B004YENES8 EBOK (35 page)

It was almost as bad a reaction as she had to our scripts on “Date Rape,” “Burnout,” the breast cancer two-parter, and the return of Lacey’s father (coincidentally, some of our best). Ms. Daly’s call, damning the writers, came on the same day (although, admittedly, hours before)
Cagney & Lacey
received three of the seven 1986 Writers Guild nominations for Best Series Teleplay (Deborah Arakelian for “Child Witness,” Patricia Green for “Who Said It’s Fair” Part II, and Georgia Jeffries, who won for “Unusual Occurrence”).

The reading for Liz Coe’s script was attended by everyone in our regular cast plus our entire staff. Tyne was rude during her presentation, and I interrupted the reading to tell her so in front of all assembled. She apologized on the spot, and I accepted. There was talk that the writing staff might actually get together and erect a special monument memorializing the event. It was a good moment.

“Parting Shots,” our final
Cagney & Lacey
episode for the season, was aptly named. My worries about everyone’s emotional concerns for a departing colleague (Dan Shor) were misplaced. The script, strongly favoring Sharon, came under heavy attack, first by Tyne Daly and then our director—her husband, Georg Stanford Brown .

Tyne saw Cagney’s behavior in the teleplay as reprehensible—so much so that it would end the partnership. Georg conceded the importance of the episode but was (it seemed to me) concerned that such a benchmark did not feature his spouse. At this point in our mutual history, I had come to believe it was more than a little coincidental that the times of greatest difficulty with Ms. Daly, vis-à-vis Lacey in juxtaposition with Cagney, seemed to occur primarily on episodes directed by her consort.

(It should be noted that this kind of behavior from either of the women was unusual in that neither of the two stars, competitive though they might be, were ever what I would have classified as “line-counters”. Neither would ever display concerns about whose part was being featured in any particular episode. It just was not who they were—or are. They were invariably supportive of one another, more than willing to pick up the slack for the other, and constantly looking out for each other if fatigue or some other factor distracted from the work. It is the very uniqueness of this particular conflict that brings it to this volume and leads me to suspect a third party’s influence—Mr. GS Brown.)

Liz Coe feared sabotage of her very good script. Sharon, meanwhile, felt all alone, without a caring or supportive director, and wanting, desperately, to do justice to this material. (La Gless had moved past paranoia and with good reason, for “they” really were out to get her this time.) My blonde leading lady took a recognizable defense posture of appearing not to care. She did care, of course, and on closing out the week she was unnecessarily apologetic for not having the “ability” to measure up to Liz’s script.

Meanwhile, Tyne, seemingly oblivious to her partner’s needs, relentlessly pursued first me, then Liz, then me again. She would have her half of the scene. (It had, I was to learn, boiled down to the last scene in the film, which, coincidentally, would be shot last.) We made adjustments for her, but I insisted on maintaining the final moment—the clear indication of affection between the two partners regardless of what had gone on in the drama prior to this final moment. Five full working days before this, Tyne called me from her mobile home in tears, unable to continue this “demeaning” work. I was in the middle of a meeting with my new head writing team, Jonathan Estrin and Shelley List (now called “Listrin” by me) but took the call, which lasted a few minutes and ended with her slamming down the receiver. In the old days I would have been out of my office (meeting or no) and on the way to the set, but because this was being directed by her husband, I did not go. He could handle her, I reasoned, and so he did.

The scene she was then complaining about was viewed the next day in dailies, and it was excellent. Liz phoned. She was once again under siege by Tyne on the subject of that final scene and believed that Georg would not direct Tyne’s final moment. I returned to Lacy Street after a dinner party with Corday and waited for the 1:30 am wrap to discuss this with our director.

I opened with a compliment on dailies—specifically the controversial scene that Tyne had resisted so heavily the day before. Instead of acknowledging the compliment, as he usually would, Georg began to demonstrate his own frustrations over failing to win earlier arguments on the script. He spoke of being forced to “badger” and “manipulate” his wife and that (I presumed referring to the upcoming last day’s work and that final scene) he would never do so again.

I reminded him that I was not talking to the star’s husband but rather to my employee, and I asked if he was going to direct the final scene to the specifications of the producer or not. He would try, I remember him saying, but there were no guarantees “as to the actress’s ability to play the scene.” He suggested I talk to her, and I assured him I would. The conversation was not a violent or nasty argument, rather it was low-key and intense. Well, anyway, low volume. I was, I thought, firm and on my game.

The following shooting day, I was in Tyne’s motor home. As always, she was brilliantly articulate. Ostensibly, her point was that, as written, Cagney’s behavior was so despicable that Lacey would find it intolerable: something from which the partnership could not recover.

