and the relatively unfamous Ms. Foster. Silberling equivocated and took a long time in doing so. Too many “on the other hands” later, Shephard bid farewell and punched the intercom again, summoning the new callee to his office. In less than ninety seconds, junior executive Gary Barton was there.
“Mr. Rosenzweig here and I are having a disagreement,” Shephard began. I thought his bias was showing, but I said nothing. Shephard, at last, posed his question.
Barton did not hesitate. “Meg Foster.” He then added, “Without a doubt.”
Shephard turned to me. “All right, I guess we’re cast.” That was it. I quickly flashed to those days at ABC and the awful experiences and endless waiting for executive decisions: Tahiti versus the Gulag.
Tony Barr was the CBS vice president in charge of current programming. I invited him and his assistants to my office at Paramount. Anyone who visited me there had to be impressed. It was very grand. I moved to the club chair nearer the couch Mr. Barr occupied. The distance from my desk to the chair was substantive. It allowed me time to notice the number of dog-eared pages on the scripts held by the CBS trio. These turned-down corners presumably indicated the pages containing notes on ways to improve what I was breaking my hump to produce.
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
“Mr. Rosenzweig here and I are having a disagreement,” Shephard began. I thought his bias was showing, but I said nothing. Shephard, at last, posed his question.
Barton did not hesitate. “Meg Foster.” He then added, “Without a doubt.”
Shephard turned to me. “All right, I guess we’re cast.” That was it. I quickly flashed to those days at ABC and the awful experiences and endless waiting for executive decisions: Tahiti versus the Gulag.
Tony Barr was the CBS vice president in charge of current programming. I invited him and his assistants to my office at Paramount. Anyone who visited me there had to be impressed. It was very grand. I moved to the club chair nearer the couch Mr. Barr occupied. The distance from my desk to the chair was substantive. It allowed me time to notice the number of dog-eared pages on the scripts held by the CBS trio. These turned-down corners presumably indicated the pages containing notes on ways to improve what I was breaking my hump to produce.
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
Similar Books
