How to park your secretary

Many thanks to fellow writer Rob Long for his way-too-kind piece on this blog in his radio commentary, MARTINI SHOTS on NPR’s KCRW in Santa Monica. I’m still blushing. In addition to producing CHEERS when he was like nine, Rob has become one of the top sitcom writers in town (along with his partner, Dan Staley) and has also carved out a nice niche for himself as a pundit and author. His book on television, CONVERSATIONS WITH MY AGENT, is must reading.

In his feature on me he brought up an anecdote I had completely forgotten but was true and worth sharing here. So if I may paraphrase his story paraphrasing me:

Back in 1993 my partner and I had created a summer show for CBS called BIG WAVE DAVE’S. Rob and Dan were our producers. I think Rob was eleven then. We did the show for Paramount (and I can tell this story since no one involved is remotely still associated with the studio. In fact, this was probably four full regimes ago.)

Our line producer informed me that the studio refused to pay our secretary’s parking. The budget for each episode was over a million dollars. Weekly parking was $13. Above-the-line people (writers, directors, producers, actors) got to park on the lot for free. Below-the-line peons had to park in a structure across the street.

And don’t let the Hollywood address fool you. This was not a great neighborhood. I used to call the lot “Fort Paramount”. While working at WINGS on rewrite night we often watched drug deals go down across the street at the parking structure. An ice cream truck would arrive every night about 11 and we would say, “Cracky, the clown is here. Looks like he’s got some great shit tonight for the kiddies!”

So I was pissed. No one works harder and more hours than the writers’ secretary. It’s bad enough they had to park in a war zone. The least the studio could do was pay for their parking. (Note: we also made sure one of us walked them out to their cars, another little safety service the studio felt no obligation to perform).

I called the studio bean counter and raised hell. But it was studio policy. There was nothing he could do. I then asked what would constitute a legitimate production expense? He said research. “You mean like a book?” I said. He said, yes. “Fine,” I continued, “I just bought a book this week. It’s called HOW TO PARK YOUR SECRETARY and it cost thirteen bucks.”

That he approved.

So every week I would call with another essential research book I bought. Titles like THE IN’S AND OUT’S OF BUYING YOUR PA’S PIZZA and Rob’s favorite, A BIRTHDAY CAKE FOR THE WEIRD GUY IN PROPS.

I should mention that none of the other major studios were any different. But that was then. Things have since changed.

Writers now have to park across the street.

What does love mean?

Happy Valentine's Day. It's also my birthday. Like Jack Benny (whose birthday was also February 14th) I'm 39 today. And a young 39 damn it!

To mark this day of amour I thought I'd share my least favorite romantic sequence in any movie. This is from LOVE STORY, the gold standard for over-the-top cringeworthy sentimentality. Keep in mind this film was not just a hit, it was a national sensation.

Our scene opens with Oliver (Ryan O'Neal) searching for Jenny (Ali McGraw)... and searching... and searching... and searching. But hang in there, because the pay off -- both the acting and the writing -- is so worth it.

See-Worthy: 'Milk'

I'm always a little wary of important, heavily praised movies that I've waited a little too long to see, and "Milk" was no exception. But while "Milk" isn't a flawless movie, it is a very good one that is anchored by knockout performances from Sean Penn and Josh Brolin, and a fine supporting cast. Emile Hirsch, perhaps atoning for "Speed Racer," is especially good as a young Cleve Jones, the activist who went on to create the AIDS Memorial Quilt project.

A couple things came to mind while I watched "Milk" with my friend R: First, it's hard to imagine that this film would have been possible without the success and frankness of "Brokeback Mountain." The sexuality in "Milk" is hardly over the top, but the fact that it exists at all in a mainstream movie represents a sea change. James Franco kissing Sean Penn didn't seem to be nearly as big of a deal as Heath Ledger kissing Jake Gyllenhaal just four short years ago.

However, it was unsettling to think about how far this country still has to go in terms of granting gay Americans full civil rights. Some of the anti-gay rhetoric in archival footage from the 1970s is nearly identical to the rhetoric today in many parts of the country - that gays are a threat to American values, that they can't be trusted around children, that God disapproves, etc. Here in Florida, voters passed a depressing constitutional amendment that defines marriage as strictly between a man and a woman. California's Prop. 8 did the same thing, with overwhelming support from (irony alert) African-American voters.

Back to the acting: Josh Brolin was amazing as Dan White, the struggling politician who ultimately killed Milk and San Francisco's mayor in 1978. He brought complexity and vulnerability to a character that could have been easy to hate, playing him as a man who is losing his place in a changing world. Give that man a Best Supporting Actor Academy Award. James Franco was quite good as Milk's warm and supportive boyfriend, Scott Smith. You really feel for him as he loses his partner to a movement that eventually overwhelmes their relationship. (And for the record, Franco is incapable of burying his hotness, even with a bad perm and a '70s mustache. As my friend J. would say, some people are just gifted.)

It's down to one showing at the Miracle 5, so check it out while it's still on the big screen.

