In April of 1993, when I put the dust cover on my word processor and stacked the white pages in an old stationary box, I believed I was through with these memoirs. I had told about more than half-century of involvement in the theatre, movies, radio, and television. That pretty well covers it, I thought. I didn't know that I was about to get into what was, for me, a strange new form of show business -- sucked in by my old buddy, Bill Cosby.
He called me one day and said that he had been nursing a long-standing yen to recapture the fun and adventure of making I Spy, and now that he was through with series he was free to indulge himself. CBS was eager to give him a commitment, so I was to get off my duff and put together something bright and charming for him and his old sidekick, Bob Culp. Scott and Kelly were to ride again!
The idea did not enchant me. I am not particularly ambitious or acquisitive, I had just gotten my golf handicap down to twenty, and the blue marlin were running off Cabo San Lucas. But Bill is persuasive.
I came up with the idea of a second generation of aspiring spies: Scott's daughter and Kelly's son. I accepted an invitation to pitch the premise to the network executives in charge of movies at CBS. They liked it, I said, "I have just the right guy in mind to do the script. He's an Oscar winner. He has a flair for bright dialogue, and he can handle the tough mix of comedy and action."
"Who have you got in mind?"
I told them.
"He's not acceptble."
"Come again?"
"He's not on our list of acceptable writers."
"I'm sure I'm not on your list either," I said. And I walked out.
Turmoil in the offices of the William Morris Agency! "You don't do that to CBS," I was told. "If you behave like that you can kill the deal.!" was spoken with intonations of horror that would have been appropriate if we had been discussing killing the President.
"Why? If they're going to tell me who I can and can't use, why do they need me? Let them do it. I'll give them the premise. Count me out."
Cosby got on the phone. I agreed to another meeting with the network people to see if we could find an area for compromise. I showed up on time, defiantly wearing sneakers and without a necktie. After the obligatory coffee and small talk preliminaries, the woman in charge called the meeting to order. "We don't want you to think that we're being arbitrary. We're open to any reasonable compromise. Now, here's a list of writers we would find acceptable."
"I don't pick my writers off a list," I told them. "See you later!" And I was out of there.
More turmoil. More phone calls. More arm twisting. I agreed to a third meeting.
This time, they were ready for me. I had the feeling that everybody in the room had been briefed. "This guy is crazy. Handle him with care."
"Okay. We're reasonable people. We'll give your guy a shot at it. Have him submit an outline."
Under the circumstances, this was as much of a victory as I could have hoped for. I called up my guy. "Frank," I said, "you're set. Have your agent call CBS and set your deal."
"Gosh, Shel, I don't know. I've been thinking about it. If they're so negative before I even get started, it's going to be a ball-breaker. Who needs it? Count me out."
The next morning I went back to CBS and said to the woman in charge, "May I see that list?" My new education in dealing with the networks was under way. I had to learn a new set of rules.
Network executives have always had the right of approval of the central elements on a project: director, writer, principal cast members, composer. Now it quickly becomes apparent that this "right of approval" is, in fact, the right of selection, since, if they keep turning down the people the producer wants, sooner or later he's going to come to the name they had in mind from the beginning. Nice, huh?
The Directors Guild has a contract with the producers stipulating that the director shall have the right to participate in the selection of cast members and in the development and revision of the script. Then how come these rights have been virtually meaningless? Because, I am told, the network is the buyer, and as the buyer they are free to say, "This is what we want."
It must be understood that I had been away from the trade for more than twenty years. When I was in harness, responsible for multiple shows at the top of the Nielsen ratings and bolstered by the backing of such powerful sponsors as General Foods and Procter & Gamble, I had enjoyed complete autonomy. Now I had a bridle jammed in my mouth and I didn't like the feel of it.
I checked out several of the writers acceptable to the network people. I called producers they had worked for. I had their agents submit sample scripts, and I wound up with a talented gut named Michael Norell. Together we steered the script through the hazards of first and second draft. It wasn't easy.
