by Nell Scovell
She got it.
The high level of performance attracted high-level guest stars. I wrote an episode about a member of the original FYI news team—the fifth anchor—who was fired for being annoying. “Stuart Best” (a combination of Stuart Sutcliffe and Pete Best) returns for a reunion special and to figure out who got him shitcanned. (Spoiler alert: it was mostly Murphy.) The network wanted John Ratzenberger from Cheers to play the part, but the writers were all rooting for Wallace “Inconceivable!” Shawn. Ratzenberger fell out (or was he pushed?) and Wally stepped in to delight us all.
With Wallace Shawn. Photo was a gift from fellow Murphy writer Mike Saltzman.
Courtesy of Mike Saltzman
The Fourth P: Personal Life
My fond memories of Murphy are colored by a happy personal development that same year. At the last moment, the show needed a guest star to play a Howard Stern–type character and someone suggested Penn Jillette. I volunteered to contact him directly to see if he was available. He wasn’t, but he invited me to hang out with him in Vegas that weekend. He and Teller were committed to moving west and Penn was flying in with his architect to look at some land.
I headed to Vegas on a Saturday morning and caught up with Penn and his—wow, he’s really cute—architect, Colin Summers. Colin was a recent graduate of Cornell’s College of Architecture and I’d seen him around the P & T offices where he doubled as Penn’s “computer geek.” Penn, Colin, and I fell into an instant rapport as we tramped around the desert. That night the three of us went to a Gentleman’s Club to watch a performance by Penn’s friend Venus DeLight. (Pretty sure that’s not her real name.) As Venus slid around a gigantic martini glass, Colin and I got to know each other. Where romcom “meet cutes” had failed me, hardcore reality came through. Nothing in my past would have suggested that I’d fall in love in a strip club in Vegas, but that’s what happened.
Colin and I made plans to meet early the next morning for a joint rollerblade (him) and run (me) along the Strip. He was faster so he’d circle back, gliding gracefully around me, while talking about architecture, music, and technology. My head was spinning.
Colin drove me to the airport that afternoon. The night before, we’d discovered that we both enjoyed the movie True Romance. When Colin dropped me off, I slipped a note into his bag that repeated what Patricia Arquette said over and over to Christian Slater: “You’re so cool.”
A few months later, Colin moved from NYC to Vegas to design Penn’s house. On weekends, he’d ride his motorcycle to LA so we could be together. After six months, the subject of having kids came up. I was conflicted. At thirty-three, I wanted a family, but I didn’t want to stop working. Then Colin said the sexiest thing I’d ever heard a man say.
“I’d be happy to stay home and take care of a baby for the first year.”
“Seriously?”
“Seems fair. You carry the baby for the first nine months and I’ll carry it for the second.”
I was making good money, especially when compared to a budding architect so the arrangement made financial sense. Still, the best part of Colin’s offer is that he didn’t make it solely for financial reasons. He truly wanted to be the primary caregiver.
A year after meeting Colin, I got my wish and became “nonchalantly pregnant.” I built a baby while Colin built a gorgeous house for Penn known as “The Slammer.” About a month before I gave birth, Colin moved to LA full-time. Once Rudy arrived, Colin settled happily into his new role, returning to architecture when an interesting project cropped up. Pretty amazing, right? Unless you reverse the gender, and then it’s what women who have the choice to stay home do 95 percent of the time.
Colin and I originally rejected the idea of getting married: our relationship, our rules. But by the time I became pregnant with our second son, we were living in Brentwood and owned a Volvo. You can’t get more married than that, so we decided to make it official. Our wedding consisted of three people: the bride, the groom, and the magician who married us in our backyard.
Penn Jillette, Colin Summers, and me on our wedding day, November 12, 1997. Two things I love about this photo: (1) I’m standing on my tiptoes so I won’t look so short; and (2) Rudy’s little hand is in the left foreground. He was two.
