B004YENES8 EBOK (11 page)

Then the show: April 25, 1982, CBS from 10 to 11 pm. The episode got a 34 share and came in seventh of all programs broadcast for the week. The ratings came out late the following Tuesday.

On Wednesday morning Dick Rosenbloom and I were in Harvey Shephard’s office at his invitation. It was just the two of us with Shephard this time. Sal Iannucci was no longer part of the team. In the midst of our six-show order, Filmways had been taken over by the motion picture entity known as Orion Pictures Corporation, headed by the venerable Arthur Krim and his partners, Eric Pleskow, Robert Benjamin, and Mike Medavoy. None of them knew much, if anything, about television, but Iannucci, who had made a play to acquire the television division, was out. The management team at Orion decided—for the moment—to do nothing about selling off assets until they could get a better feel for the operation they now controlled.

None of that mattered much to me as Rosenbloom sat on the couch opposite Shephard’s desk. I sat closer to Shephard and to the side. Typical of these meetings, it was me that Harvey Shephard addressed. It had been that way from the day he had declared me “of the essence.” It remained true through cancellations and pickups, through good days and bad. Traditionally, it is the production company and its executives who are addressed or notified by a network, not the artist. Shephard made an exception in my case. Invariably his attitude permeated his network, the television company for whom I worked, and ultimately the industry itself. It made me somewhat unique among employee producers.

“There will be naysayers here who will say you did this against reruns on a dead Nielsen week
²⁰
I am not one of them. You took on a challenge, and you pulled it off.” Harvey Shephard barely took a breath before adding, “I’m going back to New York with the recommendation you be on the fall schedule.”

Dozens of CBS executives would be at those meetings—only three counted: William S. Paley, Bud Grant, and the man in whose office Dick Rosenbloom and I then sat. Three men would set the schedule for the CBS network, and I had one of them. I was focused on every word. This was one of the great moments of my life, and I didn’t want to miss a syllable.

The naysayers to whom the CBS chief had referred were his own employees.
Cagney & Lacey
had not gone through the normal developmental process at the network. In fact, it had been passed on by the series development people at CBS not once, but twice (first as a drama with comedy, then as a comedy with drama).
Cagney & Lacey
was made as a movie-for-television. In those days at CBS, these department executives—from those disparate divisions—not only occupied different buildings, but the buildings themselves were located in totally different parts of the city. They did not get together to “compare notes”.

Cagney & Lacey
, as a series failure, validated the system. The series people could always say: “Sure the M.O.W. was a hit; that’s where it belonged. But we always knew there was no series there; that’s why we turned it down.” Besides, if Harvey Shephard could simply stake out a movie and declare it a television series, then maybe—just maybe—someone in power might ask why they needed all those junior development executives and their six-figure salaries. Maybe television would return to that simpler time of broadcaster and producer-supplier. Few in middle management at the networks would welcome that. Finally, there was the embarrassment. Not only were those development executives about to be proved wrong, they would vividly remember for some time having to call the supplier(s) they were then working with and being forced to cancel a development deal or two because their boss had just plucked
Cagney & Lacey
out of the M.O.W. files. They would be embarrassed, for when you are in the power game, it always hurts to admit to those over whom you have power that you are not as powerful as you have led them to believe.

I asked if there was anything I could do to assist, referring to Shephard’s scheduling meetings in New York in one week. Would it be helpful, for instance, for me to put together a list of potential staff for next year’s season: different directors, story lines? Shephard shook his head. “I trust you to make a good show,” he said, then adding, “but I could use some ammunition.” I didn’t have to say anything for him to understand I was prepared to cooperate.

“Will you take a short order?” he queried. (Our contract provided that, following the six episodes we had just produced, CBS was obligated to order no less than thirteen new episodes, should they wish to renew. What Shephard wanted to know was, would we take an order for less—say four or six? It was a major economic consideration for us and clearly of no small importance to Shephard.) I glanced at Rosenbloom, he nodded, and so I agreed.

The network chief spoke again: “Will you recast?”

“Who?” I sounded even more surprised than I was, but I was plenty surprised.

“Meg Foster.”

“Why?” It was the only response I could think of.