After submitting the second draft, we received a seven page memo from CBS. The first two pages of the communiqué cover philosophy of drama in two sections:
1) Scott and Kelly/Character Relationship. This portion begins: "Our audience has considerable expectations of these men -- Scott and Kelly were the first fully grown, masculine team of their era. They (sic) created the modern 'Buddy Movie' concept. They were funniest when the situation was bleakest. Use this irony more in our script.....Let's not sell our guys short. They can be silly, over-concerned and even over-the-hill. But where is their genuine growth? Where is that moment between them? There is no triumph finally No tragedy. No gain. No loss, no coming together, not in any meaningful sense."
I replied to this that I did not understand what was meant by "their genuine growth." What growth? Physical? Intellectual? Financial? Political?
Who cares how the worlds has changed for them?
And what is meant by "no tragedy, no pain, no coming together."
In fact, I asked "What the hell does the whole paragraph mean?"
2) Plot/jeopardy/High Stakes. This starts: "Though we seem to approach it, we never feel a sense of real danger, real jeopardy."
The writer of the memo either never saw any of the original I Spys, or did not appreciate their scrupulously maintained tone. Not only was the series basically tongue-in-cheek, but the jeopardy to which our principals were exposed always had to take into account that our audience knew that Scott and Kelly would be alive next week.
The remainder of the CBS memo consisted of copious "page notes" that critiqued character relationships, dialogue, incident, motivations, and even outlined a whole new final scene.
My reply concluded "... though I have been assured by my associates that network requests are usually negotiable, I must make it plain that, in defense of a valuable property, my position is not."
I was never noted for diplomacy.
After a series of such confrontations, you can go all out -- like the 007 pictures or Get Smart -- and have a lot of fun, and that's all right. Or, if humor is not a factor, you can make total credibility your goal - a la John le Carre -- and come out with a gripping film. But, if you want a reasonable level of credibility and a discreet seasoning of comedy, you need a director with a high level of taste in both those areas.
Such taste is not acquired fresh out of a class in directing. It comes from years of trying out your stuff out on an audience. I submitted to the network a name of a director who had such experience. He was turned down without explanation. Likewise, my second choice.
No matter how they danced around the subject, it was clear that both of the directors I suggested were rejected by the network because they were too old.
It is an inescapable fact that, for some years, all three networks have been obsessed with the pursuit of a young audience. To that end, and to repeat myself, they have been favoring youth over experience in the selection of writers, directors, and key personnel.
That was the ground on which I chose to attack. Threatening to take my complaint to the federal level, I was prepared to prove, with an endless array of eager witnesses, that the networks were practicing age discrimination. Like any other bully, the networks will back away from a bare-knuckle fight. I got a director of my choice.
And so it went.
There were countless confrontations when it came to casting. I won some and lose some. Several decades ago, I would have enjoyed the challenge of these face-offs. Now I dreaded them. It got to be all too easy to say "The hell with it." But whenever I did, I regretted it later.
Take the matter of casting an actor for the part of Baroodi, the heavy in our picture. There is a scene in which Scott and Kelly force Baroodi out into the crowded lobby of a Viennese hotel, naked! The actor I wanted for the part is talented, experienced, and fat. I cherished the idea of a naked fat man scrambling around a crowded hotel lobby! The network said no. We were already in production. Days went by as I wrestled with the network people. We got closer and closer to the time when I had to release Cosby. Finally, I said, "The hell with it." I settled for a talented thin actor.
The scene would have been funnier with a fat actor.
With it all, the picture came out well. My latest encounter with the networks is over, but a new phase is about to begin. I think they are doing a grave disservice to a medium that has treated me well, and I'm going to try to do something about it.
Like I said, my golf handicap is down and the blue marlin are running, but I still have time on my hands!
Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums! Where is the valet with my armor?
Wish me luck.
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