by Nell Scovell
Sabrina holds Cupid (aka Rudy Summers, age one)
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
After the pilot, the writers started breaking the next twelve episodes in our offices on the Universal lot. The Sabrina writers’ room was underneath a parking structure and every time a car drove in or out, the whole room shook like there was an earthquake. We used to joke that if “the big one” ever hit, we’d all shrug and figure, “Eh, it’s just a truck” right before the ceiling collapsed and crushed us to death.
Closing in on our September 27, 1996, premiere, Sabrina was flying under the radar as ABC focused its promotional efforts on Clueless, a TV adaptation of Amy Heckerling’s perfect movie. I worried that TV reviewers who were, and still are, mostly male might not appreciate our series and its three female leads. Some reviewers did dismiss the show, calling it “daft” and “borderline funny-dopey.” But a few heavy hitters, like Pulitzer-prize winner Tom Shales, were charmed.
My Three Favorite Reviews for Sabrina the Teenage Witch
Perfectly respectable family fare, yet not so perfectly respectable that it’s drippy, Sabrina the Teenage Witch made a bright and sprightly addition to ABC’s Friday night.
—Tom Shales, The Washington Post
Not just TGIF fare, but TV good enough for any night.
—David Wild, Rolling Stone
Sabrina is a series with two levels. Its unabashed silliness designed for a young audience, its nuanced satire something that adults also may find a kick.
—Howard Rosenberg, Los Angeles Times
Sabrina premiered on a Friday night and the next morning at exactly nine a.m., I stood in my kitchen, dialing into the ABC “Overnight Ratings Hotline.” TGIF shows typically received a ten to fourteen share (percentage) of the audience. I listened as the monotone voice on the hotline droned through the eight o’clock shows. My heart was pounding as he announced, “Eighty-thirty. ABC. Sabrina the Teenage Witch, premiere. Twenty share.”
I screamed. Over the weekend, I dialed that number over and over and never got tired of hearing that monotone “twenty share,” which translated to over 18 million viewers. Within weeks, my hero and ABC scheduling guru Jeff Bader was telling Entertainment Weekly, “Sabrina is the little show that could.”
The network flipped our timeslot with Clueless. We stayed in the nine o’clock slot and finished 30th out of 155 shows for the 1996–1997 TV season. More importantly, the Valentine’s Day episode fulfilled a dream of mine to get mentioned in TV Guide’s “CHEERS & JEERS” column. Even better, it wasn’t a “Jeers.”
Courtesy of TV Guide magazine
As showrunner, I got to build the writing staff and hired Co-Executive Producer Norma Vela and Supervising Producers Carrie Honigblum and Renee Phillips. I’d never worked on a show with so many high-level women. Still, I should have been more inclusive. The Sabrina room had some diversity—a disabled writer, a writer married to a Latino, a Stanford grad—but we didn’t have any writers of color. I’m aware of all the excuses I could make to justify the homogeneity because they’ve all been made against me on male-centric shows. I had the opportunity to include more voices and I didn’t make enough of an effort. That was a mistake. It would have made the show funnier.
The cast was all-white, too. Early in the pilot process, my CAA agents pitched Cicely Tyson for the part of Aunt Zelda. Tyson is a Tony Award– and Emmy Award–winning actress and I should have jumped at the suggestion. Instead, I said that we were already zeroing in on Caroline Rhea and it wouldn’t make sense for the two to be sisters.
“It’s a world of magic. Maybe one sister is black,” my agent said.
It would have been an interesting and bold move, but I didn’t pursue the idea.
The rest of the writing staff included Salem’s alter-ego Nick Bakay who was indispensable and went on to a stellar career in both TV and movies. (You can thank Nick for Paul Blart: Mall Cop.) Frank Conniff was better known as “TV’s Frank” from MST3K. Rachel Lipman had written a classic Rugrats episode. I leaned heavily on Co-Producer Jon Sherman, who went on to become an Executive Producer of Frasier. Jon and I cracked each other up with smart/dumb jokes like, “Oh good, there’s a lecture at MIT on the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. It’s either at eight or at ten o’clock.”