“Barney,” he said, “the two women are too similar. They’re both blue-collar and too ‘street.’ Believe me, this is not a throwback to our old casting discussion. I bought your argument about contrast then, but Meg Foster is not delivering that.”

“I could dye her hair” was met by a disparaging look from the CBS chief. “Maybe it’s my fault,” I rattled on. “I could write her differently.”

“She’s written the same way that character was written when Loretta Swit played her. That time she popped off the screen. Face it, this gal simply isn’t working!”

It was not the first time I had heard this. Corday had been concerned, if not downright critical, with Meg’s portrayal from the first cast reading in our living room nearly three months before. My then-friend, producer-director Michael Zinberg, after viewing the first episode some weeks before, had said that I had “bet on the wrong horse.”

As my mother would say: “If enough people tell you you’re drunk, lie down.”

There was some silence in the room now. Creatively, Meg had been a pleasure to work with. This was tough, painful stuff. The decision was mine to make. Harvey Shephard was my only ace. He liked me and my show and had plucked me out of relative obscurity to make it. Now he had a problem, and he needed “ammunition”. I rationalized: it wasn’t as if he were asking me to do something like cast a nineteen-year-old with a forty-four-inch chest; the name Suzanne Somers had not come up as a casting alternative. What he was asking for was what my wife, the co-creator of the series, had urged from practically the outset: “Get the right Cagney.”

“Should I put together a list of possible candidates for the role?” I murmured. Shephard shook his head. The attitude in the room had changed to one of solemnity, worthy of the pain to which I was about to subject a fine actress and a loyal employee.

“No,” he said, “that will only get the word out all over town and damage someone who’s worked hard for us. It’s all premature, anyway. I will only play that card if I have to.”

Chapter 14 

CPR AND HOT FUDGE SUNDAES 

Harvey Shephard was scheduled to depart for New York the following Sunday. He said there was nothing more Rosenbloom or I could do; still, we both resolved to leave that weekend for New York to be close at hand should the need arise.

On the Friday before our weekend departure for the Big Apple, Corday and I attended the fortieth birthday party for actor Stephen Macht , the leading man on
American Dream
, my one-time
succès d’estime
.

At that party was Monique James, a woman I had heard about for many years but had never met. For more than a decade she had been the executive in charge of talent at Universal Studios, the person who championed the contract players and headed up a one-time considerable stable of new and not-so-new actors and actresses who were in business with that major monolith.

Ms. James had only recently left Universal to personally manage the career of the studio’s very last contract player, Sharon Gless. It was a small conversation point between the two of us as we both recalled how the blonde actress had been offered the “Meg Foster role” (referred to as such, for that is what it still was at the time of Macht’s birthday bash) for the TV movie as well as the series—and that each time the actress had been unable to consider the proposition because of her exclusive commitment to Universal —a circumstance that still existed, as Ms. Gless had replaced Lynn Redgrave as the female lead in the studio’s ongoing TV series
House Calls
. In return for committing to this project for the life of the series, the actress would be granted freedom from exclusivity at Universal once the series ended. That clarified for me the career choice for Ms. James, making it one with a future. I wished her luck and Mr. Macht a happy birthday, excusing myself from the party to go home to pack for my trek to New York. Monique James and her client were a footnote in my history of this project; I had to get on and into the future. The next day, Barbara and I were off to New York.

I hung out with Dick Rosenbloom less than half the time I was in New York. The rest of the week and a half I mixed with my Paramount buddies at Gary Nardino’s elaborate Waldorf-Astoria suite while we awaited word on
Modesty Blaise
and other Paramount projects. Barbara attended her own corporate meetings at ABC.

Nearly everyone believed that, despite the ratings of the previous Sunday,
Cagney & Lacey
had been canceled. As if to confirm this, the final two episodes of our six had, at that time, not been given scheduled air dates on the network. I was sure my ABC
Blaise
pilot had no chance; nevertheless, both the information as to what was going on at the networks and the food were better at Gary’s.

In addition to a grand piano, Nardino had a large easel in the middle of his Waldorf-Astoria living room. It held a board with movable strips containing the names of various on-air shows and the season’s contenders. The strips were multicolored to reflect the network in question. The board was further divided into prime-time hours and nights of the week. Besides those slotted strips on the board itself, there were others for shows currently rumored to be in disfavor or in downright trouble—these were at the easel’s base, strewn about on the floor.
Modesty Blaise
was prominent on the carpet; no one had much confidence in my Ann Turkel vehicle.