How to write a romantic movie

Had the chance to see NIGHTS IN RODANTHE. Not the kind of movie I usually watch but I was trapped on a plane and it stars Diane Lane. Based on the few movies of this weepy… excuse me, “romantic” genre I have been bored enough on long flights to see, I have managed to glean the formula. So if you’re about to write one, follow these easy steps to chick flick success.

Start with an attractive couple. He can be in his 50s, she can be in her 40s but only if she looks like she’s in her 30s.

Opening scene – she catches her husband cheating. Big emotional trauma. He begs forgiveness and vows never to screw any of her sisters again. You must cast a handsome but boring actor who can play weak.

She needs time to think.

She goes to a picturesque setting like Tuscany or a charming bed & breakfast by the sea. A few scenes of her shopping for vegetables and arranging flowers in her room. A best friend advises she’s got to loosen up, live a little, and of course she finds that out of the question. Better to window shop for clocks to keep track of your youth slipping away.

She meets a man. Handsome but with baggage. Widower, never married, or wife went nuts and became a Scientologist. Now you write 20 pages of exposition -- she must be artistically inclined, he’s misunderstood, and they’re both mourning a dead relative who meant so much to them. This is the “getting to know you” section. Have them bumping into each other at cafes, him helping her lift firewood, sharing a love for Dinah Washington, laughing over something incredibly lame like her plastic fork breaks.

During this section do not concern yourself with the fact that the audience knows exactly where this is going. Toss in a scene where they argue about something as a mislead but don’t dwell on it because no one’s buying it.

A big cinematic event must now take place. Hurricanes are good. Cossacks if your film has a more historical bent. Danger! Danger! Something brings them together and they kiss. Music swells. You’re halfway home.

Now comes the “happy-in-love” section. Scenes in the sack, natch. But don’t forget the walks along the beach hand in hand as they gaze mooney-eyed at each other.

They must go to the inevitable local festival. Here they dance, they laugh, they eat local delicacies. Whole new worlds are opening up for this crazy couple. She’s having fun for the first time in ages. They go off and kiss in the moonlight. Return to the sack.

Then the post coital glow scene. Still in bed, cuddling, making plans that will never come true because the audience hasn’t cried enough yet.

Here’s where it gets murky. Now you must create some bogus issue to split them up. Something to snap them back into reality. Here’s where kids come in very handy. One goes to the hospital. Mom wasn’t there. Guilt! Guilt! (preferred dialogue: She: “What am I doing? I can’t just run off and do this.” He: “Hey, you’re entitled to your own happiness.”) Other love buzz kills – he has to fly to Peru, her kids want daddy back, he still has feelings for Sarah Palin.

This is followed by the separation sequence. Long solitary walks along the beach (with close ups of the waves crashing of course), wandering through the quaint town, not stopping to watch the village idiot wiggle his ears for money.

Lean heavy on voice overs. They can always exchange letters. No line is too cloying, no thought too overwrought. “When I met you it was like I stepped out of a dream.” “You’ve given me the courage to love.” I’m sure you can find something a little more heavy-handed, but that’s the general idea.

Now it’s time for one of them to die. This chestnut has been a staple since LOVE STORY. The survivor now has at least five scenes of crying, remembering the good times (flashbacks required), moping, not eating or sleeping, and of course Dinah Washington wailing some heart tugging dirge. You might cap this with another voice over – the last letter is always the knockout punch. Lay it on thick here. “I’m counting the hours until we can start our life together”.

There won’t be a dry seat in the house.

But finally time passes, the children and friends rally around, the survivor realizes that he or she became a much better, more understanding, compassionate, enlightened, and sympathetic person as a result of the now-corpse. Her art is better, he sees Sarah Palin for who she is. So let the healing begin. Reprise a song from the festival, a shared moment, the coming of spring. Something to elicit a smile. Once you get to that smile, you’re done. Slap a confusing title like NIGHTS IN RODANTHE (what the hell does that even mean?) on it and you’re ready to see what Diane Lane and Richard Gere have on their plates for the fall.

Now you may think I’m a cynic. I’m not. I love a good romance. Just not one by the numbers. But those are what sells. So get busy. We’re running out of charming little towns. You don’t want to be stuck with Pismo Beach.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Gaiman’s Batman Begins; 'Nightwing' Takes A Bow

Boy, that Neil Gaiman is good. So far, I love his retro, mannered take on the Batman story, and Andy Kubert’s panels are full of detailed, gorgeous goodness. I wanted to climb into the first one and go explore Gotham City — that is, if I didn’t think I’d get mugged before walking two blocks. Spoilers ahead!

The "Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader?" story opens with a vampy (and perfectly illustrated) Selina Kyle (Catwoman) arriving to attend what appears to be Batman’s funeral— in the back of an abandoned bar. We know this can’t be right because the bartender is none other than Joe Chill, who murdered Thomas and Martha Wayne. Then the story shifts back to the 1940s, with Catwoman describing Batman as the guy who won’t/can’t commit. Her story ends many years later with Bats dying of a gunshot wound in her pet store. It seems that she’s so heartbroken and bitter about his pathological, endless war on crime that she ties him up and allows him to bleed to death. Alrighty.

