script that introduced Charlie Cagney on screen. Dick O’Neill was cast—our first and only choice. We had two guys we liked for Isbecki. Martin Kove was by far the least expensive. He had the job.
The location manager made a find: near Dodger Stadium, a 50,000-squarefoot, all-brick erstwhile furniture/mattress factory, now abandoned and five minutes away from those parts of Los Angeles we would use to double New York. The clincher: it was on Lacy Street .
Instead of the $250,000 estimated cost for the squad room set, we got that, the Cagney loft, the Lacey apartment, miscellaneous looks (interiors and exteriors), and office space for a grand total of $70,000, less than $12,000 per episode. It was a huge savings, even if the city fathers had misspelled Lacey.
Avedon was still hanging out with me in casting meetings and still not getting the job done with “her” writing staff. We would be shooting in a matter of weeks. Our sets were being painted and decorated; we were virtually cast—waiting only final network approval on a Cagney. We did not have page one of anything.
Avedon was to write at least the first script. Over two months had passed since her deal had been made, and all I had was three pages of an incomplete outline. I began to push very hard. My story maven was not in very good shape; her mother was dying, and none too gracefully at that. Corday’s one-time partner could not cope with the pressure, and, without consulting me, she would attempt a solution of her own. Ms. Avedon phoned Harvey Shephard to tell him the delivery date was ludicrous and asked, “Do you want it good or do you want it Tuesday?” We would deliver in June, she told him.
This was a kind of naive madness. There is no first-run network television in June. Our whole project was happening because of my promise to deliver. Rosenbloom was furious that Avedon would make such a call. We had to go on without her. I fired her, dug out the original theatrical movie script by Avedon & Corday, and—with Corday’s help—cut and pasted a new script from the old with new material by me bridging the narrative gaps. It took a weekend.
I brought it to the office and declared it a model of what we were doing and a fix on where we should be going with the series. I felt like Moses bringing down the Tablets from Mount Sinai. Basically it was a direction, a formula, to be broken only for a better idea. We had to get started somewhere, and I was now prepared to say we start with this:
(A) A cop story with a beginning, middle, and an end.
(B) A personal story of nearly equal length with the cop story and (ideally) tying in with the cop story in some thematic way. This story should feature either Lacey or Cagney.
(C) A personal story of perhaps half the length and importance of the other personal story featuring the lead not featured in the longer personal story.
(D) Comic runners, or running gags, involving the squad room, the other detectives, the booking area, or the Lacey household.
We had been narrowing our choice of actresses down to under a dozen. Tyne Daly was now being included in the process. We would have her sit and chat with the candidate and see how the chemistry worked. We did readings with Tyne and the Cagney wannabes. We did the same with our two finalists for Harvey Lacey. Tyne and I wanted John Karlen (whom I had featured in American Dream ); Iannucci and Rosenbloom wanted the other guy. To Shephard it was a toss-up until I told him Karlen was Tyne’s preference.
“Well, then, no question. It should be the man she prefers. They’ve a lot of work to do together.” Harvey Shephard had spoken, and so John Karlen was cast.
It wasn’t so smooth with Cagney. We had reduced our selections to seven women, including Meg Foster. She won the roll on merit. It was unanimous, although everyone did wait for Shephard to speak first. “Who do you prefer?” he asked, turning to me.
“Meg Foster,” I said. I knew she was the least
The location manager made a find: near Dodger Stadium, a 50,000-squarefoot, all-brick erstwhile furniture/mattress factory, now abandoned and five minutes away from those parts of Los Angeles we would use to double New York. The clincher: it was on Lacy Street .
Instead of the $250,000 estimated cost for the squad room set, we got that, the Cagney loft, the Lacey apartment, miscellaneous looks (interiors and exteriors), and office space for a grand total of $70,000, less than $12,000 per episode. It was a huge savings, even if the city fathers had misspelled Lacey.
Avedon was still hanging out with me in casting meetings and still not getting the job done with “her” writing staff. We would be shooting in a matter of weeks. Our sets were being painted and decorated; we were virtually cast—waiting only final network approval on a Cagney. We did not have page one of anything.
Avedon was to write at least the first script. Over two months had passed since her deal had been made, and all I had was three pages of an incomplete outline. I began to push very hard. My story maven was not in very good shape; her mother was dying, and none too gracefully at that. Corday’s one-time partner could not cope with the pressure, and, without consulting me, she would attempt a solution of her own. Ms. Avedon phoned Harvey Shephard to tell him the delivery date was ludicrous and asked, “Do you want it good or do you want it Tuesday?” We would deliver in June, she told him.
This was a kind of naive madness. There is no first-run network television in June. Our whole project was happening because of my promise to deliver. Rosenbloom was furious that Avedon would make such a call. We had to go on without her. I fired her, dug out the original theatrical movie script by Avedon & Corday, and—with Corday’s help—cut and pasted a new script from the old with new material by me bridging the narrative gaps. It took a weekend.
I brought it to the office and declared it a model of what we were doing and a fix on where we should be going with the series. I felt like Moses bringing down the Tablets from Mount Sinai. Basically it was a direction, a formula, to be broken only for a better idea. We had to get started somewhere, and I was now prepared to say we start with this:
(A) A cop story with a beginning, middle, and an end.
(B) A personal story of nearly equal length with the cop story and (ideally) tying in with the cop story in some thematic way. This story should feature either Lacey or Cagney.
(C) A personal story of perhaps half the length and importance of the other personal story featuring the lead not featured in the longer personal story.
(D) Comic runners, or running gags, involving the squad room, the other detectives, the booking area, or the Lacey household.
We had been narrowing our choice of actresses down to under a dozen. Tyne Daly was now being included in the process. We would have her sit and chat with the candidate and see how the chemistry worked. We did readings with Tyne and the Cagney wannabes. We did the same with our two finalists for Harvey Lacey. Tyne and I wanted John Karlen (whom I had featured in American Dream ); Iannucci and Rosenbloom wanted the other guy. To Shephard it was a toss-up until I told him Karlen was Tyne’s preference.
“Well, then, no question. It should be the man she prefers. They’ve a lot of work to do together.” Harvey Shephard had spoken, and so John Karlen was cast.
It wasn’t so smooth with Cagney. We had reduced our selections to seven women, including Meg Foster. She won the roll on merit. It was unanimous, although everyone did wait for Shephard to speak first. “Who do you prefer?” he asked, turning to me.
“Meg Foster,” I said. I knew she was the least
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