B004YENES8 EBOK (9 page)

I had been here before. These were the experts. Their message was always heady and seductive:

“
Listen to us, and you will be successful.”

“Follow our instructions, and you will please us.”

“We are your network; we know what we are doing.”

“You should have seen
(name any one of a half dozen hits on the network in question)
before we fixed it
.”

There were other items on their agenda but not always so clearly stated, such as: non-compliance could mean a weak promotion campaign, a poor time slot, costly delays to the production schedule, or labeling the non-complier as a troublemaker.

“Before we begin,” I said to the small gathering, “I would like to make a few opening remarks.”

It took me several minutes. I talked of what I knew about television, what I felt about my work, what over-networking meant to me, and what I had endured on
American Dream
. I discoursed on what I had learned from that experience and was emphatic as to how I would not allow such a thing to recur.

I may never again be that eloquent. My monologue was heartfelt. My passion and zeal were unquestionably authentic, and my pain all too recent.

To his credit, Tony Barr got it. When I was done, he quickly passed through the first fifty-five pages or so of his note-laden script and simply made a request for clarity in the final sequence. I’m sure I said that I would try to accommodate.

There were other note sessions, of course. The path was not always smooth, but the tenor for the next six-plus years had been set that afternoon. I stated my position with clarity and with feeling. Barr, a fundamentally decent and caring man, understood it.

Did it help that Tony Barr was not after my job? That he was older than I? That he had already been a producer years before and was on this job as a step toward retirement? It couldn’t have hurt.

Years later, Norman Lear and I compared notes. We had each had this same seminal moment with the CBS network. We had both taken this same tack. They were at different times, with different executives, but with similar results. My series became one of the most esteemed dramas in the history of television. His was
All in the Family
, possibly the most honored show of all time.

What Norman and I discovered we had in common at that uniquely pressure-filled time was simple: each of us had another job. We were each to get a lot of commendations for our foresight, our integrity, our raised consciousness, and our courage, but what we really had was a case ace.

Had I not had that two-year, no-cut contract with Paramount, had everything I wanted and needed been tied up in that one six-show order (with CBS working their seductive wiles, their pledges of support, their promises of understanding), I cannot say I could have—would have—been nearly the man I am credited with being today.

Early and happy days at a new CBS series publicity shoot. That is Richard M. Rosenbloom being given the lovely smile by Meg Foster. Tyne and I are to the left and higher, resulting in the optical illusion that I might be balding.

Photo: Rosenzweig Personal Collection

Chapter 12 

BREAKING THE RULES 

Jack Guss was at my home on a Saturday afternoon to discuss his rewrite of Claudia Adams’s teleplay on the
Cagney & Lacey
episode we were to call “Street Scene,” to be directed by Ray Danton.

The story predated the Bernard Goetz case in New York but was similar in that a seemingly normal citizen-civilian gets a gun and shoots a neighborhood teenage hoodlum. We were only weeks away from principal photography. Early in the story, Cagney and Lacey return to the apartment building that was not only the scene of the crime but the home of both the victim and the aging gunman.

In the script, there was a scene where our two detectives interrogated the wife of the man they arrested for the killing. She was described as a seventy-year-old woman in a wheelchair. Our heroines listened and took notes as the woman told them of how, years before, she and her husband had come to America with great hope of building a new and better life and how, ultimately, for them, the American dream had failed. The neighborhood they lived in continued to deteriorate, until finally it had fallen into its current state of disrepair.

Gangs of hoodlums ruled the streets and dominated the hallways; their intimidating graffiti was everywhere. The street toughs had taken to breaking into apartments and stealing social security checks from mailboxes. Finally, the woman related, her husband could not take it anymore. He bought a gun, and, when he was once again harassed by these gangsters, he shot the ringleader. The woman’s pain was palpable. Even the hard-bitten Cagney, the screenwriter had added, was moved by her story.

You don’t have to be as good a writer as Jack Guss to make this kind of scene an emotional read. Many could write it, and the proof of that is that probably hundreds have. I know that I’ve viewed some version of this scene certainly dozens of times.

We were in the kitchen at my house. Jack sat across from me, sharing a sandwich. Corday stood at the sink. The moment was curiously domestic. I was very critical, but not as specific as I like to be. I felt the scene was predictable and ordinary.

“Worse than that,” I said, “it’s a waste. Our two best actresses are standing there with notepads saying an occasional uh-huh,” I exaggerated, “while this seventy year-old ‘day player’ sits in her wheelchair and does a monologue. The scene is a cinematic disaster waiting to happen—not only that, it’s a bore!”