I wanted to be subtle about it, but try as I might I could not find a colored strip anywhere representing
Cagney & Lacey
. Nardino was positioned across the room at the bar as I hollered out: “Gary, where’s my show? Where’s
Cagney & Lacey
?”

“Forget it, you bum. You’ve been canceled!” It was good-natured in tone but also illustrative of the current scuttlebutt;
Cagney & Lacey
was not worthy of having a strip made for it, even if only to be discarded.

All of us hung out: 21 at cocktail time, Nardino’s suite post-theater, various in-spots at lunch, and the Helmsley, the St. Regis, or the Regency for the power breakfast. We were all in the rumor game, and everyone was trying to pick up some hint as to what was going on. To even get a couple of minutes with Lou Ehrlich at ABC or Bud Grant at CBS would be a major coup. It’s the closest thing the Hollywood creative community had to an old-fashioned political convention, replete with smoke-filled rooms. Television makers were all over the big town, and no one had anything to do but sit and wait.

The tradition goes back several years when, at one time, a producer might be called into the New York network meetings to explain how he was going to update or change his ongoing show, or how his series would differ from the pilot film he had made for their executive screening rooms. That rarely happens today. The West Coast network leaders already have that information in their pockets. They aren’t anxious to let their New York counterparts have a confront with “their” suppliers. That’s what Harvey Shephard did with me. When he felt the time was right to play the card he had, he did so.

I wasn’t there, but here is my version of what might have happened:
A board is up on the wall of the CBS executive suite. Like Nardino’s prototype, it has movable strips containing the names of CBS shows and those of their opponents. The subject is Monday night. Although only Messrs. Paley, Grant, and Shephard have the final say, the room is filled with perhaps a dozen or so executives representing research, sales, affiliates, corporate, development, and so forth. Everyone has an opinion, but now a decision must be made. What will replace the now-to-be-canceled
Lou Grant?
No consensus.

Shephard ventures forth an idea: “What about
Cagney & Lacey?
I was impressed with its showing last Sunday evening.” Perhaps research and sales nod, acknowledging the possible wisdom here. Too many others disagree. The idea is put aside. Most in the room disregard the last showing as a promotional aberration. Some dislike the series outright. They are left without a replacement for
Lou Grant .
They leave this impasse and move on to discuss Tuesday night’s schedule. So it goes, covering each night through the week. Time passes. Hours become days. They are back to the subject of Monday and the need to replace
Lou Grant
with something
.

Again, Harvey Shephard brings up
Cagney & Lacey
. It’s old news; it’s all but being booed down, when Shephard plays his card: “They will recast!”

Ah, the romance of the unknown. Suddenly, this is hot. There are assurances made by Shephard that the new show will have all the virtues of the 34 shared last outing. Add to that the glamour of a new, important piece of casting, and it is all the ammunition it takes for Mr. Shephard to have his way.

I wasn’t there. I have fantasized the scene so many times it has become real to me, but it is fantasy. Harvey Shephard never shared with me what actually occurred.

While whatever was going on was going on, I was at a bar in the Village with my cohorts from Paramount when a hysterical man entered, yelling for help and for someone who knew CPR. I raised my hand.

As head of the studio at Paramount in the early eighties, Michael Eisner had instituted a program on the lot where all employees had to be certified at this basic emergency skill. I had completed the course only days before. The hysterical man was the son-in-law of the victim. She was a woman in her fifties and a tourist from England. She had arrived in New York that afternoon, had a meal with her family, and then collapsed. Her coloring was light blue as she lay on a New York sidewalk, unconscious and not breathing. I did what I had been taught to do, and the woman began to gasp and finally to breathe normally. Within minutes she was on her feet and seemingly fine. Everyone was excited, especially me.

I never learned her name. She forgot to say thank you, but it was all OK.

It made me quite the hero of our little clique, and that night at Nardino’s I was in demand to tell once again just how this event had evolved.

