B004YENES8 EBOK (7 page)

Great composers may be mediocre conductors; why should an artist be required to be both? The singularly lonely task of creating music on a page does not necessarily prepare one for leading a group of potentially temperamental fellow musicians, nor does it automatically imbue one with that physical grace that is aesthetically pleasing to the concert-goer. Because you can write a good song is not necessarily evidence that you should also perform it. Frank Sinatra and Barbra Streisand are pretty good proof that the opposite is also true, though I concede I rather liked “Evergreen .”
¹⁴

Meanwhile, back at the office, Rosenbloom wanted to have a public screening of our film. “We’ll take over the DGA,” he said. “Serve some wine and cheese—have a party.”
¹⁵

I opposed this. I was “in like” with this film, not in love.

“But it’s good,” Rosenbloom argued.

“We’ve made a decent enough television film,” I countered. “It’s too flawed to play on the big screen. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”

Rosenbloom respected my wishes. Prange and I finalized the film, preparing it to be scored and dubbed. The WGA strike was ending. I would be moving back into my offices at Paramount. The urge to screen this picture, of which I was growing somewhat fonder on a daily basis, was increasing.

Swit saw the film with her manager and liked it but was concerned about how little we used her close-ups.

“Loretta,” I began, “you’re in every scene. “It’s like being the star and host of a
Variety
show. You’ve got to turn over the spotlight to your guests every now and then or risk the audience getting tired of you.” That seemed to make sense to her.

I pressed my luck and set up another screening. This time we’d rent the small theater at 20th Century Fox Studios. It sat nearly a hundred. Swit came with pals, so did Tyne. I invited my mother and dad, my in-laws, and a few other friends.

They laughed in all the right places. The women in the audience even let out an occasional cheer.

Women in Film was my next stop. In 1981 they were not the industry bastion of top women in the industry they would become, but rather a fledgling group … one whose understandable biases suited my needs. I screened
Cagney & Lacey
for fifty to sixty of their members. They cheered and applauded throughout.

I was learning something valuable. Although it was nice that people seemed to like the movie, what was of more interest to me was that even those who might be critical of a cut or two, of the camera work, of the story, of a performance, the pace, the music, or whatever—no matter what they might say of a positive or negative nature, no one ever said, “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe two women can do that.”

That had been the fear from day one. That had been the prediction of all those studio heads so many years ago. That didn’t happen. And that was the accomplishment.

So what if the picture had flaws? So what if it wasn’t the Phi Beta Kappa of filmdom that I had hoped for? Cagney and Lacey were individually, and collectively, credible. That was the thing to be proud of—the thing that gave me the courage to send the cassette to Suzanne Levine at her
Ms.
office in Manhattan.

The film was worthy, and I was, once again, in love and proud to call it my own.

Chapter 10 

OF THE ESSENCE 

Oftentimes, when accepting a network’s order for a television film, the producer is confronted with a good news/bad news situation. The bad news is the accompanying information that, along with the “go” to production, is a nearly impossible delivery schedule. After months, and sometimes years, of deliberation, the network suddenly has an air date open, and you are expected to fill it.

Hurry up and wait may be a commonplace characterization of the filming pace to a production crew, but its opposite is true in development. You wait, and wait, and then comes the dash for completion. It’s no wonder so many projects fail— not only is there insufficient time to complete them properly, there is generally inadequate time to promote them.

This was not true for
Cagney & Lacey
. A confluence of events created a unique opportunity beginning with the negotiating process. With our high New York costs on the one hand and our lack of prestige on the other, a lot of time was spent finalizing the economic package before either the network or Filmways was assured that a film would actually be made. That took us into late January of 1980. At that juncture, an upcoming writers’ strike loomed. It distracted the network executives in development, as they were kept busy trying to get scripts on their many projects completed before the labor walkout. As a by-product, the threatened strike also created a need for having movie programming stockpiled for the fall, in the event the strike delayed series production for the start of the new season. Finally, there was the decision to cast Loretta Swit. She would not finish the then-current season of
M*A*S*H*
until March. Since the network doesn’t buy expensive original programming for the summer, that left
Cagney & Lacey
with one of those spots for the fall, with the attendant luxurious post-production period in which to complete and promote the show.