I told her that if she was counting on Sharon Gless’s Cagney being “unlikable,” in this or any episode, that she was making a bad bet and an unfortunate choice.

Her decision to play anger was one thing, but the alternative she advocated was loveless and would not serve her character or our series well.

“I don’t know how to play what you’re asking for,” she stated. She wanted me to tell her how to do it. I reminded her that she “was the lady with the three fucking
Emmys
” and that she should figure it out. Once again—it seemed for the hundredth time—she requested that I let her out of her contract so that she could leave this series that was so damaging to her “honour.” This time I was ready for her: “Be careful what you ask for lest you get it, lady.”

She insisted she wanted her release.

“OK,” I said. “If you are serious, I’ll get you out. Give me five episodes next season at scale, and you’re a free woman.” She lifted those tired lids off her cheeks.

“At scale?” she asked incredulously.

“How bad do you want out, pal? Put up or shut up.”

There was a long pause. The subject was changed. Finally, she wanted to be assured we would do good work next year. I smiled in the affirmative.

The next day (our last of the season), she performed the scene as I asked her to and at one point appeared in my office with three questions to be answered yes or no:

1. Did I understand that what it was she did for a living comes from so painful a place that she would never be fun to work with?

“Yes,” I answered.

2. Would I support her stand vis-à-vis
Cagney & Lacey
and stopping its distribution in South Africa?
⁶⁸

“Absolutely,” I replied.

3. Would I be back next season?

“I don’t know,” I said.

“If you’re back then I’m back,” she rejoined.

I asked if I could ask three questions—yes or no answers only. She nodded.

“Can I have a hug?

“Yes.”

“Do you know that I love you?”

“No.”

“Do you know that I admire and respect you?”

“Yes.”

At week’s end, I escorted Ms. Gless to the WGA Awards. Our own Georgia Jeffries was the winner, and Sharon announced that she would not return to the series if I was not on board.

“Parting Shots,” indeed.

What I had learned was that I could not—and did not want to—produce two series simultaneously. What to do was the dilemma. Columbia was paying me $800,000 per annum, in guaranteed advances and reimbursed overhead, in anticipation of my fulfilling my role on my six-episode, blind commitment with ABC. In addition, they were (naturally) hopeful I would produce other things as well. Sharon and Tyne were demanding I return to
Cagney & Lacey
and were threatening to walk if I did not.

I felt the happiest solution for me would be to roll over the ABC commitment for another year and to suspend/extend the Columbia deal—thus allowing me to stay with
Cagney & Lacey
. That was not a slam dunk. I would have to appeal to Columbia and ABC for relief on my contract.

Herman Rush was terrific in allowing me to suspend and extend until the completion of
Cagney & Lacey
; so was ABC’s Brandon Stoddard in giving me permission to roll over my commitment to his network. Both men seemed to understand my passion for
Cagney & Lacey
and extracted nothing for this favor.

History indicated that Rosenbloom and Orion would not be as generous, but that proved not to be true. Apparently my full-time presence at Lacy Street was also missed by the Orion brass, for they agreed to raise my per episode fee from the then-ridiculously low point of $13,000 per episode to something close to my then-current deal of $40,000 per segment, for a guaranteed $880,000 per season. (When I asked why now and not before, it was explained that a “loophole” in Mace’s contract had been discovered and that they now felt comfortable with breaking away from the original—and admittedly antiquated—deal.)

I was the industry’s reigning
Emmy
Award-winning producer. I was finally content that I was being compensated properly, and my two stars were unreservedly pleased to have me exclusively back with them. Let the good times roll.

Chapter 40 

IF YOU CAN PAINT, I CAN WALK 

“June 12, 1986, only 19 6/8 more shows to go.”

My favorite diary entry midway through the third episode of our twenty-two show season. Another favorite recollection that year was the note director Ray Danton left for Jim Frawley, the man who would immediately follow him in the episodic progression of the six to ten directors we would use in a season. First of all, it began: “Dear Bill” (sic). Danton then went on to wish Jim luck saying “It’s been tough, but I’ve finally whipped the crew into shape for you.” The troika of Gless, Daly, and Rosenzweig were not the only egos occupying Lacy Street.

The season of 1986–87 was my very best with Tyne. She seemed happy, even admitted to still being amused by the job and me. She would tease and taunt me, and I kept forgetting it was all an act, that there might not even be a Tyne Daly. With her, all was illusion; everything a performance. As to her toughness on directors: few people in our industry are as bright, talented, or experienced as Tyne Daly, and even fewer of them are directing episodic television.

