shut. Then he said, "NOW it's clean!" He was the self-appointed ruler of our house and his slogan--always delivered shouting--was, "If something has to be done I have to do it. I'm the only one responsible here. You're all useless."
Ironically, David sort of became an odd ally for me around the show for a short time in an unexpected way. It had always seemed he resented my being in the show. Maybe he felt I'd taken something away from him. He never had anything good to say about it. I did everything I could to downplay it. I tried not to talk about my day at work. I'd usually hide the scripts because once he found one and flipped through it, then tossed it down saying, "You leave your children every day to do this piece of shit?" But at some point I must have said something to David about how disappointed I was by the way the show was changing because later I heard him talking on the phone with someone, discussing how I was being treated, sounding kind of indignant, and for once he sounded in my corner. My unhappiness seemed to allow him to be on my side, even if in some uncomfortable way it also delighted him.
Which was novel since we weren't a couple who delighted each other. I think he thought me inept, stupid, uninformed, a bad mother, and overweight. And he let me know this often. He was good at expressing himself. I could only assume he married me because he thought I'd be a good breeder. And I was.
I thought he was arrogant, vain, narcissistic, competitive, and mean. I never told him because I was afraid to express myself. I had no voice. I was afraid of him. I couldn't tell him anything I was feeling. I'd tried a few times but he maintained he wasn't my doctor and wasn't interested in what I felt. Perhaps if I ever had a thought I might share that with him. So I never bothered again. But I still thought he was smarter than me and seemed to have more rights than me. Somehow I'd given him all the power.
How do people like us stay together? We develop coping mechanisms. Initially mine was eating. David had complained about my weight for months. I actually went to a behavior modification clinic to see what I could do about those extra ten pounds. A seemingly teenage clinician chewed gum and flipped through a magazine as she lazily asked me what I was getting out of being fat. When it was posed like that, I got it immediately. I was getting heavier to keep him away from me, sexually. Making love could be unsatisfying or humiliating--or somewhere in between. I wasn't overly attracted to him and often tried to hide it by being the aggressor; perhaps he sensed that. I was grateful for the most expedient way through our encounters. When he would reciprocate, I could feel his lack of interest or enthusiasm in my satisfaction, which made me then even more unresponsive, at which point he'd mock me for my lukewarm reaction, shame me, call me names.
Running had become a useful outlet and coping mechanism in 1982, not long after Family was canceled; it was another way to get out of the house. Running was attractive because all it required was a pair of shoes, no equipment, no net, no ball, no partner. Running was also attractive because David was already into it, which I thought would make it easier for me, since he obviously liked it and couldn't easily object to my doing it. And Ted had been competing in track and cross-country in high school, so it was a family affair.
Despite my disappointment about watching my Family Ties character recede into the background, I appreciated having a place to be among the much happier Family Ties community. I think this is when I started to compartmentalize my life. No one at work knew about my home life except in the vaguest terms. I talked about David only in general and positively. It was important that I look happy. Oh, I talked about the kids, for sure; Kate even came to the set from school sometimes; but I didn't discuss stresses or conflicts with anyone, not even with Michael Gross, whose humor and confidence attracted me greatly and whom I came to love so much. He became my dearest friend but I never told him about the frictions with David.
And Michael Gross and I always got along! He was just so engaging--and so unlike most actors who'd come to Hollywood, get a taste of fame and money, and just go crazy. He was so unruffled by this, his first big paying gig. In the first year of the show, between scenes, he'd sit beneath one of the lights in the living room set and write letters to friends or darn his socks. For the first two years of the show, he didn't own a car and would often make the twenty-minute ride from his small West Hollywood apartment to Paramount Studios on his ten-speed bicycle. The guards at the lot wouldn't believe he was a regular on Family Ties. They'd always stop him at the front gate and say, "You're not on any show. You're on a bike!"
All of us got a kick out of making each other laugh on camera. And Michael would invariably succeed with me. Every Friday night we'd tape the show before a live studio audience. All the cameras would be clustered in front of one particular set, say, the kitchen, shooting the scene played out in front of them. Many a time, Michael and I would be situated just offstage, awaiting the red light that would cue our entrance into the kitchen. It was standard practice for us to just be chatting away about nothing while we're waiting, and of course, not watching for the light or listening for our cue. Consequently when Michael would interrupt me to hiss, "Go, go, go!" I would fly unquestioningly onto the stage, saying my line as I entered, and it would only be the sudden silence and the actors' blank faces that told me Michael had once more purposefully sent me out early. Oh, he'd still be safe in the wings, about to kill himself with laughing. I'd return to my waiting position, red-faced and flustered and plotting how I was going to pay him back, and the onstage actors would start up the scene again when Michael would say, "You m
issed it again. Go go go," and give me a little shove. And out I'd go. Again! Has there ever been such a dope as me? Thank goodness the audiences really seemed to like that sort of stuff, they enjoyed seeing how fond we all were, how much we savored mixing the fun with the task at hand.
I often tried that trick on Michael but wasn't very successful. I think all his years on the theatrical stage trained him to pay very close attention, and that guy knew his cues.
On an average week, I'd run about thirty-five miles total. But in the spring of 1982 I decided to run the New York City Marathon the following October, so I began upping my average. I'd get up very early in the morning, about 5 a.m., put on my shorts, shoes, and a T-shirt in the dark, and slip quietly out the front door. I'd been running with my neighbor Val, who lived just around the corner, and we'd decided to tackle the New York marathon together. We'd meet in front of her house and take off running, talking softly because the world was still asleep. I loved starting a run when the sky was still black. I loved watching daylight slowly creep into the sky and it would take on an apricot blush in front of me as I ran east, streaks of purple behind, and the day was mine. I owned that day when I could witness the sun coming up. And it was empowering for me to run and get stronger. I ran several 10Ks and I did okay. I didn't have a lot of speed but I could feel my endurance build. Some days I felt like I could run forever. So Val and I worked up a schedule to cover the three months of training we'd require and stuck to it religiously; it culminated in two 60-mile weeks, including two 20-mile runs.
I told everyone I was going to run the largest marathon in the world--except David. I was afraid all the training and staying in New York for a couple of days for the race wasn't going to go over well with him. I kept putting off telling him; I didn't want to deal with his attitude. The day I did tell him, I had just come back from a run and was watering the grass along our driveway. He'd come outside and I seized the opportunity to casually tell him I was training for the New York City Marathon. David was immediately indignant. What was everyone else supposed to do while I was off running? he asked. I explained to him the training schedule I had been keeping that he'd never noticed: when I was back home from running in the morning, I'd get the kids up and I'd make them breakfast if the nanny didn't have it ready. I'd shower in the kids' shower so as not to wake David. The nanny and I would split driving the kids to their respective schools, then I'd drive to Paramount for Family Ties rehearsal by 10 a.m. My running wasn't going to interfere with his life at all but David harangued me about it nonetheless, saying that I was selfish and not thinking of anyone else, but I didn't argue. And I didn't back down. In the end, his complaining stopped when he decided that he would run the marathon, too.
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