It gave me time to send a cassette to Suzanne Levine, time for her to screen it with Gloria Steinem and others on her
Ms.
staff, time; so that their far-in-advance publication date and our air date might coincide. And so it did.

There, in the magazine’s October 1981 issue, in full color and in their cop uniforms, were Tyne Daly and Loretta Swit —right on the cover. It was the first time in the magazine’s history that a television project was so honored.

“The new TV show that asks the question: CAN WOMEN BE BUDDIES— UNDER PRESSURE?” That was the headline that introduced a four-page article by Marjorie Rosen, noted feminist film historian and author of
Popcorn Venus
.

Weeks before the
Ms.
publication date, I received my advance copy. Inside the magazine were pictures of our two stars and an even larger photo of the female writing team of Avedon & Corday. There was plenty of credit for me, too, and finally a special addendum to the article by Ms. Steinem herself: “If you would like to see
Cagney & Lacey
expanded into a television series …” followed by instructions on whom to write and where. This was very heady stuff.

CBS had made our air date in October official, which brought publicist Tom Brocato with his partner, Deborah Kelman, to Rosenbloom’s office for a meeting. They had their usual list of proposals for screenings, theme parties, and star interviews, ad nauseam. The length of these lists is determined by the depth of your pocketbook. It’s a typical shotgun approach: splatter a bunch of stuff on the wall and see what sticks.

I was getting impatient.

“Let me tell you what the campaign is,” I interrupted. “It’s the
Ms.
magazine article and cover—that’s the campaign.”

“That’s all very nice,” Brocato began his retort, “but their circulation is only about 500,000 …”

“That doesn’t negate what I’m saying.
Ms.
is the ‘sell’. What you do is get four hundred advance copies and mail them with an FYI note to every important TV editor and women’s page editor in the country. Let them discover the project themselves.
Ms.
is a super prestigious publication—an opinion maker—and the TV editors will easily pick up on the fact that something unusual has happened here, and they’ll write about it. You don’t need a press kit or anything. All the information you want to get out is in that article. Focus your time, energy, and budget on getting those magazines into the right hands and servicing the questions that come out of it.”

And that’s what we did.

The 1981 cover of
Ms.
magazine featuring Tyne Daly and Loretta Swit. Reprinted by permission of Ms. magazine © 1981

Cagney & Lacey
aired on October 8, 1981, on CBS at 9 pm. A performance norm for that time period on a movie-for-television would be around a 28 share.
Cagney & Lacey
captured a 42, meaning that 42% of the people in America who were watching television were tuned to that one program. It was a major hit.

Within thirty-six hours I was summoned to Harvey Shephard’s office. We knew each other slightly from the lunch that Lois Lugar had set up as promised all those months before at the New York Chinese dinner party hosted by Michael Fuchs. Filmways’ president Sal Iannucci and the company’s head of TV production Dick Rosenbloom were with me in Shephard’s office.

“Can you turn this into a series?” Mr. Shephard wanted to know. We had no cast, no scripts, no staff, and no series concept or series bible. This is the stuff mothers raise their children on in the USA—the opportunity to be a wunderkind for corporate America.

“Watch me,” I said with a smile.

“I want six episodes,” Shephard said to the three of us. “How fast can you deliver?”

The president of Filmways and his TV production chief turned to me for an answer. I knew Shephard would be in New York for the fall scheduling meetings on May 1. It was then that the season would be over and the following year’s schedule would be announced. If this was to be more than an exercise, I had to get episodes on the air before that May date so that Shephard would have something on which to base his decision. All I had to do now was arithmetic, subtracting six weeks from May 1.

“March 15,” I said. “I’ll deliver in time for a mid-March opening.”

To do that we’d have to start shooting no later than early January; even then it would be nearly impossible to make dates on episodes four through six. I’d worry about that later. Shephard was smiling—one of those grins you hate to see across a poker table.

“You’ve got a commitment based on that,” he said.

“Understand,” I chimed in quickly (so much so that I’m sure all expected me to fudge on my promise of delivery). “I don’t have Loretta Swit, unless you want to get her out of
M*A*S*H*
for me.”

Shephard smirked. He knew that I knew that he wasn’t about to do that. He acknowledged my Swit-less state with a nod, paused, then said, “Recast. Re-sign Tyne Daly if you can, otherwise it’s OK to recast that as well. This man,” he was now pointing at me so that all in the room might clearly understand, “is of the essence to the deal.”