It had come to pass that Sharon, by this time—at least in terms of results—was as good a performer as Tyne. Some would say maybe better, if nothing else because of her authenticity. The qualification (in terms of results) is because it cost Sharon more. She didn’t then (and still does not) have Tyne’s technique or experience on which to draw. Sharon could rarely do it by the numbers. Each time, each day, on each scene, Ms. Gless had to conjure it all up from below ground zero.

It was like working with two great opera singers, when only one sang from the diaphragm; there was always the concern that the other would injure herself.

Our seven
Emmy
nominations
⁶⁹
that season included one for Georg Stanford Brown’s direction on “Parting Shots,” ironic after how unhappy he was throughout the process.

In September, I repeated as
Emmy
winner for Best Dramatic Series, Sharon and John Karlen also won, as did Mr. Brown for directing. We collected 80 percent of the statues we could possibly get, as our two other nominees, Peggy McKay and James Stacy, were competing against each other (for Best Performance by a Guest Star in an episode). Stacy went on to win several other prizes for his performance as “The Gimp” (which particularly pleased me since I had so many fights with our network liaisons over the decision to cast a genuinely handicapped person in this episode that not only brought us more fan mail than any other in our history but proved to be Cagney’s greatest romance). There were also wars with Stacy himself over the interpretation of just how his handicap would be portrayed.
⁷⁰

I had just about gotten to the place where I had stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Listrin team was very pleasant for me to work with, and I would, despite the minor complaints of my starring dynamic duo, bring this writing team back for what would be our final year on the series.

I felt the women were a bit unreasonable about the writing. The material was different for a lot of reasons, but the most important loss was that we were no longer doing the late-night erasing sessions in their trailers as we had before. That important process had really all but stopped with the advent of Tyne’s pregnancy. More and more now, Ms. Daly was understandably eager to get home once she had completed her twelve-to fourteen-hour day. No one could quarrel with that, but it was costing us that 5–10 percent edge that had always made such a special difference. We had also been on the air a long time.

The war against complacency required constant vigilance. Quality control was the business in which I now found myself. We were slipping, but it was not by much. We were certainly not faltering in the eyes of our public.

The acclaim and the awards kept piling up, even from as far away as the United Kingdom, where
Cagney & Lacey
for quite some time stayed on the top of their ratings as the highest-ranking imported show in all of Britain. It resulted in the formation there of CLASS (the Cagney and Lacey Appreciation of the Series Society), with a membership totaling in the thousands, plus a command performance for Tyne and Sharon to appear for the queen mother at the fiftieth anniversary celebration of the BBC. They were the only stars of a then-current American series who were invited, and they accepted, contingent on my accompanying them, which I did. The flowers smelled sweeter and sweeter.

“I bet you don’t make as many entries in your diary as you used to.” Sharon Gless was right in the late fall of 1986 as she reminisced over our past fights. She missed them, she said, and was disappointed that I did not. There were still flashes—a bit of anger over a script, a scene, a line, a stage direction—but for the most part things had become peaceful and downright pleasurable. We were all maturing nicely, and, when the slightly paranoid, very insecure Sharon Gless looks at you and simply says, “I trust you,” well, you know it is the highest form of praise and the finest thing she could ever possibly say about a fellow human being.

By now, it may be clear to the reader that I was falling for my blonde star. If so, in the fall of 1986, it was still not entirely clear to me.

In October of that year, shortly after the Academy
Emmy
wins, Sharon, along with multi-award-winning writer Fay Kanin, received the Genii Award from the American Women in Radio & Television. Norman Lear, introduced as “King” Lear, gave the introductory remarks for Kanin (the behind-the-camera winner) while I was brought forward as “the heir apparent” to the aforementioned king, so that I could speak for Sharon, the in-front-of-the-camera recipient. I did not give a speech. What I did was present a small film I had made to speak for me and to serve to introduce my star.

The film lasted just under eleven minutes. It was made up of clips of Sharon’s work (initially short trailer-like snippets from most of the TV shows and movies she had done from
Marcus Welby
, to
Rockford, Switch, Star Chamber, Airport, The Immigrants, Turnabout
,
The Last Convertible, Movieola
, and then
Cagney & Lacey
). There was one scene with Tyne, and then an optical dissolve to a plethora of moments, sans dialogue, musically scored with Joe Cocker singing, “You Are So Beautiful to Me.” As the film was coming to an end, I leaned over to Sharon, seated next to me on the dais, where, in the dark, we had held hands throughout most of the film’s eleven minutes and whispered, “I wish the lights would never come up.”

The lights, of course, did... and there was hardly a dry eye in the house. My filmic tribute to Ms. Gless was a hit. It was also a learning experience for me, for, as I was busy over several nights constructing this homage to my friend and star, I began to notice feelings for her that were—in my experience—quite unique and overwhelming.

