B004YENES8 EBOK (15 page)

“We know we’re not producers,” said Mr. Brown. “We acknowledge that you’re the boss and the de facto producer, but the credit is a deal breaker for us. We want to be in the club.”

I felt I was up against it. The gang of four had left the cupboards bare. I needed scripts fast, and I had no other strong candidates who were immediately available or interested. All I had to oppose this was my belief system and principle. Hoping the producer gods would forgive me (and knowing I would never forgive myself), I caved on this issue, and Steve and Terry went to work.

They did not have April’s experience, but Mr. Brown had an extraordinary story mind and Ms. Fisher was extremely fast and facile. They were also a comparative joy to work with. They complemented the staff with their very good choice of Chris Abbott, and we were off and running. Like Jack Guss, and unlike the gang of four, these writers understood my vision and worked with it. Terry was interested in politics, and Steve had us so well organized we could concentrate more on content and the Ronald M. Cohen school of moral dilemmas. The show began, really for the first time, to look and sound like the grown-up
Cagney & Lacey
it would become.

You call these plain clothes? Every now and then
Cagney & Lacey
went under cover as ladies of the evening. This photo in our Lacey Street precinct set was one of those times and the play acting was clearly enjoyed by all.

Photo: Rosenzweig Personal Collection

 Chapter 18 

DEEPER, RICHER, FULLER, BETTER 

Harvey Shephard was pleased when I first gave him the news of my departure from Paramount and my plan to move downtown to the Lacy Street factory, which housed the production of our beleaguered series. I made him aware that this entailed no small financial sacrifice on my part, but that I could be made whole with a “go to picture” on
This Girl for Hire
. He said he understood and would look into it.

Negotiations with Paramount, settling out my contract, would be ongoing for months. Several properties were in dispute, and the question was which would come with me and what would remain at the studio. I was to get the TV movie rights to
This Girl for Hire
, but the series rights to that project were to stay at Paramount, with me locked in as a profit participant.

One project that continued in dispute for some time was the pilot script of
Feel the Heat
, on which I had worked with Ronald M. Cohen for ABC. Ann Daniel, the selfsame ABC junior executive from the days of
American Dream
, had by now been promoted to head of drama development at the network. She seemed pleased to be, once again, working with the team she so respected on that long ago, ill-fated venture. When word came through that
Feel the Heat
would receive an order as a pilot film, it naturally intensified the negotiation process between Paramount and me.

In the interim I had also been told that
This Girl for Hire
would be given a go-ahead at CBS. Suddenly, with a series on the air, an M.O.W. green-lighted, and a pilot commitment, I was one very hot producer. ABC let Nardino know that I was “of the essence” on
Feel the Heat
, and the blustery Italian went berserk. No one told Nardino whom to hire, especially if it was someone he’d just released from an exclusive studio contract.

Cohen was hysterical as well. He felt the steamy melodrama he had written and set in Miami and the Florida Keys could be his
Cagney & Lacey
. While it was true that in the past he always wanted my involvement on this venture, he now believed that his interests would be best served by my withdrawal from the project. I quietly assured him that I would not stand in the way of his getting an order, but that he must allow me to use the opportunity this afforded me to finalize my extradition from Nardino’s domain. Ronald was hardly mollified.

Things got stickier and stickier as ABC and Paramount fought for over a week as to whether Barney Rosenzweig would, or would not, serve as executive producer on the pilot.

Ann Daniel had bought a team; now the disposition of that team was in doubt. She had reason to believe Nardino was merely involved in a macho maneuver. Cohen didn’t seem to understand that; with or without me, he alone was simply not acceptable to the network.

I wanted out, wanted to help Ronald, and wanted to get something for my efforts and for putting a good face on all this with ABC. Nardino’s position was the most graphic of all; he was the powerful head of a major television operation, and he wanted “his” executive producer to devote 100 percent of his time to the project or withdraw. (It should be pointed out that had
Cagney & Lacey
been a Paramount show, Gary would have accepted something substantially less than 100 percent of my time on
Feel the Heat
.)

