Becoming Superman

by J. Michael Straczynski

  And I never did.

  Chapter 25

  Things I Learned Dancing with the Fatman

  For months, my agent had been bugging me about going in to pitch on Jake and the Fatman, a CBS series about a detective and a prosecutor in Hawaii, with Joe Penny and William Conrad respectively assaying the title roles. I didn’t want to go because . . . look, it was Jake and the Fatman, you don’t need anything after the word go. I felt the show was mind-numbingly formulaic. Other than the money, which I will confess we needed, I couldn’t see any benefit to writing for the show, or any reason to do it.*She eventually prevailed and made an appointment for me to go in and pitch. The process, which until now I’ve only alluded to briefly, involves coming up with two or three fully fleshed-out stories, with all the act breaks and important moments worked out, along with one or two quick, one-paragraph notions in case the larger stories get shot down. Since I didn’t want an assignment, I developed three pretty lame stories that I was pretty sure would be turned down. That left just a couple of brief notions to figure out.

  In watching the show, I noticed how little William Conrad moved around. He’d stand and talk, sit and talk, walk from his desk to the door and talk, but that’s about it.

  Well, of course, I thought. He’s a massive guy, he probably doesn’t like to walk much. By some reports Conrad weighed nearly three hundred pounds, hence my faux TV Guide logline on the show: “Jake and the Fatman: He can’t act, he can’t walk, together they fight crime.”*

  This led to the last brief notion I needed to go in and pitch. My plan was to torpedo the process as quickly as possible, but when I arrived at the Jake office on the Universal Studios lot, I was struck by the kindness and generosity of executive producers/showrunners Jeri Taylor and David Moessinger. They were talented, smart, and welcomed me warmly into their office. I began to regret that I wouldn’t be getting an assignment, as they seemed like really nice people.

  “We’ve read your work and we both agreed we had to have you come in, even though we got into a fight with CBS over it. They don’t like most of the writers coming out of syndication and genre television, but we think you could do a great job for us.”

  Now I was even more torn. That CBS didn’t think I could do it made me want to prove them wrong. I wished I’d brought better stories but had only the ammunition I’d packed, so I pitched the three big ideas I’d developed. As expected they were shot down in short order.

  “Do you have anything else?” Jeri asked, genuinely disappointed that there wasn’t anything they could buy. They really wanted to work with me. I felt like an assassin.

  “Well, I have two other quick notions,” I said and gave them the first one.

  No sale. Two strikes, three foul balls.

  “What’s the other one?” Jeri asked, her eyes hopeful.

  “Well, I thought there might be a story about William Conrad’s character being kidnapped by someone he’d arrested years earlier. He’s taken hostage and tied to a chair for the entire episode.”

  David’s eyes lit up like a Las Vegas slot machine. “That’s great!” he said. “That’s terrific! Bill hates to walk! He’ll love it!”

  And that’s how I got my first assignment on a major prime-time network series since the ’85 Twilight Zone. I felt terribly conflicted about the whole thing, but figured it would be a moot point. They wanted an outline as the next step, and my outlines always suck.

  They loved it and put me to script.

  I was now past the point of no return. I couldn’t throw the script under a bus by writing a crappy draft because a less-than-stellar performance would hurt me later. I had to write it as well as I could, or at least as well as anyone could write a show called Jake and the Fatman, I decided at the time.

  Because I was a pompous ass.

  Two weeks later, at ten A.M. on a Monday morning, I faxed Jeri the script for “Who’s Sorry Now?”

  At two P.M. she called to offer me a job on staff as executive story consultant.

  I’d gone into this reluctantly—rather snottily, to be honest—to write one episode. Now they were offering me a staff job on a network show, which was a better gig and more money than anything I’d done before. I was caught on the horns of my own hypocrisy. If I said no, I’d be thumbing my nose at an important opportunity for reasons that were stupid and juvenile. Saying yes would show that I was willing to set aside what I considered to be my standards when vast sums of money were thrown my way.

  The decision came down to two realizations: first, that I was full of myself and behaving like a dick; second, that David and Jeri were excellent writers, and I could learn a lot from them. They were more than just a great team, they were good people who had gone to the mat with a reluctant CBS to give me this opportunity.

  So by the end of the week I was reporting to work at the Jake offices.

  This was my first time working on a studio lot full-time. Universal felt like a college campus, with low-slung bungalows, rows of massive shooting stages, and a big back lot filled with false-front buildings silhouetted against the sun-blasted Hollywood Hills. We spent the mornings spinning out plots, dialogue, and character beats, followed by lunch at the self-serve cafeteria where David would regale us with horror stories about working on Quincy, M.E. and In the Heat of the Night before returning to the office to write until evening.

  Jeri was the earth mother of the Jake writing staff: nurturing and willing to go out of her way to engage with everyone, her scripts were generally softer and more character based. David was gregarious and incisive, so his writing was all about conflict. David led the story meetings, growling his way through who hates who and who wants to kill whom as Jeri lay in wait for exactly the right moment to ground the story in emotion and humor. Their strengths balanced each other perfectly, and I liked them immensely.

