by Warren Littlefield, Former NBC President of Entertainment
Warren: My kids’ pediatrician wouldn’t talk to me, but I thought it was the boldest comedy move I had ever seen. Knowing Cheers was leaving, we placed our bet on the network’s comedy future with Seinfeld. It was a huge bet, but we used every weapon we had to promote it. In January 1993 we had the Super Bowl on NBC, and we used our on-air promo time to tell America Seinfeld was moving to Thursday night. The cover of TV Guide that week opened up accordion-style with a big picture of Jerry and then the rest of the cast. This was it; we had no plan B.
By the time the Cheers finale aired in May 1993, Seinfeld had overtaken Cheers in the ratings. It was astonishing. To surpass Cheers when they were taking their final victory lap? No one predicted it.
Jim Burrows: We didn’t want it to end, but I think the audience was trying to tell us something.
Warren: Given the steadily growing popularity of Seinfeld, the audience was trying to tell it something too.
When Tim Allen negotiated a new deal for Home Improvement in the mid-nineties for $1 million an episode, it was a big story in the entertainment press. Tim declared himself “the highest-paid actor in television.” That boast prompted a call from Jerry Seinfeld, who dialed me up one day to tell me, “I’m calling Tim Allen.”
“Why?”
“I want to know if he really thinks that the co-creator, executive producer, and star of the number one comedy on the number one network on the number one night makes less money than he does.”
“Jerry,” I said, “don’t make that call. You’ve said it to me instead, and doesn’t that feel good? Let’s keep how much you make to ourselves, okay?”
“Well,” Jerry told me, “okay. I could call Tim, but I guess I won’t. Thanks, Warren.”
“No, Jerry. Thank you.”
Glenn Padnick: I didn’t feel I was working on something extraordinary. It was just another TV show at the outset. I knew the show was popular, but I didn’t appreciate, until the end, how enormously influential the show was.
Jason Alexander: We were in our third season, which was our first full season, and I was walking in my neighborhood, and a black family drove by. A little girl rolled down her window and said, “We love you, George.” And I thought, “Why?” I guess because the show was funny. It was slavish to funny.
Warren: President of entertainment at NBC—the position I’d been elevated to in June 1990 when Brandon Tartikoff became chairman of the network—was about as close to king of the world as a suit could get in the TV business at the time. Now who and what got on our air would be largely up to me.
Brandon had taught me well. In particular, I learned an invaluable lesson from him in talent relations: talent needs to be loved. An actor’s career is largely about rejection. Auditioning is a way of life, and the odds of landing a role that brings success and security are incredibly small. Brandon taught me that I should never underestimate an actor’s hunger to be appreciated.
I had that thought in mind as I watched Madonna’s meteoric rise as an actress and a musical artist in the eighties. In the nineties she launched Maverick Records, her own label, and would make the occasional surprise appearance on SNL. The audience loved her, and the live format fit her well.
Though I was based in Burbank, I would make regular trips to New York, where I also had a modest office on the fourth floor of 30 Rock. On such a trip in 1992, I arranged through Madonna’s manager to meet with her to “discuss television.” Our relationship with Garth Brooks provided Garth and NBC with highly popular specials and ultimately helped to sell over thirty million copies of Garth’s albums. I thought, why not tell Madonna how much I love her music and her SNL appearances and see if there is any kind of a relationship to explore.
Her manager told me she was in the studio working on a new album, that her schedule was very unpredictable, but that the meeting would definitely happen. I didn’t hold my breath but received an afternoon call at my New York office telling me the meeting was on for that evening at 11:00 at Madonna’s place. At the time, she was living in the Dakota, the storied, Gothic building on West Seventy-second Street made famous by Rosemary’s Baby and John Lennon’s death.
In all my twenty years at NBC, regardless of the talent I was meeting with, my wife, Theresa, was never jealous or voiced concern until this meeting with Madonna. And that was before she knew the name of the album Madonna was working on—Erotica—which would go double platinum in the United States and sell over six million worldwide. What time? Where? Who else was going to be there? Just me … and Madonna. Eleven o’clock. Her apartment. Silence.