I maneuvered among all parties and, with the aid of attorney Stu Glickman, got a decent settlement from Paramount on my overall contract, assured Ann Daniel that I believed a good picture could be achieved without my services, and I further agreed that, if the parties wished, I would function as a non-exclusive creative consultant, which I did. It turns out I would earn that stipend over a long, rainy weekend in the Florida Keys, brokering one of many misunderstandings between director Ray Danton, producer Eddie Milkis, and my friend, Ronald—the writer and wannabe executive producer.

I worked on budgets for
This Girl for Hire
(too high at $2,250,000), assisted Glickman on the negotiations for a license fee on that project (too low at $1,800,000), finalized the production and editorial on what I will call the “April Smith initial order” of thirteen
Cagney & Lacey
episodes, all while supervising the script work from Terry and Steve on the nine scripts for the back end of the season. It was a rare day that ended before 2 am or started after eight in the morning.

I would meet with publicists on
Cagney & Lacey
, or lawyers on the TV movie, or the Paramount negotiations in the morning, with the
Cagney & Lacey
writing staff and production team during the afternoons, and with the
Cagney & Lacey
editors at night. I would generally meet with Ronald M. Cohen on the weekends.

One Friday night, while working on finalizing an episode in editorial, I got a call from the production manager, Bob Birnbaum. It was nearly 9 pm, and work on our location was drawing to a close. The production schedule called for the company to return to Lacy Street for one more scene in order to finalize the week’s work, but Ms. Gless, I was told, “refuses to go on.”

Birnbaum went on to report that the actress said she was exhausted and, rather than continue on with the planned company move back to Lacy Street for the week’s final scene, Miss Gless wanted the shoot called off at the end of the location sequence we were then finalizing. This final scene not only finished the episode but filled out our guaranteed daily crew minimum of a twelve-hour shooting day.

The crew was guaranteed—
and paid
—for a twelve-hour day, five days a week: a sixty-hour work week, which included twenty hours of certain overtime pay. Tyne and Sharon were carrying the primary weight of our entire hour-long dramatic series. No other women in our industry were asked to do that. It merits comment.

Our stories of revelation concept had the plots of our shows being revealed to the audience through the eyes of at least one of the principals. This meant that Tyne, Sharon, or both were in virtually every scene. We did not enjoy the luxury of being able to parallel edit to some six-to-ten-page sequence featuring actors other than the two leads.

There was very little work, at all, in which at least one of our two leads was not present. Furthermore, we—me, the network, and the American viewing public— required them, as women and as stars, to look a certain way. Paul Michael Glaser or David Soul might stroll on the set of
Starsky & Hutch
fifteen minutes after waking and, having shaved and towel-dried their hair, be ready for camera. These women—as do most females over thirty in our business (or, if you will, Donald Trump)—required two hours of hairdressing and makeup. Then there were the wardrobe fittings, the publicity demands, transportation time, and so on. They came to work that much sooner than the bulk of the crew and got that much less sleep in order to work what was, at least, a fourteen- to sixteen-hour day.

Under Aaron “Rosy” Rosenberg at 20th Century Fox, I served as an associate producer on two Doris Day films (
Do Not Disturb
, with costar Rod Taylor, and
Caprice
, costarring Richard Harris); on both of them, our cinematographer was the revered Leon Shamroy. Though he has been dead over twenty years, no other cinematographer to this day can match the number of awards Shamroy accrued during his career. His work on
Wilson
,
The Agony and the Ecstacy
, and
South Pacific
alone assured him of more Academy recognition than most cinematographers receive in a lifetime. This venerable and talented cinematographer would refuse to photograph Ms. Day in close-up after 4:30 in the afternoon. By then, gravity had taken its toll, and Shammy would say, in his own ruthless and inimitable style, “Her face looks like a pan full of worms.”

Sharon Gless was then approaching forty, the same age Doris Day had been at the time of my apprenticeship. The cinematographers we gave Sharon were several rungs below the artistry of Leon Shamroy, and every day we worked many hours past Shammy’s 4:30 pm deadline.

Who said any of this was going to be fair? It is series television, with its unreasonable hours and its impossible deadlines, and that is what we had all signed on to do.