Everyone was in attendance that night, mostly because Bud Grant had RSVP’d that he would be there. I could tell by the pallor of Harris Katleman’s complexion that the CBS boss had given the 20th Century Fox TV chief a not-so-happy private preview of Fox’s failure to crack the CBS schedule. Grant only gave those previews to the elite of his peer group, the studio heads and a very few top independent suppliers.

Now Grant was in my sphere. He wanted to leave the party, but his long-time companion, Linda Fernandez, had just requested hearing the story everyone was talking about. She wanted every detail on how one of their group had saved a life on the streets of New York.

That sound in the background was the gnashing of teeth by every producer in the room, the guys and gals who hadn’t been lucky enough to be there at the bar when the cry “Anybody know CPR?” had been raised.

My story was over. Linda gave me a hug, Bud shook my hand. “How much CPR does my series need?” I whispered as I leaned in close on the handshake. “I’d call you if it was in trouble.” He smiled. Then he added, “You haven’t heard anything from me, have you?” “No,” I said innocently. “Well then,” he said, “everything must be all right.” It was a few days later at 11:10 in the morning. I had just emerged from the shower at the Sherry Netherland Hotel when the phone began to ring. I was alone because my wife, having completed her own meetings at ABC-NY, had elected to return to Los Angeles that very morning. She had to go back to work, and there was no telling when CBS would announce.

I answered the phone and heard CBS executive Kim LeMasters: “You have a pickup for thirteen for the fall, contingent on the recasting of Meg Foster.”

My nowhere near over-the-top response? “Fan-fucking-tastic!” I all but screamed.

“Congratulations,” said Kim. He went on to inform me that the schedule itself for the entire CBS lineup would be released to the press the following day and that I should attend the announcement.

I had only one question. “Has
House Calls
been renewed?” It was not unusual to inquire about another show. One might have a friend or family connected with that project.

“No,” came the reply.

I said thank you again, hung up, and called Corday at Kennedy Airport. They got her off the plane to take the call. Asked by fellow first-class passenger Bud Grant why she was all aglow upon her return to the aircraft, Corday told him of the pickup.

“Oh, hell,” he said. “I could have told you that.”

I next called my mother, then Tyne. Finally, I phoned Ronnie Meyer at Creative Artists Agency in Los Angeles.

“I am inquiring about the availability of your client, Sharon Gless, to play the role of Christine Cagney in the CBS series
Cagney & Lacey
,” I said. “We have a firm order of thirteen for the fall.”

“She’s not available,” was the reply. It was early morning in Los Angeles as Ronnie Meyer went on, “She’s doing
House Calls
.”

“You can bet me she’s doing
House Calls
,” I chimed back. “That show has been
cancelled
!”

That afternoon, having shared at 21 what would prove—over the years—to be the first of many ceremonial hot fudge sundaes, Rosenbloom and I began working out our strategy for getting back into production. We needed to properly staff our new thirteen-show order. Recasting Meg Foster was only one of our problems. Rosenbloom did not know who Sharon Gless was. A larger issue was Ronnie Meyer’s belief that his client would not want to replace yet another actress in a television series.

There was also the problem of Gary Nardino. He would look the other way no longer. It was time to spend some real money and properly staff this series so that I could let it go. I had promised my Paramount employer that I would now become a coupon clipper; that
Cagney & Lacey
would be set up in such a way so that little or no work would be required of me.

Our first thought was to go after the staff of the then-newly canceled
Lou Grant
. Only April Smith, who was the least experienced of that crew, was available and interested in hiring out on yet another series. We signed her as writer/producer. She found Bob Crais, of
Quincy
and other such shows, to be her right arm. April also went after the comedy writing team of Patt Shea and Harriet Weiss. This selection made Tony Barr nervous. He would not approve the choice. At April’s request, I went directly to Shephard and got the OK to get them on board. It was nice to have an early win for Ms. Smith. She was grateful, but it was all for naught. Ms. Weiss hated working in the hour form, didn’t feel comfortable with doing a drama, and, rather than watch an award-winning comedy duo split up, Ms. Shea joined her partner in asking for—and getting—a release from their contract. Frank Abatemarco then joined the staff, followed by Jeffrey Lane. The writing corps was complete.