On set, Paul Feig was hysterical as Sabrina’s biology teacher Mr. Pool (first name Gene). Watching Gary Halvorson direct six episodes was a master class in how to run a set. Editor Stu Bass made every show funnier. (Hey, I never got to make an Emmy speech so I’m doing it here.)
The show’s tone tended to be my favorite mixture of grounded and absurd. Sabrina’s high school football team was nicknamed “The Fighting Scallions,” a misprint of “Stallions” that the school couldn’t afford to correct. We wrote in a giant flan and a lint monster that leapt out of the dryer because we could. We hired guest stars that we wanted to work with like Bryan Cranston, Henry Gibson, and Donald Faison. Raquel Welch played Sabrina’s fun-loving, thigh-high leather boot wearing Aunt Vesta and helped deliver the show’s highest-rated episode. Raquel was a total pro and all-around good sport, who was as enchanting offscreen as on. During breaks, I peppered her with questions.
“Who’s the biggest flirt you’ve ever worked with?” I asked.
“Richard Burton,” she said without hesitation. “He was the best.” Then her eyes twinkled as she confided lustily, “I mean . . . in a closet in a minute.”
A giant flan—was it a dream or real?
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
Linty, the lint monster.
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
Beth Broderick and Caroline Rhea made a fantastic team as Aunts Zelda and Hilda. Beth anchored the plots and accepted the necessary task of laying out exposition. Caroline took the show to comedic heights. Caroline’s friendly, upbeat delivery allowed her to say the most insane lines with complete conviction. When Hilda and Drell started a relationship, she explains that if he breaks a date, he always sends a pot roast which magically appears in the oven.
“Flowers wilt,” Hilda says. “Say it with beef.”
It made perfect sense coming out of Caroline’s mouth. In another episode, a backfiring spell causes Hilda to grow a thick luxurious beard. I worried the beard might make Caroline self-conscious, but it had the opposite effect. Caroline sauntered onto the set in a tight shirt, little skirt, and full bushy beard. I swear she never looked sexier.
With Caroline Rhea before her morning shave.
Courtesy of the author
The original order for thirteen Sabrina episodes expanded to twenty-two and then the network added two more. We had some turnover in the writers’ room and with five shows left, I hired my friend Barry Marx as a staff writer. Barry had never written for TV, but he’d worked on a video game with Penn & Teller and I knew he could do the job. Barry moved from New Jersey to the west coast for a couple of months, subletting an apartment near the Hollywood sign.
By the final two episodes, I was exhausted. New shows are a lot of work and having a green staff meant a lot of rewriting. Executive Producer Liz Friedman once summed up the experience: “Running a show is like being beaten to death by your own dream.”
My contract had been for a season and Viacom offered me a generous, but not perfect, deal to extend for another. I was on the fence about returning for a variety of reasons and I didn’t have the psychic energy to sort it out while still in production. My goal was to finish strong. The penultimate episode was built around Sabrina and her classmates visiting Salem, Massachusetts. I’d written a detailed outline that the studio and network approved on a Friday. That was the good news. The bad news was the table read was on Monday, which meant I had to write the script over the weekend.
That Friday evening around seven, I sent the writers home. It had been a tough day filled with drama so most people bolted from the room. One writer lingered.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Barry asked.
“Thank
s,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
Barry flashed me a sweet, kindhearted smile. We said good night and I returned to the set, where we shot for another couple of hours. When the set wrapped, I headed home to Colin. We were already in bed at eleven when the phone rang. It was Penn in Vegas. Barry’s girlfriend in NYC had just called. She’d been talking to Barry on the phone when he suddenly exclaimed, “Ow, that really hurts!” and then cut out. She tried calling back but the line was busy. She didn’t know how to call 9-1-1 from out of state so she called Penn who was calling Barry’s friends in LA. Another friend, Rich Nathanson, had already reported the emergency. Colin and I jumped in the car. All indications pointed to awful news. Barry was not the type to let anyone worry. Colin drove too fast. I wailed.