It had been less than a half hour since Birnbaum’s call, and I was on the location. My sartorial ensemble distinguished me from the six dozen crew members who stood around awaiting the arrival of the boss as if it were a scene from
On the Waterfront
. I smiled at those flanking the route to the motor home of La Gless and entered the sanctuary. To my surprise, Tyne Daly and Martin Kove were there, along with Sharon. To Sharon’s eventual surprise, neither was to lend their (apparent) promised support.

“What is going on?” I asked, not too sternly. Tyne did not speak, nor did Marty. They each looked up from their seated positions to the blonde actress who was standing in the rear.

“I’m tired.” The actress then added, “We’re all exhausted.” Sharon looked to her co-workers for some show of solidarity. None was forthcoming.

“It’s tiring work,” I acknowledged. I was very calm, almost soft-spoken. I then referenced our first conversation at
Musso & Frank’s
restaurant, recalling I had forewarned her of how debilitating the work would be and reminding her of how she had ridiculed my then-stated thesis that whatever she had done before could not possibly be as difficult as this.

I would not give in to her demand. To print the expletives she then directed at me would be unfair. You have to know Ms. Gless to appreciate that she has a mouth on her that men in a naval transportation unit might envy. I didn’t know her that well at the time and apparently blanched at the verbal onslaught. Tyne and Marty kept their eyes on each other’s shoelaces.

Sharon then continued with a litany of mistakes she felt had been made in the production plan and various other inefficiencies that could be laid at my managerial doorstep. She looked again to Tyne and Marty for support—no help there.

“Look,” I said, “let’s cut to the chase. We are not lovers, we are not even friends. We are in business together. That means negotiation. Sometimes you will win, sometimes I will win. That is what negotiations are all about. This one—I can tell you up front—you will not win. Forget the fact that your specific argument is subject to dispute—you just did it badly. You gave me an ultimatum in front of my crew, and that was a mistake from which your argument cannot recover. By definition you lose this one because I’m the boss. You know it, and you know how important it is that they know it.”

My gesture indicated that the “they” to which I referred was the throng outside the motor home. “Unless,” I smiled, “you want to be the boss.”

Sharon shook her head.

“Are we straight?” I queried. She nodded. So did Tyne. So did Marty. I exited the motor home.

“We go,” I said to Birnbaum with a thumbs-up gesture. The crew restrained itself from cheering.

As much as they would have liked getting off early, a film crew likes even better knowing who’s in charge. The danger of having the actor win this one was that next time the big bosses might send someone in to run things that might be even worse. Besides, no one wants the inmates running the asylum.

An hour later the company was at Lacy Street and setting the lights for our final sequence of the week. I was moving among the crew, providing—I hoped—moral support for what had, in fact, been a difficult day. Gless passed me on the way to the set without saying a word.

Wanting things to be friendly, I stopped her to inquire if she was OK. The next thing I knew we were into the argument again, and this time not far from the set itself. The area quickly cleared as the discussion grew in intensity, Sharon finally saying something to the effect that the long hours were going to make her and Tyne sick.

“It’s OK if you get sick,” I countered. “I’m insured for that.”

Sharon’s eyes widened. What she said was, “You are a fucking shit.” From her it sounded no worse than “You are despicable.” She then made a perfect exit toward her motor home. I stood there for a long beat. I, too, was working long hours, and nobody was writing my dialogue. I seriously considered letting her stew and then made one of the wiser decisions of my life. I went after her.

Only seconds had passed. As she heard me approach her motor home, she took the only refuge she could find, locking herself in the bathroom of the vehicle. The motor homes we supplied our stars were of pretty good size, but, even allowing for that, a head in one of these trailers is not particularly spacious. I stayed in the front room portion and announced my determination to remain and see this conflict to its conclusion.

I was midway through delivering (to a closed bathroom door) my apology for the thoughtless comment concerning the status of our insurance, when she emerged. It was hard for her to be angry. She was too caught up in the ridiculous image of the granddaughter of Neil McCarthy
²⁸
hiding out in the toilet of a motor home, and speculating on the odds of being able to escape by way of a porthole-like window.