  Until now I had worked alone as a writer or story editor with no creative producers above me, so there was no one to teach me the ropes. Whatever I learned about dialogue, plot, and structure came less through instruction than by bashing my head against the problem until one of us relented. And since all my TV work to this point was for half-hour shows, I was hopelessly tone-deaf when it came to structuring a one-hour drama.

  David and Jeri took pity on me and over the coming months taught me techniques I’d never even heard of before. They showed me how to pace a one-hour story for maximum effect, layer multiple threads to create red herrings, and turn the expectations of the audience against itself, so they think you’re going thisaway when you’re actually going thataway, but it all makes sense at the end with no cheating involved. They constantly drilled into me the importance of playing fair with the audience. In a mystery all the clues have to be set out in plain sight, so if the viewer backs up the show and watches it again, everything needed to figure it out was right there; they just didn’t know how to interpret the clues until the last piece of information was in hand, courtesy of the star’s dogged inquiry.

  Despite having initially opposed hiring me, CBS decided they liked my stuff, and I went on to write five episodes that season. By my previous standards this wasn’t a lot—prior to Jake I’d written eighty-one scripts, averaging eleven to twenty per season—but five wasn’t bad given that I’d come in well after the start of the season. Just as the Daily Aztec editors had relied on me to fill the gaps when a freelancer bailed, David and Jeri often looked to me to rewrite or deliver a draft in days if a freelance script failed to materialize. As a reward they assigned me to write the two-part season finale. The network was going to advertise the hell out of it, so they would likely end up the highest-rated episodes of the season.

  Then once again, everything went to shit.

  The writing and producing staff of Jake were based in Los Angeles, but physical production took place in Hawaii. Regardless of distance, the showrunner of a TV series is the final authority on all production matters, from writing and casting down to the color of the paint on the sets. If local producers or other
s begin to override their decisions, it puts the showrunner in the position of having to shoulder the responsibility for making a series without the authority to make their decisions stick. The tug-of-war exploded when some on the Hawaii-based production team began rewriting David and Jeri’s scripts at the behest of a cast member. The actor knew that if a network is forced to choose between backing a high-profile star or the producers, they almost always line up with the star. So they seized creative control of the show and dared Jeri and David to do something about it.

  In response David and Jeri gave the network an ultimatum: either we run the show as we see fit, as we were hired to do, or we quit. Maybe they honestly believed the network might come to its senses and back their play. And maybe they knew exactly how this would go down. Either way, they had to make a stand.

  The network sided with the actor.

  The next day Jeri and David convened a meeting to inform the staff that they were resigning, but encouraged everyone else to remain with the show to avoid jeopardizing their relationships with the network. Despite being upset by the news, they agreed to stay on. I said nothing until the meeting was over, then closed the door to speak with them privately.

  “If you’re leaving, I’m leaving,” I told them.

  David put a hand on my shoulder and nodded absently. He assumed I was saying what I thought they wanted to hear and seeking their permission to stay. “That’s okay, Joe,” he said, “we made this stand on our own, it was our fight, not yours. You don’t have to quit just because we are.” And they started to turn away.

  “I know I don’t have to go,” I said, “but I’m going anyway.”

  They turned back to me in surprise. Was I serious?

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Look, you guys brought me in here, not CBS. You’re the ones who went to bat for me with the network, you’re the ones who hired me, so as far as I’m concerned, I work for you, not the network. This isn’t a negotiation, this isn’t grandstanding, I mean it: if you go, I go.”*

  Toward the end of the movie Tombstone, Doc Holliday, half dead from tuberculosis and barely able to walk, is riding in a posse alongside Wyatt Earp. When one of the deputies asks why he’s doing this instead of staying home, Doc says, “Wyatt Earp is my friend.”

  The man shakes his head. “Shit, I got lots of friends.”

  And Doc says, simply, “I don’t.”

  David and Jeri were more than just my friends. They had fought for me, shown me kindness, and taught me how to improve my writing. So there wasn’t any other way it could go. Given how flexible loyalty is in the television industry, I don’t think either of them quite believed me until I faxed my letter of resignation to CBS.

  “Are you out of your mind?” my agent said when I told her my decision. “This is your first network staff job! CBS loves you! With David and Jeri leaving they may even bump you to producer next year to fill the gap. If you piss off CBS, you’ll never work for them again. Look, I understand you’re mad about this, that you’re loyal to Jeri and David, but you can’t keep walking off shows every time somebody pisses you off. Let’s sit down over lunch to discuss this before you fire off the letter.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late. I already sent it. I’m off the show effective immediately.”

  Rather than try to describe her response, I’ll just note that to this day I’m still a little hard of hearing in that ear and leave it at that.

  The next day I packed up my tiny office and left the Universal lot. By now I’d heard the threat you’ll never work in this town again enough times that it didn’t scare me anymore. I was sure it wouldn’t take long before I found work somewhere else.

  Months passed.

  As usual I’d picked the worst time to change jobs. The other network shows were winding down their seasons, and the syndicated television market had begun to implode. Every writer in town was fighting it out for the few freelance slots still available. Meetings with my agent were cordial, but I could see in her eyes the unspoken message I told you so. This time you went too far. This time you’re screwed.