“It’s necessary exposition, Barney.” Jack was a friend and a pro. He was not overly defensive and was probably right to be somewhat frustrated at my only being critical and not giving direction on how to fix this thing. We were creating a series here. Few rules had been laid down. The two-hour movie had given us some guidelines, but that had been a very different format and pace than we would be exploring from now on.

Movies, after all, have a beginning, middle, and end; series, the creators hope, will never end. The former are usually plot driven, while the best of the latter are motivated by character.

Guss continued. “Somewhere in this section of the story, Cagney and Lacey have to learn what kind of a man the guy they’ve arrested is and how he got that way. You tell me a better way to do it.”

There have been only a few major creative moments in my life. This was to become one of them. To accomplish it, I would have to break a cardinal rule of picture-making. In only a few sentences, I was going to create a scene that would be a stylistic benchmark for our series. It was a moment that would dictate a philosophy, a way of telling a story that would be unique to our show; that would put the emphasis of the series where I believed it should be; and one that would underline what I perceived to be our primary strength—the acting acumen of our two leads.

“Put the camera in the hallway,” I began. “The door to the apartment opens, revealing a little old lady in the background. She is in a wheelchair. She says nothing as Cagney and Lacey come out of the apartment and into the hall. (We’ve just saved a thousand dollars ’cause the lady’s now an extra and not an actress.)” I parenthetically digressed before resuming: “The door closes. Our leads are alone in the hallway. Cagney turns to Lacey and snaps, ‘Did you learn any more from her by bringing her a quart of Harvey’s chicken soup?’”

I went on, describing our camera following the two women down the hallway as they walked and talked and argued over what they heard the little old lady say and how they felt about it.

Jack Guss and Barbara Corday were both listening carefully as I proceeded. “What you now have is a scene of conflict that provides information instead of a straight expository scene. Further, the scene of conflict is between your two best actresses (and coincidentally our leads) instead of a monologue by—what at best—will be a very dicey piece of casting.” I pointed out that this new scene also provided us with some great character stuff about our principals.

“It tells me, for one thing,” I said, “that Lacey has a husband who makes chicken soup and that Cagney is embarrassed that her partner resorts to this kind of mothering/social work!” I manically continued. “It indicates, clearly, that Cagney and Lacey perceive the world from two disparate points of view and thereby sets up the ongoing possibility of always providing us with the necessary ingredient of any good drama: conflict; better yet—conflict between principals!”

Jack was now taking notes. The cinematic rule we were breaking was one learned in every freshman cinema class in the country: “Show don’t tell.” We were about to do just the opposite. We had actresses who could talk with the best of them. That was our strength. I was not so sure we could compete with other cop shows for cinematic pyrotechnics. Besides, ever since
The French Connection
, the car chase is the time when I went out to get popcorn.

“Let’s do stories of revelation,” I said.

What I meant by that was that the plots would be revealed to the audience only through the eyes of our leads. We would deny ourselves the legitimate cinematic device of parallel editing (an editorial concept best defined conceptually as “meanwhile, back at the ranch”).

I expanded on my thesis. “Cagney and Lacey will be at their desks. The phone rings. ‘A burglary is in progress at 53rd and Lexington.’ By the time they get there the break-in is over. The perpetrator is gone. Cagney and Lacey deal with the aftermath, with the victims, with each other. How does the work impact them, their families? How do they relate to the men with whom they work?”

Corday had joined us at the kitchen table. She quietly added what was to become my favorite phrase: “It’s a show about two women who happen to be cops, not two cops who happen to be women.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Who gives a crap about all that cop shit anyhow? I’ve seen it.”

Jack would not give us an argument.

It reminded me of comedian Henny Youngman, who would raise his left arm, the one holding the violin, over his head. “Doctor, doctor, it hurts when I do this!” The medical man’s admonishing response? “Don’t do that.”

It’s the same logic I was enforcing on
Cagney & Lacey
. I saw what we did well, and I emphasized it. What we weren’t good at, I eliminated. I knew we had two great actresses to work with and a new concept in two women as co-equal leads and partners. What I didn’t have was time or money for great action scenes. I was sure that what I was asking for would become our “signature.”

More often than not, when confronted with one of those so-called obligatory scenes, we would trash the predictable moment and play it after the fact, with Cagney relating the tale to Lacey or vice versa in the precinct’s ladies toilet (we called it “The Jane”).

Why film Cagney’s date of the week when we could have so much more fun watching the two gals dish about it afterward? Why dramatize that boring trial scene when Lacey could enact the parts of judge, DA, and jury for an impatient Cagney? Occasionally we even played the by-the-numbers job assignment scene in advance of it taking place, as Cagney would mimic an all-too-predictable Lt. Samuels, allowing Lacey to do a less-than-kind imitation of her partner in response.