It wasn’t friendship (Lois Lugar’s lovely lunch aside); I was the one who said I would deliver, and Harvey Shephard was allowing me to put my reputation, my relationship with the then-most successful network in the business, and, for that matter, probably my whole career, on the line.

This meeting took place on October 10. In just over two months we had to be in production on not one show but six. To shut down production, once we began, would not only be costly, it would preclude making air dates. The Thanksgiving, Christmas, and year-end holidays would take precious days out of this already too-short time frame. The best writers and directors were already under contract on existing shows or were preparing pilots to be shot in January and February. We would just have to face that—just as in so many other aspects of life—in the world of television series, the rich stay that way because successful series get the large orders, the early pickups, and the votes of confidence from networks, which not only allow life on a series to be pleasant but actually improve the work and make it easier to accomplish.

The best directors and writers are more readily available to a twenty-two-show order than to a show having a contract of thirteen, six, or seven. It’s all economics. That fully ordered series will no doubt have reruns and foreign sales and therefore residuals for its creative staff. The short-order show may never be heard from again. It is, as a consequence, impossible for the new show to compete with that kind of reward system, and so the novice program takes the leavings—the writers and directors that the successful shows don’t want or need.

Regardless of all that, we still had to find a staff, writers, directors, actors, and a crew, and we needed to find a place to photograph all this. We had no sets, and Filmways had no studio real estate, let alone sound stages. The abandoned building we had used for a precinct in Toronto had been torn down soon after we completed production. Besides, I did not believe that we could make a show on this kind of schedule in those days anywhere but Los Angeles.

Finally, there were legal problems. I was under exclusive contract in television to Paramount Pictures Corporation. My contract’s only exclusion was for “
Cagney & Lacey
, a movie-for-television.” It was not for
Cagney & Lacey
, a television series.

In addition, Mace and I were in the throes of trying one of our multiple and various settlements, and none of them anticipated the eventuality of
Cagney & Lacey
becoming a series.

Immediately after the conference with Shephard, I attended a meeting at Filmways. I quickly let my partners in on our legal complications. The men of Filmways thought they were witnessing the evaporation of their only foreseeable hope for getting on the air. The gloom in the room was palpable.

I then made my proposal in very take-it-or-leave-it fashion. I, too, wanted to make the show and was therefore too generous. Agents wait all their careers for this kind of opportunity: a weak and vulnerable production entity, a series order, and a client who is “of the essence to the deal.” Stupidly, I did not consult my agent or lawyer. I was a team player, trying to work out a mutual problem with teammates Iannucci and Rosenbloom. This could have been one of the great business errors of my life, for there is no telling what—at that moment—I might have extracted from these anxious executives.

“I’m already making good money at Paramount,” I began, “so figure I’ll do this for half of my fee structure under that deal.”

“How much is that?” The question was characteristic of Filmways’ poor-boy mentality.

“I’m in at Paramount for $20,000 per episode for hour shows. I’ll do this for ten, as long as my Paramount deal stays intact.”

My in-place and outmoded deal at BNB called for me to get something like $2,500 per episode on any hour-long show. My proposal obviously represented a substantial increase to the penurious Filmways corps. They did not quibble.

“I’m doing this so cheap,” I went on, “because, due to my situation at Paramount, I’m going to need a lot of help. You’re going to have to figure on spending a whole lot of money on staff. We can’t fool around here if you expect me to deliver as promised.” There were nods of agreement all around.

“One more thing,” I added. “Mace Neufeld stays out. I don’t want him near me or the project. No meetings with you guys; none with the network.”

“Barney, the guy’s a partner in the project,” pleaded Rosenbloom.

“Only financially,” I shot back. “He’s entitled to whatever he can negotiate with you guys, but I will not let him do to me on this what he did to me on
American Dream
.

To allow that to happen a second time would make me more of a fool than I am now for negotiating this deal without counsel.”

The reference to an attorney cooled the room. I went on: “It must be clear in the deal that I have complete creative control and that Mace Neufeld is to be restrained from any conversations with CBS or you guys in this area. I will not allow him to stab me in the back again.”