shepherded the screenplay through multiple drafts, and contacted—and interested—Peter Strauss in starring in the vehicle. I could point out how my last M.O.W. for the very same network had been One of My Wives is Missing , a certified smash. What would be the point? It wasn’t personal. Hill had a finite number of films to make and an almost equal number of commitments to those guys in the maelstrom. If he said yes to me, he would have to face their wrath and their well-aimed complaints to his bosses. If he said yes to me, there would be one less film commitment for a powerful pal with whom he might partner once he went indy-prod with a multi pic-pac.
The same thing was holding up American Dream . It was all those Spelling/ Goldberg commitments and others like them. Rather than be candid about this, the network executives would try to get you into business with one of their open commitments. A secondary position was to stall, to keep having “problems” with the material, to continue demanding rewrites or other time-consuming changes; anything to keep from telling you that trade in this industry is indeed restrained and restricted to those in favor, those in the club, those closest to the center. I get it now. Eventually I got closer to that maelstrom; I got a peek at the Holy of Holies. But that was not what I was experiencing in those early days of development hell.
Corday and I would be at dinner, and I would be so nauseous from the beatings I was taking from Hill and Axelrod I could only consider ordering soup. I couldn’t imagine swallowing anything solid. My wife was ebullient and cheerful, feeling chatty about her new job at ABC and all of her bright and hardworking fellow development executives.
Crazed into a hyperbolic state, I would interrupt, “Barbara, I am sitting here like someone trying to deal with the fact that they are sending Jews to death camps by rail, and you lounge across from me wearing your SS cap, asking me to look at how efficiently you are operating the trains!”
My new wife took it in stride. Later that night she would ask if I was coming to bed.
“I’ve already been fucked by the network once today,” I growled.
Does this sound funny now? It wasn’t then. It was that week that I awoke from an epic nightmare. I was in a cold sweat. Maybe I was only half awake. Anyway, I would share it with Corday. She was my spouse and could not testify against me in a California court.
The dream-scheme: I enter the fifth floor at ABC’s Century City offices. In my hand, held at my side, is a .357 Magnum revolver. I walk past Lana, the friendly receptionist, into Leonard Hill’s office and blow him away: two, three shots maximum. His body parts are splattered against the walls and windows. Then I walk down the hallway, the short distance to Axelrod’s office. I empty my revolver at point-blank range—more gore.
I drop the gun and am taken into custody. My defense will be not guilty by reason of insanity. I can prove those two bastards drove me crazy. I will be revered throughout Hollywood for my good deed.
While I’m undergoing treatment during my brief incarceration, I’ll write a book about the whole thing. It will be called The ABC Murders.
Chapter 7
A PRODUCER’S MEDIUM
Dramatic episodic television was my niche. Its pace uniquely suited me. It was life-defining. I knew that from my induction at the age of twenty-nine, as a freshman producer on Daniel Boone .
It was Cagney & Lacey , of course, that brought me industry-wide recognition.
Besides the show itself, I received respect and admiration beyond my dreams for fending off the network’s onslaught of threat, intimidation, and cancellation. It moved me to the forefront of my profession, ahead of many with longer, and perhaps more impressive, lists of credits.
None of this recognition would come my way until the mid-1980s. No matter. I believed—even without corroboration—the veracity of my self-serving statement
The same thing was holding up American Dream . It was all those Spelling/ Goldberg commitments and others like them. Rather than be candid about this, the network executives would try to get you into business with one of their open commitments. A secondary position was to stall, to keep having “problems” with the material, to continue demanding rewrites or other time-consuming changes; anything to keep from telling you that trade in this industry is indeed restrained and restricted to those in favor, those in the club, those closest to the center. I get it now. Eventually I got closer to that maelstrom; I got a peek at the Holy of Holies. But that was not what I was experiencing in those early days of development hell.
Corday and I would be at dinner, and I would be so nauseous from the beatings I was taking from Hill and Axelrod I could only consider ordering soup. I couldn’t imagine swallowing anything solid. My wife was ebullient and cheerful, feeling chatty about her new job at ABC and all of her bright and hardworking fellow development executives.
Crazed into a hyperbolic state, I would interrupt, “Barbara, I am sitting here like someone trying to deal with the fact that they are sending Jews to death camps by rail, and you lounge across from me wearing your SS cap, asking me to look at how efficiently you are operating the trains!”
My new wife took it in stride. Later that night she would ask if I was coming to bed.
“I’ve already been fucked by the network once today,” I growled.
Does this sound funny now? It wasn’t then. It was that week that I awoke from an epic nightmare. I was in a cold sweat. Maybe I was only half awake. Anyway, I would share it with Corday. She was my spouse and could not testify against me in a California court.
The dream-scheme: I enter the fifth floor at ABC’s Century City offices. In my hand, held at my side, is a .357 Magnum revolver. I walk past Lana, the friendly receptionist, into Leonard Hill’s office and blow him away: two, three shots maximum. His body parts are splattered against the walls and windows. Then I walk down the hallway, the short distance to Axelrod’s office. I empty my revolver at point-blank range—more gore.
I drop the gun and am taken into custody. My defense will be not guilty by reason of insanity. I can prove those two bastards drove me crazy. I will be revered throughout Hollywood for my good deed.
While I’m undergoing treatment during my brief incarceration, I’ll write a book about the whole thing. It will be called The ABC Murders.
Chapter 7
A PRODUCER’S MEDIUM
Dramatic episodic television was my niche. Its pace uniquely suited me. It was life-defining. I knew that from my induction at the age of twenty-nine, as a freshman producer on Daniel Boone .
It was Cagney & Lacey , of course, that brought me industry-wide recognition.
Besides the show itself, I received respect and admiration beyond my dreams for fending off the network’s onslaught of threat, intimidation, and cancellation. It moved me to the forefront of my profession, ahead of many with longer, and perhaps more impressive, lists of credits.
None of this recognition would come my way until the mid-1980s. No matter. I believed—even without corroboration—the veracity of my self-serving statement
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