Courtesy of Nora Castellanos
Everything about that year on Murphy Brown was magical so of course it couldn’t last. Steve, Gary, and Korby moved on at the end of the season, leaving the showrunner slot open. I secretly hoped that the three highest-ranking writers (which included me) would be promoted. Instead, Warner Bros. brought in an outsider. The studio gave me an opening to leave and I took it. Securing another job didn’t worry me. I was solidly in the “Get me Nell Scovell” stage of my career. Plus, a year on Murphy Brown and finding Colin had helped build my self-esteem. I felt ready to create my own show.
Chapter 10
So You Want to Run a TV Show
INT. SABRINA’S BEDROOM—NIGHT
SABRINA
Salem, do you think the Council will grant the time reversal?
SALEM THE CAT
I’m the wrong witch to ask. They weren’t very lenient to me. Sentenced to a hundred years as a cat. And for what?
SABRINA
I don’t know. For what?
SALEM THE CAT
Oh, like any young kid, I dreamed of world domination. Of course, they really crack down when you act on it.
SABRINA
Wow. No wonder you’re so possessive of the sofa.
Sabrina the Teenage Witch, pilot
AS A FIRST-TIME SHOWRUNNER AND CREATOR, I felt strangely confident going into the table read of the pilot episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. I felt good about the script. I felt good about the cast. I felt good about the director. The only thing I did not feel good about was that I had to kick off the table read by giving a speech. Public speaking is hard for me. My heart starts to pound and my voice gets all quivery. It worried me that if I seemed nervous, it would set a bad tone. I considered delegating the speech to someone else, but no one knew better than I did what made Sabrina special. After all, how many shows had a talking cat? Then it hit me like a ton of sticks. I had a plan.
The day of the read, the crowd filed in. Viacom President Perry Simon patted me on the back and flashed me his impish smile. I waved to our director Robby Benson who most people know as the star of One on One (if male) or Ice Castles (if female) or both (if me). At a nearby table, an animatronic cat sat stiffly on a wooden plank. Crew members and writers milled around. Actors took seats and flipped through their scripts. Finally, the ABC contingent entered, led by newly named President of Entertainment Jamie Tarses and Head of Scheduling Jeff Bader. Jamie was the highest-ranking person in the room and when she took her seat, it was showtime. All eyes turned to me, then suddenly, the stiff cat came to life.
“Greetings, humans!” Salem called out.
Everyone lit up as the cat cranked his neck. The writers had composed a short, funny speech for “Salem” who was voiced by fellow writer Nick Bakay. The cat welcomed the group, then after a few lines, started to cough and hack trying to expel a hairball. With his last breath, Salem turned the table read over to me.
After Salem’s funny intro, the pressure was off. I calmly thanked the network and studio for their support, the crew and writers for their work, and lastly, I thanked the actors.
“You’re all amazing,” I said. “I love this cast. But please know if you complain too much . . .”
My voice trailed off as I gestured toward the animatronic cat, which sprang to life again. The implication was that the actors could all be replaced by fancy puppets. People laughed.
I nodded to Robby who read the opening stage direction: “INTERIOR. SABRINA’S BEDROOM—NIGHT.” We were off. About twenty-four minutes later, Robby read, “FADE OUT. END OF SHOW.” Everyone applauded. They always do, so I didn’t read anything into that.
The network executives huddled in a corner while the writers, production staff,
and actors headed to stage. While I waited for notes, I thought about how far we’d come in only four months. It all started when my new agent Abby Adams called to ask if I’d been a fan of the Sabrina the Teenage Witch comic books as a kid. I had. Part of the Archie universe, Sabrina was created by George Gladir. Viacom Productions turned the premise into a cable movie written by a group led by Barney Cohen. That cable movie was edited into a four-minute presentation that Viacom shopped to networks. Ted Harbert, then-President of ABC, saw Sabrina as a good fit for the family-friendly TGIF lineup and ordered thirteen episodes. Easy!
Not so fast. Jonathan Schmock, a gifted writer and artist, wrote a pilot script. He was slated to run the show as soon as he wrapped up his job on the already-cancelled Brotherly Love. Then in a surprise move, the fledgling WB picked up his show and Jonathan was no longer available.
After Murphy, I had jumped into an overall deal at 20th Century Fox Studios. Peter Roth, one of the nicest and most successful executives around, signed me to an eighteen-month contract to create sitcoms. The studio paired me with novelist Doug Coupland to develop his book Microserfs into a TV show set in the tech world. We pitched our concept to the head of the FOX network who listened intently.