  I found it hard to argue the point. As four months without TV work slid into five I returned to prose, selling a short story, “Say Hello, Mr. Quigley,” to Pulphouse magazine, and a second script to DC Comics, “Worldsinger,” published in their Star Trek comic. I even flipped back to Twilight Zone one last time, adapting my original TZ spec script, “Blind Alley,” for NOW Comics. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it helped keep us going.

  I was writing as fast as I could for anyone who might buy my stuff, but by month six I’d run out of tricks. I hated that the circumstances surrounding Jake had compelled me to leave, but even if I could go back in time I’d make the same decision. It was the right thing to do.

  Then in spring 1991, with our bank accounts on life support, David Moessinger called. “I just got a new show,” he said, “and since you were the only one to stand with Jeri and me, I wanted my first phone call to be to you. I’d like you to come on as co-producer, which is the title you walked away from when you left. So what do you say? You want to come and play?”

  “Love to,” I said, relieved to have a job but mostly excited at the idea of working with David again.

  “What’s the show?” I asked. I assumed it wouldn’t be for CBS or Universal since my agent said that I’d never work for either of them again, that they would hold a grudge against me until the sun grew cold and went out. Networks were resolute like that, she said.

  “It’s Murder, She Wrote,” David said, and I could feel him grinning over the phone. “We’ll be back on the Universal lot again, working for CBS.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Chapter 26

  Paging Jessica Fletcher

  Murder, She Wrote starred Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher, a mystery novelist who solved murders in her spare time. For six years Murder had been a top-ten-rated series, but by year seven the show had become formulaic and lost its appeal. CBS and Universal were desperate to freshen up the storytelling and return the show to the top ten.

  David wanted me on the show because I had a background in journalism and prose fiction that we could use to make Jessica Fletcher feel more like a working novelist. Most Murder stories used her background as a writer only insofar as it was one of her published books that got her invited to a gala where a murder took place, after which the story had little to do with her work. I wanted to show her actually writing: struggling to find the right words, meeting deadlines, battling with editors, and living the writer’s life as authentically as possible. In my episodes she didn’t fall asleep exhausted from a fancy dinner, she fell asleep at the keyboard.

  When David came up with the idea of moving her from sleepy Cabot Cove to New York, I suggested we give her a part-time job at a college as a distinguished guest lecturer (à la Norman Corwin) teaching criminology. This would let her interact with characters who could bring a youthful energy to the show. I also moved her from a manual typewriter to a computer to make her feel more contemporary and send a positive message to older viewers concerned about adapting to new technologies.

  David would write and direct the first episode bringing her to New York, and I would write the second episode, “Night Fears,” establishing her new teaching job. To maintain continuity with previous seasons David also hired producer/writer Robert Swanson (or Swanny, as David called him), who had written many earlier episodes.

  At my first meeting with Angela Lansbury and her husband, Peter Shaw, I was impressed by her sincerity, gentility, and strength of character. She could be impish when the moment called for it and strong when necessary, but this was a lady, no mistake. Everyone treated her deferentially, not because she asked for it but because it was simply unimaginable to regard her in any other way.

  David gave me tremendous latitude to come up with offbeat stories that would challenge me as a writer. One afternoon as we were driving through the Universal lot I spotted the house that had been used in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho
, which is still standing.

  “Wouldn’t it be cool if Jessica was flown to Universal to consult about an adaptation of one of her books,” I said, “and there was a murder in the Psycho house? We could enhance the main story with a larger meta-narrative in a way that hasn’t been done on the show before.”

  David thought it was a weird idea but approved it anyway. A few weeks later we were shooting “Incident in Lot #7” inside the Psycho house, where I had the privilege of standing on the same staircase that Hitchcock used when Martin Balsam climbed to his death.

  On another day, David, Bob Swanson, and I were walking across the lot through bitter wind and rain to a meeting at Universal’s infamous Black Tower, which was where most of the studio executives resided.* A low, mournful wail rose and fell through the storm.

  “What the hell is that?” David asked.

  Bob nodded to the building ahead of us. “The wind around the tower.”

  “I think I can write an episode with that as a title,” I said.

  “Bet you twenty bucks you can’t,” Bob said, rising to the challenge.

  A month later we were shooting “The Wind Around the Tower,” a ghost story set in an Irish castle.

  While Jake had been shot several thousand miles away in Hawaii, Murder was filmed right there on the Universal lot, which put me inside the Hollywood machine for the first time. I could take a break from writing, wander over to stage 18, and watch one of my scripts being brought to life. It was pretty heady stuff.

  Jeri Taylor didn’t follow David to Murder, She Wrote because she’d landed a gig as executive producer on Star Trek: The Next Generation where she became one of the show’s most respected writer/producers. Since Kathryn knew Jeri through me, she had the confidence to apply for, and win, an internship on the series. Every day as I took off for Universal, Kathryn left for the Paramount studios in Hollywood. The internship position didn’t pay much, but working with Jeri was a priceless opportunity for Kathryn to further develop her writing skills.