It was not long after that—basking in the reflections of that afternoon at the Genii Awards—when Sharon and I began making love. It was unexpected, spontaneous, and very passionate. It was also not very circumspect or prudent, being that the locale for this surprising tryst was Sharon’s motor home at Lacy Street .

The next day when I first saw her, again in the motor home, Sharon smiled as I entered, then asked: “Any regrets?”

There were too many to list, so I simply said, “Yes.”

My response was not all together expected by my beautiful leading lady, so I went on to explain that this was not a good idea for either of us. First of all, I was married— and married to Barbara Corday at that. My “Mrs” was known—and respected—by almost all in our tiny company. Second, Ms. Gless was then romantically involved with the captain of our film crew, cinematographer Hector Figueroa. There was also the lack of professionalism, coupled with the not-very-bright decision of a man running a show involving two stars of equal stature, especially if my objectivity were to come under question as a result of our having an affair.

There was the very real danger of having all that I had worked for come crashing down, as some Hollywood wag might well say, “Oh, I get it. It wasn’t about feminism or women’s rights at all; the guy just wanted to fuck the blonde.”

It was a painful conversation as we agreed that what had happened between us the day before would not recur.

Weeks passed. Sharon and I were good at our word. No one was the wiser, and another bullet seemed to have been dodged. Then the invitation from the BBC to come to London for that vaunted network’s fiftieth anniversary celebration. The women would not go without me, and I urged Barbara to break away during this week in late November to make the trip and share in the accolades; a good time would surely be had by all. Barbara was busy. Mid-season replacements and preparation for another pilot season at Columbia Studios would have to take precedence for my executive spouse.

And so we were a foursome: Mr. and Mrs. Georg Stanford Brown, Sharon Gless, and me. Ten hours in the first-class section of an overnight flight to London sitting next to one of the most beautiful women in the world, with whom I had— only weeks before—a memorable rendezvous. We were all over each other before the plane began to traverse the Atlantic. On arriving at the Ritz Hotel early in the morning and after a bit of an old-fashioned English breakfast, we all repaired to our respective rooms to clean up and to enjoy the free time that was ours until the following day. It wasn’t long before I was up the back stairs of the Ritz and being admitted to the fabulous suite that had been reserved for La Gless.

It was a volatile afternoon and evening. We made love, fought, made love, then argued and made love some more. Mostly I remember that the tempest we were creating on our own was being matched by Mother Nature as the French windows of that suite kept blowing open in the midst of a terrific rain storm, causing the diaphanous curtains to eerily dance into the room. Lights and shadows—just like in the movies.

We were in London for days, the most exciting and romantic days of my life. It is different making love to a star you have been watching for years on screen than performing the same act with a mere mortal. There are moments—many moments—where you feel as if you have transcended reality, somehow finding yourself costarring in your own incredibly sensuous movie. It set in motion a surfeit of feelings and emotions; guilt was not one of them. I do not do drugs, but I could imagine that what I was experiencing might well become my drug of choice.

If all that weren’t turn-on enough, there was the action going on outside the bedroom: the accolades and response to the two women I had joined together and to the show they so ably would represent. Backstage at the Drury Lane Theatre, Paul McCartney stopped to ask Sharon for her autograph. The Beatles were still very much a presence in my frame of reference, so it impressed the hell out of me, but once again, it demonstrated (if, indeed, the BBC invitation had not) that
Cagney & Lacey
was a far bigger success in the United Kingdom than it ever was (or would ever be) in the United States.
⁷¹
(It should be noted as this book goes to print in the spring of 2007, that the entire series has been sold—yet again—in the United Kingdom, a full quarter century after its initial release.)

Tyne Daly, about to go on stage in front of the Queen Mother, the Duchess of York (Fergie in those days), and a full house of tuxedo-clad Brits representing their who’s who of English show business, threw me an off-stage, whispered aside: “Barney, I forgive you everything. You got me on stage at the Drury Lane.”

At the fiftieth anniversary bash for the BBC at London’s Drury Lane Theatre, a backstage reception line for her highness, the queen mother. Sharon and Tyne were as smitten as everyone else.

Photo: Sharon Gless Personal Collection

The next day, we were a foursome again, as Sharon and I took a respite from destroying her suite. Ms. Gless had a plan to leave for L.A. earlier than the rest of us, as Hector was waiting in L.A. to take her to her mother’s house in Carmel, California, for Thanksgiving. Georg and Tyne unwittingly helped my cause by joining me in urging Sharon to stay another couple of days, pointing out she would then still have time to make a connection to Carmel in time for the holiday feast.