that I was good at this from the mid-way point of my first season as the wunderkind producer on Daniel Boone . I knew I could do it better than anyone.
Television is a producer’s medium. Episodic television is even more so. Many people are good producers and fine storytellers. Some are better than I. There are even those who can, and have, produced better individual episodes. That is not what this is about.
Week after week, show after show, week-in, show-out, twenty-two times a year— the maintenance of that qualitative control, the attention to character and to detail, the management of a series—that is where I always thought I was better than everyone else (although since leaving the business in 1995, the work on The West Wing by John Wells and on Alias , as well as Lost by JJ Abrams, has me reconsidering that statement).
I was the daddy, the confessor-priest, the citizen-general, the final arbiter of taste and judgment, the decision maker, the diplomat, the cheerleader, the storyteller, the promoter, the press agent, the boss. It was only a partial list.
The company was in jail, and I was the light that came in through the bars. I loved it.
It wasn’t just Cagney & Lacey . I felt that way about the work—my job.
It is a talent of sorts to convince oneself that what’s being done not only has impact, but import—that doing it properly, both creatively and technically, counts for something.
This is where Mr. Neufeld and I differed. I felt he was more obsessed with his public persona and paying homage at the altar of success. Still, he was there for me at a critical time. In failure, he was supportive and downright paternal. It was in triumph that we had our problems.
The awful years of development began to turn into a production horror story.
All at once—literally simultaneously—our tiny company got green-lighted on a movie-for-television to be shot in Los Angeles ( Angel on My Shoulder , starring Peter Strauss, Barbara Hershey, and Richard Kiley ); a pilot for an hour dramatic series filming in Chicago ( American Dream with Stephen Macht and Karen Carlson); and the multi-million dollar miniseries presentation of John Steinbeck’s East of Eden with an all-star cast, filming primarily in Savannah, Georgia, and in and around the Steinbeck Country of Salinas, California. All of this was in the early spring of 1979, and all of it overlapping. I was living in airports, while I imagined that Mace was alternately dreaming on the Mexican Riviera or scheming behind my back in Hollywood .
Our pilot film of American Dream made the ABC mid-season schedule. We were to have our first series on the air. Now, in success, my “Jewish renaissance man,” as I had come to refer to Mace, began taking credit for my work in articles and paid advertisements in the trade press. We quarreled. I was infuriated at what I perceived as a power grab, and what I would characterize as his betrayals on American Dream , including broken promises made to me regarding creative control . Mace Neufeld’s words resounded as I walked away from my dream show: “Barney, baby, it’s payday. What do you care? It’s only television.”
I would not continue in the relationship. We agreed to meet to effectuate a divorce.
My attorney and pal, Sam Perlmutter, was given instructions by me to “just get me out with my underwear.” The meeting took place down the hall from Mace’s office in an unassigned office cubicle with BNB production exec Tom Brodek , Sam, myself, Mace, and his attorney du jour, the powerful and connected Bruce Ramer. We were there to divide the knives and forks.
Negotiations were going better than I feared; perhaps, I thought, Mace was afraid of my bringing suit for what I characterized as his various earlier misrepresentations to me. Of course, Brodek could also be a calming influence.
Whatever the reason(s), I wound up in sole possession of several projects, Mace retained a few, and that left only Cagney & Lacey in
Television is a producer’s medium. Episodic television is even more so. Many people are good producers and fine storytellers. Some are better than I. There are even those who can, and have, produced better individual episodes. That is not what this is about.
Week after week, show after show, week-in, show-out, twenty-two times a year— the maintenance of that qualitative control, the attention to character and to detail, the management of a series—that is where I always thought I was better than everyone else (although since leaving the business in 1995, the work on The West Wing by John Wells and on Alias , as well as Lost by JJ Abrams, has me reconsidering that statement).
I was the daddy, the confessor-priest, the citizen-general, the final arbiter of taste and judgment, the decision maker, the diplomat, the cheerleader, the storyteller, the promoter, the press agent, the boss. It was only a partial list.
The company was in jail, and I was the light that came in through the bars. I loved it.
It wasn’t just Cagney & Lacey . I felt that way about the work—my job.
It is a talent of sorts to convince oneself that what’s being done not only has impact, but import—that doing it properly, both creatively and technically, counts for something.
This is where Mr. Neufeld and I differed. I felt he was more obsessed with his public persona and paying homage at the altar of success. Still, he was there for me at a critical time. In failure, he was supportive and downright paternal. It was in triumph that we had our problems.
The awful years of development began to turn into a production horror story.
All at once—literally simultaneously—our tiny company got green-lighted on a movie-for-television to be shot in Los Angeles ( Angel on My Shoulder , starring Peter Strauss, Barbara Hershey, and Richard Kiley ); a pilot for an hour dramatic series filming in Chicago ( American Dream with Stephen Macht and Karen Carlson); and the multi-million dollar miniseries presentation of John Steinbeck’s East of Eden with an all-star cast, filming primarily in Savannah, Georgia, and in and around the Steinbeck Country of Salinas, California. All of this was in the early spring of 1979, and all of it overlapping. I was living in airports, while I imagined that Mace was alternately dreaming on the Mexican Riviera or scheming behind my back in Hollywood .
Our pilot film of American Dream made the ABC mid-season schedule. We were to have our first series on the air. Now, in success, my “Jewish renaissance man,” as I had come to refer to Mace, began taking credit for my work in articles and paid advertisements in the trade press. We quarreled. I was infuriated at what I perceived as a power grab, and what I would characterize as his betrayals on American Dream , including broken promises made to me regarding creative control . Mace Neufeld’s words resounded as I walked away from my dream show: “Barney, baby, it’s payday. What do you care? It’s only television.”
I would not continue in the relationship. We agreed to meet to effectuate a divorce.
My attorney and pal, Sam Perlmutter, was given instructions by me to “just get me out with my underwear.” The meeting took place down the hall from Mace’s office in an unassigned office cubicle with BNB production exec Tom Brodek , Sam, myself, Mace, and his attorney du jour, the powerful and connected Bruce Ramer. We were there to divide the knives and forks.
Negotiations were going better than I feared; perhaps, I thought, Mace was afraid of my bringing suit for what I characterized as his various earlier misrepresentations to me. Of course, Brodek could also be a calming influence.
Whatever the reason(s), I wound up in sole possession of several projects, Mace retained a few, and that left only Cagney & Lacey in
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