Police cars were outside the apartment complex when we arrived. Rich was standing on the lawn, his face contorted. We cried as coroners carried a heavy body bag to the van.
“There goes our friend,” Rich wept.
A policeman informed us that Barry had died of natural causes. We later learned that he’d suffered a rupture in his aorta, a congenital defect. He was forty.
That was Friday night. I spent Saturday with friends and my family. On Sunday, Jon Sherman came to my house and together we turned the Salem witch trial outline into a script. I was so grateful to have Jon’s talent and friendship.
The table read was a blur. Barry was so new to the show, most of the crew and actors had no attachment to him. He was like a real-life Star Trek redshirt. (That may seem cruel, but the reference would’ve made Barry laugh.) Later that afternoon, I stumbled through a phone call with Barry’s parents, telling them how sorry I was and how much we would miss him. I felt guilty that the job had moved him three thousand miles away. I couldn’t imagine their pain.
That same week, my lawyer called to say Viacom was pushing for an answer on their latest offer. I asked if we could hold off until the season wrapped. Viacom’s business affairs department said no. And this is what I learned: If you’re on the fence about signing up for an all-consuming project and that same week you watch a friend carried out in a body bag, you will determine that life is too short. You will make the choice that allows you to spend precious time with the people you love most. I walked away from Sabrina.
There are days when I regret that decision. There were compelling creative and financial reasons to stay. There were also unpleasant aspects of the job that may not have been fixable. Mitch Hurwitz, creator of Arrested Development, once compared running a show to “piloting an airplane while the passengers throw rocks at your head.” I know that feeling well. You want to turn around and shout, “Hey! If I go down, we all go down.”
My friend Miriam Trogdon took over as Sabrina showrunner and I appreciated that Viacom hadn’t replaced me with a male writer. (Eventually, that happened.) Miriam called me to check in and offered some helpful advice.
Colin and Rudy during Sabrina days
Courtesy of the author
“Here’s my recommendation,” Miriam said. “Never watch the show again.”
I took her advice, although once while switching channels on a plane, I caught a scene from a much-later season. Sabrina and her aunts were arguing in the Spellman kitchen and the characters’ attitudes were unrecognizable to me. The only things that felt familiar were the little teacup handles on the kitchen cabinets that I had picked out with the set decorator for the pilot.
Sabrina continued for three more years on ABC and two on the WB. Ratings were never as high as that first season, but they remained strong enough for the show to sell into syndication.
In 2016, the show celebrated its twentieth anniversary and a reporter reached out to women who’d grown up watching. Lena Dunham was ten when the show premiered and shared this: “Sabrina the Teenage Witch was truly formative for me on every level—it was subtly radical feminist storytelling, never denying the power of sisterhood or the magic of a teenage girl. Sabrina had agency, she had spunk, and it took the form of magic. It makes me laugh to this day. I feel lucky it was on TV for girls like me.”
Lena’s words made me think back to the table read where I fought to keep the aunts welcoming of their niece. “Never denying the power of sisterhood” turned out to be a key to our success.
As a science fiction fan, there are times I fantasize about visiting a parallel universe where I’d stayed on as Sabrina’s showrunner. I’d like to meet alt-Nell and ask if it was worth navigating the obstacles to create bigger flans and lintier monsters. But mostly I want to go to that parallel universe and spend time with alt-Barry Marx who is still alive and well and flashing his sweet, kindhearted smile.