“This is the most thought-out pitch I’ve ever heard,” he told us. “And I didn’t understand a word of it.”
Microserfs crashed. I rebounded and sold a concept to the WB about two high school besties with a cable show. Prudy and Judy was picked up to pilot and we cast two phenomenal sixteen-year-old actresses: Jackie Tohn and Laura Bell Bundy, who later originated the role of Elle Woods in the musical Legally Blonde. Barry Kemp directed and Alan Thicke played Laura Bell’s father. The WB passed on the series, which made me sad, but also freed me up to meet on Sabrina.
As the new Sabrina showrunner, I was given leeway to rewrite Jonathan’s pilot script, which centered on Sabrina screwing up her driver’s test. I refocused the story on Sabrina discovering her magical powers and worrying about her social status.
“I don’t want to be special,” Sabrina insists to her warlock father. “I want to be normal.”
“I understand,” her dad responds. “But that ship has sailed.”
On her first day at school, Sabrina makes a series of mistakes. She gets hit in the head by a football in front of the boy she likes. She fails a pop quiz. Finally, she loses her temper in the cafeteria and uses her magic irresponsibly. The second act opens in the Spellman kitchen. Sabrina enters, panicked, holding a pineapple.
SABRINA
I hate being a witch. I just turned the most popular girl in school into a pineapple.
HILDA
Chill. I can fix this. (TAKES A CLEAVER OUT) Chunks or rings?
ZELDA
Hilda, there are other ways.
HILDA
Wedges?
Aunt Zelda turns the cheerleader Libby (named after my niece) back into her human form. Libby isn’t sure what just went down.
“You did something to me,” she says. “You sent me somewhere. It was small and smelled like Hawaii.”
Expertly played by Jenna Leigh Green, Libby storms out, promising to destroy Sabrina’s reputation. And she has the power to do it. “She’s a cheerleader,” says Sabrina. “No one has more credibility.” Desperate to undo the disastrous day, Sabrina petitions the Witches Council to turn back time. Jonathan had written a similar scene although in his version, the aunts and Salem accompanied Sabrina. I felt Sabrina should have to plead her case alone. I cast magicians Penn and Teller as Council members Drell and Skippy, respectively. In a set inspired by surrealist art, Sabrina argues for a second chance. This scene set up the metaphor of the entire series: being a teenager means coming into your powers, but being an adult means learning to control them.
With Penn, who played Drell, head of the Witches Council
Courtesy of the author
Teller, who originated the role of Skippy the witch, in a Magritte-style bowler hat with a fish wrapped in pearls behind him.
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
The Council turns down the request. Sabrina has no choice but to go back to school and face Libby’s ridicule.
“Fine. I surrender,” Sabrina says as she heads off the next morning. “I guess every school needs a weird kid. Might as well be me.”
“I was the weird kid!” Hilda calls after her, cheerfully.
It made my heart beat faster to hear Caroline Rhea deliver this line in such a chipper voice. I was the weird kid, too. Sabrina was my attempt to create a show that my teenage self would have watched.
In the final scenes, Aunt Hilda confronts Drell and forces him to give her niece a do-over. Sabrina makes the most of her second chance. She catches the football, aces the pop quiz, and doesn’t turn the cheerleader into a pineapple. At the end of the school day, Sabrina races home, triumphant.
“Yay! I’m normal!” she declares. “Gotta go tell the cat!”
Viacom execs Steve Gordon and Chris Sanagustin were true partners and helped shape my early drafts. The biggest argument we had concerned a character who’s not even in the pilot: Sabrina’s mom. Jonathan’s script had Sabrina say, “I never knew my mom” implying Mom had died in childbirth. The studio thought this was a fine way to explain Mom’s absence, but I didn’t see any reason to kill her off. The tradition of matricide in “family” movies from Bambi to Finding Nemo has always rankled me. I presented my case to Steve and Chris.
“Why can’t we just give the mom a job that keeps her far away?”
“Like what?”
“What if she’s an archeologist on a long dig in Peru?” I said.