Our directors for those first six episodes were Georg Stanford Brown, Reza Badiyi, and Ray Danton. Along with cinematographer Hector Figueroa, they set a visual style for the series—pretty much dictated by the practical interiors (complete with real windows and low ceilings) they were forced to use. It imposed a sort of gritty, natural look as opposed to the studio lighting on other shows that usually came via electrical equipment, strung from grids suspended from a sound stage’s high rafters.

The fundamental style was simple and best stated by Director Danton: “You put the camera at the eye level of the women, say action, and get the hell out of the way.”

Danton’s admonition was mostly a compliment to our actors, but it also reflected the kind of material we were delivering and my own penchant for simple stories, simply told.

Although I admired what Bob Butler and Steven Bochco had created stylistically in
Hill Street Blues
(complete with intricate camera moves, a large canvas replete with a huge speaking cast and even greater numbers of atmosphere players, plus multiple action scenes), I remembered Henny Youngman, with his outstretched violin, and in no way tried to compete with that. We would concentrate on what it was we did best. Not-so-coincidentally, this was costing hundreds of thousands of dollars less per episode than what Mr. Bochco and Mr. Butler were spending.

We had a few broadcast standards problems, but they were minimal. I had pretty much fought and won those battles while prepping the original TV movie.

In that film, the Lacey marriage was under a great strain. Harvey had been unemployed for several months, resulting in a loss of confidence and self-esteem. This manifested itself in his disinterest and inability to have sexual relations with his wife. Tension and irritability were the consequences.

In one scene from that pilot M.O.W., Harvey dropped Lacey off at work just as Cagney was arriving. The two women exchanged pleasant enough greetings, and Cagney expanded hers to include Harvey. Not only did Harvey fail to reciprocate, but he then stomped on the car’s accelerator to speed away in a manner that amplified the insult. Both women were a little embarrassed. Then, in an effort at making light of the whole thing, Cagney quipped, “His time of the month or what?”

“Absolutely not!” said the CBS censors for the movie. Jokes about the menstrual cycle had never been allowed at the network.

“You don’t understand something,” I countered. “This is essential to the character of the picture we are making. Women—especially in the workplace—have to put up with this kind of demeaning sexist slander all the time. We are debunking that kind of mythology with humor throughout the picture. If you attack that, then there is no reason to make the film.”

I won a lot of arguments, but this was the toughest. The CBS West Coast standards executives simply would not break their code on this subject. I took it all the way to the top New York executive in the department: Alice Henderson, vice president, CBS broadcast standards.

Ms. Henderson was adamant. So was I.

“Without that line, I simply will not make the film.” I said it sans blink. Ms. Henderson looked at me for the longest time. She was somewhat incredulous but saw I was serious and backed down.

There was the previously mentioned scene involving the prostitute, who because of her profession was able to help identify Schermer as a non-Jew by the simple fact that he was not circumcised. I won this argument as well but later, in a moment of self-censorship, removed the reference. I felt it called attention to itself and stopped the scene in which it was included rather than having it progress naturally.

The standards people were duly impressed that I could fight so hard for something—be given the license to do it—and then not do it because, in my view, the line called such attention to itself that it damaged the scene.

I was to have these second thoughts several times during the life of the series, and I believe we reaped many benefits in the process. I felt that as the network saw our concerns were sometimes the same as theirs (albeit for different reasons) things could only get easier. It cost me very little. I was much more interested in fighting for concepts and the right to explore them than to be granted permission to expand the allowable TV series vocabulary of off-color remarks.

Sometimes they co-mingled. We were always getting the standard request to reduce (by 10–50%) the number of
hells
and
damns
in a script. We would comply, but only as long as it was understood that Cagney could say all the
hells
and
damns
she needed—and even an occasional
crap
,
ass
,
butt
, or
bastard
. Although it was language, our point was conceptual. These were women trying to succeed and be accepted in an all-male arena. No one wanted to be more accepted than Christine Cagney, and so, even though her father might tell her to watch her mouth or her partner might wince, talking tough was an important aspect of the Cagney character. The network agreed.

The Lacey marriage was my idealized version of how I think a marriage ought to be. Harvey’s culinary accomplishments, especially with spaghetti sauce, were my father’s; his more intelligent wife, my mother. Harvey had political conspiracy theories because I do. Cagney hated the ballet and loved to drink, and so did I. She also had an overdeveloped sense of the romantic and was a workaholic. (Guess who?)