Barry Marx holding Rudy
Courtesy of the author
Assorted Guest Cast Who You Might Not Have Known Appeared on Sabrina, the Teenage Witch
GUEST STAR
EPISODE
BEST KNOWN FOR
WHAT THEY PLAYED
HIGHLIGHT
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
Bryan Cranston
The Troll Bride
Breaking Bad
Lawyer from the other realm
Wore a tailored 4-piece suit, including jacket, pants, vest, and boxers
Henry Gibson
Cat Show
Laugh In
Judge Samuels
I got to tell him how much I loved his performance as Haven Hamilton in Robert Altman’s Nashville
Courtesy of the author
Raquel Welch
Third Aunt from the Sun
Sex symbol, movie star
Vesta, Sabrina’s third aunt
“Shake your whammy fanny funky song, funky song”
Dana Gould
A Girl and her Cat
Brilliant stand up
Monty
“Monty” was best described as a Paul Lynde–like character . . . only gayer
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
Chris Elliott
Mars Attacks
Late Night with David Letterman
Warren, a spy impersonating an insurance salesman
Chris and I hadn’t overlapped at Letterman so this was our first time meeting.
Brady Anderson
Sabrina Through the Looking Glass
Baltimore Orioles, 50 HR in a season
Himself—and struggled to do that
Everyone on the set had a crush on him—including me.
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
Milo Ventimiglia
Terrible Things
Gilmore Girls, Heroes, This is Us
Football player
Votes for Libby as class president based on her platform of “more pizza at lunch”
Courtesy of CBS Television Studios
Donald Faison
Magic Joel
Scrubs
Justin
Auditions to be Magic Joel’s assistant
Brian Austin Green
Dream Date
“David Silver” on Beverly Hills 90210
Sabrina’s dream date made from Man Dough
He seemed to have second thoughts about appearing, but delivered a great performance with over-the-top enthusiasm
Stage Three
Get Me A Younger, Cheaper Nell Scovell!
Chapter 11
Poetry Is in the Doing
“Welcome the felicitous accident.”
—Arthur Penn on directing movies
IN DECEMBER 2002, COLIN AND I ATTENDED THE LA Film Critics Association gala dinner at the elegant Hotel Casa del Mar. We were penthousing—or whatever the opposite of slumming is. From our primo table, I was close enough to rub Daniel Day-Lewis’s shaved head. I could hear Julianne Moore snapping her gum. I could feel the glare of Jack Nicholson’s grin as he presided over the About Schmidt table. And directly across from me sat our friend Arthur Penn who was receiving a lifetime achievement award for a body of work that included Bonnie and Clyde, Little Big Man, and Penn and Teller Get
Killed. That last one wasn’t Arthur’s best-known film, but it’s the reason we met. I’d interviewed Arthur for Rolling Stone in 1986 and kept our interview going for the next twenty-five years.
The other seats at our table filled up with Arthur’s friends and my heroes: Tootsie writer and M*A*S*H creator Larry Gelbart, Mel Brooks and his wife, Anne Bancroft. Arthur directed Anne in The Miracle Worker on Broadway and they both won Tony Awards. He also directed her in the film version and both were nominated for Academy Awards. Anne took home the Oscar that year, but Arthur lost to David Lean and Lawrence of Arabia. (Talk about a category killer.)
The Film Critics gala was a true celebration of cinema. As one winner noted: “It’s lovely to receive an award from people who actually saw the movies.” Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar kept coming over to our table to hug Arthur. Later, Almodóvar observed in his charming, accented English, “You are the nicest people I ever have dinner with. For an orgy, I don’t know. I have to look around. But for dinner, very nice.”
Toward the end of the program, Anne Bancroft rose from her seat and headed to the stage to present Arthur with his award. As soon as she arrived at the podium, a voice rang out from our table.
“Mention me!” Mel Brooks shouted.
“I’m not gonna!” Anne shouted back in her native Brooklyn accent. The entire room cracked up.
Anne lavished praise on Arthur to the point that he started turning red, then he joined her on the stage. Arthur spoke about his life in the theater and movies, and the importance of his friends, his wife, and his children, Matt and Molly. There were two standing ovations that night. One was for Arthur Penn. And the other was for Arthur Penn.