One of the Dakota’s doormen escorted me to an elevator. The door opened directly onto the entryway of Madonna’s apartment. The place was dimly lit, and Madonna greeted me with a weary hello.
She was dressed in a loose black T-shirt, rolled up denim shorts, and black Doc Martens. This was the pre-sculpted Madonna. She offered me something to drink, and when she went off to fetch it, I looked around and noticed a painting on the wall. It was a Salvador Dalí, and of course it wasn’t a reproduction. I stared in awe. Madonna told me she’d just bought it for $5 million. Apparently, she was doing quite well.
She then asked me why I was there, and three things quickly became clear to me. She was exhausted from endless days at the recording studio. Her manager had done a poor job of explaining who I was and why I wanted to talk to her. And she had zero interest in pursuing any kind of relationship in television.
I thanked her for her time. I left. I phoned home. It was just 11:30.
I had a similar experience with John Hughes in Chicago. I flew out to court him. We had dinner together and a lively conversation about the show John would create for NBC, something along the lines of The Breakfast Club meets High Fidelity. I was wildly excited about landing John Hughes. I guaranteed him thirteen episodes on the air, and nothing ever came of it.
So I’ve long had Madonna and John Hughes as proof of the limits of the seductive power of network television. Even when the president of entertainment himself comes courting, that doesn’t mean a hit show will follow. In these cases, it didn’t even result in a script.
In 1990, when I replaced Brandon, the cable universe was growing but still modest in scope, while the big three networks commanded the attention and loyalty of viewers on an enormous scale. Fox was still an infant network. I was suddenly responsible for prime-time programming on a network watched by tens of millions of viewers, and my success would depend almost entirely on my judgment and taste. My new job gave me the chance to succeed while the nation watched or fail with all eyes upon me. It was potent stuff, and I welcomed the challenge.
In the 1990–91 season we dropped to number two in adults eighteen to forty-nine. In the 1991–92 season we dropped to number three. The pressure was mounting. At the press tour in June 1991 one new series we highlighted was Sisters. It had premiered with a short run in May and was returning in the fall Saturday nights at 10:00. This really was my first press tour flying solo without Brandon, and early on I got a question about the appropriateness of the opening scene of Sisters, where they sit in a steam bath and discuss orgasms. “Warren, is this acceptable for network television?” I thought about that for a second and said, “Corporately, we believe in orgasms.” Big laugh.
Newsweek put the quotation in bold print the next week in the Perspectives column, and the über-feature producer Kathleen Kennedy had the line engraved on a Tiffany clock and sent it to me with kudos.
For the 1991 season, Cheers would be NBC’s lone entry in the list of top ten TV shows. The Cosby Show, in its final year, had fallen to eighteenth. Its spin-off, A Different World, was seventeenth in the ratings, while Wings—written and produced by former writers for Cheers—held the nineteenth spot.
Compare that with the 1986 season, when The Cosby Show, Family Ties, Cheers, The Golden Girls, and Night Court all held top ten spots for the season. This wasn’t just a matter of bragging rights. The financial health of the network depended on the popularity of our sh
ows. Many hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake.
I knew it was a long road ahead of me to put NBC back on track. But I felt pretty good about my ability to do the job. Unfortunately, Bob Wright (president of NBC) and Jack Welch (CEO of GE) didn’t share my confidence.
Bob Wright: Brandon and Warren were very fortunate to have each other. Brandon became a glorified figure. He was a great self-promoter. We wanted other people in there who could perform when Brandon couldn’t play anymore.
We wanted to put Warren in the position where the world wouldn’t piss and moan that Brandon wasn’t there any longer. While Warren was well regarded, all of the glory was going to Brandon.
Jack Welch: As I recall, we didn’t think Warren had enough gravitas and maturity, and we thought we needed a bigger player. More voice. More lunches at the right places. More of that to help us.