“And she just abandoned her kid?”
“Sabrina’s not abandoned,” I said. “She’s living in a nice home with her two loving aunts. I mean, her dad’s not with her and you’re okay with that. You’re not insisting we kill him off.”
“No.”
“So why is it different with a mom?”
Sabrina’s mom got a stay of execution. Still, Steve and Chris asked me to make it clear that Mom keeping her distance wasn’t a choice. I added a line of dialogue that explains if Sabrina sets eyes on her mortal mother in the first two years after becoming a witch, her mom will turn into a ball of wax. Sabrina’s dad adds this policy is how the Council discourages marriage between witches and mortals.
Back at the pilot table read, the ABC huddle broke. The group rejoined the Viacom folks and me. As president of the network, Jamie Tarses delivered the notes. She opened by saying she enjoyed all the performances. She liked the animatronic cat. She thought the story worked fine. She did, however, have one “fairly major note.” I tensed. Jamie felt there wasn’t enough conflict between the two aunts. She asked me to describe each one.
“Zelda’s the straight man: logical, restrained, and stable,” I said. “Hilda’s the wild card: emotional, blunt, and an incurable romantic.”
Jamie thought we needed to push the contrast more, especially in the aunts’ attitudes toward their niece. She pitched an idea: What if one of the aunts didn’t want Sabrina living with them? What if Hilda’s attitude was more like, “Our lives were so much better before our niece came to live here. She’s ruining everything!”
Jamie’s pitch definitely created more conflict, but it felt off to me. I’d been primed to nod and say, “Let me look at that,” but I couldn’t see doing any version of this pitch.
“That just seems sad to me,” I said. “Sabrina’s a teenager. If she’s not with one of her parents and the aunts she’s living with don’t want her there, how can we laugh?”
Jamie and I went back and forth. I kept hoping someone from Viacom would back me up, but arguing against a network president is a lonely task. We reached an impasse. I sensed it was my cue to say, “Okay, I’ll try it that way,” but before I got the words out, network VP Jeff Bader jumped in and uttered the four most beautiful words in the English language: “I agree with Nell.”
Most networks present as a monolith so J
eff offering an independent opinion was completely unexpected. His speaking up broke the deadlock.
“Fine,” Jamie said, ready to move on. “Leave it.”
I will always be grateful to Jeff for his creative support at such a crucial moment. From that moment on, the pilot shoot went smoothly, thanks in large part to Robby Benson’s creativity, preparation, and expertise. Robby even did double-duty when he agreed to play Sabrina’s dad and had to direct himself.
The only small disappointment for me came during the Witches Council scene. Penn and Teller had flown in from Vegas and were prepared for their parts. Debbie Harry (lead singer of Blondie) flew in from Europe and was a bit bleary, but quickly got up to speed on her lines. The fourth member of the Council, Mr. X, had no lines . . . because Mr. X was only six months old. I wrote the part with a specific baby in mind. From the moment he was born, our son Rudy had a sunny disposition. As Mr. X, all he had to do was sit and look cute. Rudy got the part.
The day of the shoot, Colin brought Rudy to wardrobe where they dressed him in a custom, purple velvet onesie. Mr. X arrived on set, looking positively regal. The crew was still lighting the set when out of nowhere:
“Wah.”
Colin and I exchanged a look. Rudy rarely fussed.
“Is the outfit bothering him?” I wondered.
Colin checked the onesie’s high neckline. “Seems fine.”
“Wah.”
“Does he feel hot to you?” Colin asked.
I pressed my lips to Rudy’s forehead. He was warm. We assumed the polyester onesie was to blame so we stripped it off him. That didn’t help. Rudy was running the first fever of his life. I looked over at Robby Benson who was reviewing shots with the camera crew. The scene had multiple speaking parts, special effects, and mechanical props. Adding one more uncontrollable variable would stress the shoot. As Executive Producer, I made the hard choice to do what was best for the production. I cut my own flesh and blood from the scene. Colin took Rudy straight home.
Six months later, around his first birthday, Rudy made his network debut, appearing as Cupid at the end of the opening credits sequence for our Valentine’s Day show. The double meaning of “Created By” is kind of awesome.