Warren: The guy Jack and Bob decided they needed was Don Ohlmeyer. Don was a larger-than-life personality in the business. He had an excellent track record as a producer and director in sports and had particularly made a name for himself in the glory days of Monday Night Football. He’d had a chance to invest in ESPN in the beginning—a bet that had a huge payoff and helped to cement his reputation for business acumen. At Ohlmeyer Communications, Don developed both reality and scripted programming for networks and cable.
The position of president of West Coast operations was created for Don, and I couldn’t help but take his hiring as a vote of, if not no confidence, then severely limited confidence in me. Don had the authority to clean house when he came in, but to his credit he chose to give me my shot. I am grateful for that.
Jack Welch: We hired Ohlmeyer because we needed a bridge to absorb some of the pain. Somebody who wasn’t unwilling to talk to the press and express opinions about all kinds of things.
Brian Pike: The best way to get the job of network president is to not need and not want it. Ohlmeyer was already rich, so he could have always turned to Bob Wright and said, “I don’t want to play your way.”
Patty Mann: There was a rumor going around that Bob Wright was bringing in Don Ohlmeyer. It seemed that Bob Wright didn’t think Warren was up to the job without somebody above him.
Warren: The third-floor dining room and kitchen that hosted the Cheers pitch was turned into Don’s executive suite. It was one floor above me. “On top of me” might be the better way to describe it.
Patty Mann: Warren and I were at the office on a Saturday, and Don walked in a side door. I looked up and saw him. Big guy. Big, booming voice. I grew up in a family where my father yelled, so I was used to that sort of thing. Don was a yeller. He yelled a lot. It was such an anomaly in our office.
John Miller: Don came in to relieve Warren of East Coast headaches and allow Warren to do what he did best, which was focusing on the programs and dealing with producers. Particularly in concert with Preston Beckman. Preston as programmer and Warren as developer was a good combination.
Warren: One of Don’s first comments to me was “I don’t think our scheduling is very good.” I told him scheduling wasn’t the problem; it was the shows. They’d gotten old and tired. “Get to know Preston,” I suggested to Don.
Preston Beckman: I was Warren’s consigliere. My job was to help Warren look good. I didn’t care how I looked as long as I got rewarded. My job was to strategize short term and long term. Long-term strategy—how do you build a schedule so even Jeff Zucker needs four years to destroy it?
John Miller: Don was a good leader. Warren could execute what Don said he wanted to do, but there tended to be friction. Warren was the program guy, and Don was the business guy, but Don had done some programming, and Warren had done some business stuff. So each felt he could do what the other did. Maybe better. Friction. A fair amount of butting heads.
Warren: Some of that friction was simply due to differences in temperament and style between me and Don, but Don was also drinking heavily at the time.
Patty Mann: You knew when Don was hungover. He’d wear these blue satiny jogging outfits with loafers and no socks. Loafers! Just couldn’t be bothered to get dressed. You could also tell Don’s condition by the way he parked. A friend of mine who could see his spot would call and say, “Don’s not feeling too well today.”
Preston Beckman: Don would show up in his sweat suits and be drunk. He’d stand in the back of the screening room, pissing on everything.
Jamie Tarses: We stopped having as much fun when Don came. He changed the whole tenor of the place.
Lori Openden: I knew Don was an only child before I knew it. He was always the center of attention. Big personality.
John Wells: The great thing about Don was he’d always tell you what he thought. You didn’t have to like it, but he’d always tell you.
Preston Beckman: I thought Don was a really smart guy and businessman. He was extremely loyal to the people he considered his friends. To a fault.
Harold Brook: Ohlmeyer was a conflicted human being but probably one of the smartest guys in broadcasting. Don was respectful of talent. If you look at the current executive suites at NBC today, nobody has any appreciation for talent, and it makes a big fucking difference.
Lori Openden: Don changed the parking so the suppliers coming in to pitch could have the good parking spaces. He went around to all of our offices to explain what he was doing and ask our permission. I thought the philosophy of making people welcome was a good one. Don didn’t know it wasn’t about the parking.
Warren: Don sought out some premier writer-producer talent and invited them to bring their ideas to NBC. Steven Bochco got a call and joined Don at our executive dining room, called the Hungry Peacock. Same lousy food as our commissary but served on tablecloths.
Steven is kind of a health nut, and he called me right after his lunch with Don. First to complain about the food: “If Don wants to encourage people to work at NBC, he ought to pick a better restaurant.” And then to tell me that given Don’s diet, he probably wouldn’t be around for long. Don had eaten a hot dog with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy and a Coke chaser. Then he’d hustled outside for a smoke.
“The man’s a walking time bomb,” Bochco assured me.
Steve McPherson: Ohlmeyer was an interesting character. His desk was a foot and a half raised, and then it was a pedestal desk. When you were talking to him, you were about three feet lower than he was. It was like he was from another world. Sometimes he was very vocal about what we were doing, but then other times he couldn’t be found.
Max Mutchnick: Don Ohlmeyer called us to his office, and I remember not knowing who he was. I thought the world stopped at Warren.
David Kohan: He was wearing a sweater. He told us, “It’s always sixty-eight degrees where I am.”
Max Mutchnick: He had this judge’s desk. It was very high. There was no humor there. Everything about that meeting was uncomfortable. I came in, sat down, and immediately kicked over a sculpture. I was intimidated by the guy and in an uncomfortable sort of way.
I didn’t like the machismo bullshit he put out. We were writing a script that was filled with humanity, a love story, and Ohlmeyer was a guy who I thought was from another time. I only softened toward him when I saw him with Jimmy Burrows. He loved Jimmy.
Lori Openden: Don kept his office at near sixty degrees, and he wore cashmere sweaters. You’d go in his office and freeze. His office chairs swallowed us. They were made for giants like him—he was six four.
Perry Simon: Don just shocked me. When he’d come in and give Jamie Tarses back rubs in the middle of meetings—inappropriate massages—I remember wondering what kind of alternate universe I’d stepped into. To this day, I’ve never seen anything like it in a corporate work environment.
Harold Brook: Don was a bully, but he was a bully who did his job well. He gave everybody the ability to do his own job, and that helped us. But we had a bunker mentality. The rest of us got closer because of Don.
Warren: I had a conversation with Don in which
he looked at me and said, “We have to learn to love each other more. We don’t have to vacation together, but we have to learn to love.” Very Khalil Gibran. I thought maybe this means he wants me to agree with him more often.
David Nevins: I’d frequently clash with Don when it came down to choosing shows. We had Mommy and Daddy—Don and Warren—and if I didn’t get an answer I wanted from one, I’d go to the other.
There was an atmosphere where not everybody had to love everything. I don’t think you want to create a business where everything funnels through one sensibility.
Jamie Tarses: There was an autonomy that we didn’t know we had. Don was noisy, but he didn’t actually stop anything from happening.
Lori Openden: He was argumentative for sport.
Patty Mann: Warren and Preston had to push so much stuff through Don that they were frustrated. Don was drinking at the time, and he couldn’t remember much. So they’d say, “Yeah, you approved that yesterday,” and that’s how they got a lot of stuff through.
Harold Brook: Don’s first words to me would often be “What did you fuck up this time?” or “What’s the bad news?” I don’t know if it was paranoia or just anger.
Preston Beckman: He had a serious drinking problem, and then there was the murder trial. That made our job tough.
Warren: That murderer would be O. J. Simpson. Don was one of O.J.’s best friends coming out of their years together on Monday Night Football, and he was one of O.J.’s most conspicuous supporters. Simpson was arrested in June 1994, charged with killing his wife and her friend Ronald Goldman, and he was acquitted in October 1995. Don Ohlmeyer was by Simpson’s side throughout, often to the detriment of NBC.
Don spent countless afternoons in prayer sessions with O.J. and Rosey Grier. He was at the L.A. County jail far more frequently than he was in his office. I thought it was fairly bizarre, but I was also happiest when Don wasn’t around.