Next, it’s Alfred’s turn to tell the tale, and the ending is both surprising and pathetic. According to this alternate reality, Batman’s inability to make a dent in Gotham’s devastating crime problem is making him a broken, shell of a man. To encourage him, Alfred, a former actor, recruits his fellow thespians to play colorful, outrageous villains like the Riddler and the Penguin. Alfred himself takes on the persona of the Joker, but even when Batman learns it’s all been a ruse, he can’t let go of the cowl — and he pays with his life. Both stories raise all kinds of questions about Bruce Wayne's sanity, and whether he even exists once you take away the Batman.

That’s great stuff, and it's far more satisfying than any of the previous five or six “R.I.P.” stories. More, please!

I was less enamored of the final “Nightwing” issue, but that’s not Peter Tomasi’s fault. He’s done a good job of making me care about this character, but D.C. has decided to fold Dick Grayson into the other books for now. There is one touching moment when Dick, finally accepting that Bruce is gone, sheds tears in front of Alfred. But that moment is completely undermined when Dick is forced to acknowledge the obvious — that every other major character (Oliver Queen, Barry Allen, Superman) has come back from the dead, so anything’s possible! Again, it's not Tomasi’s fault that death means nothing in the D.C. Universe.

Based on "Crusader," alone I'd give this week in comics a solid B+.

Good actors

I’m doing my Friday question post a day early this week because tomorrow I want to do a Valentine’s Day related post (which happens to also be my birthday – thanks in advance for the presents).

Anonymous asks this after Tuesday’s post about Christian Bale:

Who are some of the stars that you have worked with who WEREN'T monsters? The ones filled with grace and dignity? Would love to see that list.

I’ve been incredibly blessed. It’s a long long list. And it’s not complete. I apologize to those other actors I’ve worked with who also deserve to be in this rollcall but whose names have just slipped my mind. I’m too lazy to alphabetize them so here they are in no particular order. My point is that there are many decent actors. There are ways of getting what you want without being a monster. If you're in the industry and have had occasion to work with actors who were menches please share who they are.

Ted Danson
Tom Hanks
Rita Wilson
John Candy
Michael Douglas
Nancy Travis
Alan Alda
Mike Ferrell
Harvey Firestein
Emma Thompson
Harry Connick Jr.
Harry Morgan
Shelley Long
Rhea Perlman
Nick Collasanto
Woody Harrelson
George Wendt
John Ratzenberger
Kirstie Alley
Kelsey Grammer
Steven Webber
Tony Shaloub
Tim Daly
Julie Benz
Crystal Bernard
Amy Yasbech
Adam Arkin
Jane Kaczmarek
Malcolm McDowell
Kurtwood Smith
Kevin Kilner
David Morse
Patrick Breen
Ed Asner
Jennifer Tilly
Wendie Malick
George Segal
David Hyde Pierce
Jon Tenney
Peri Gilpen
Laura Linney
Aaron Eckhart
John Mahoney
Jane Leeves
Patricia Heaton
Ray Romano
Doris Roberts
Peter Boyle
Brad Garrett
Tracey Ullman
Julie Kavner
Dan Castellaneta
Neil Patrick Harris
Yeardly Smith
Nancy Cartwright
Hank Azaria
Harry Shearer
Laura San Giacomo
Chip Zien
James Farentino
David Clennon
Matthew Letscher
John Astin
Katey Sagal
Tony Randall
William Christopher
Jaime Farr
Jane Seymour
Lisa Kudrow
Roz Chao
David Ogden Steirs
Alan Arbus
Loretta Swit
Gary Burghoff
Allison Janney
Paget Brewster
Marcia Wallace
Bob Newhart
John Cleese
Lisa Edelstein
David Spade
David Morse
Enrico Colantoni
Al Franken
Megyn Price
Miquel Ferrer
Kristen Chenowith
Robert Forthworth
Sanaa Latham
James Tolkin
Kat Denning
Jenna Elfman
Hattie Winston
Terry Ferrell
Alex Desert
Shawnee Smith
Beth Armstrong
Thomas Gibson
Willie Garsons
William Ragsdale
Sean O’Bryan
Mark Feuerstein
Bess Meyer
Nathan Lane
Joan Plowright
Joel Murray
Jack Coleman
Brenda Vaccarro
Tea Leoni
Gilbert Godfried
Mimi Kennedy
Alan Rachins
Susan Sullivan
Bob Elliott
Steve Landesburg
Victoria Jackson
Jon Lovitz
Rita Rudner
Avery Schreiber
Ryan Mitchell
Maggie Lawson
Harriet Harris
Lenny Clarke
…and Moose (Eddie on FRASIER)

Will Success Spoil Alex Rodriguez?

Alex Rodriguez, you took steroids? Ohmygod! I’m still reeling from Rock Hudson being gay. His kisses with Doris Day seemed so real. And those Most Valuable Player Awards you won in Texas, Alex -- those should have gone to fellow teammate Donnie Sadler?

Don’t think it’s a stretch that I’m comparing you to Hollywood heartthrob, Rock Hudson. You’re both performers. And you both have strong ties with sports. You’re a professional baseball player. Mr. Hudson was involved in a prostitution scandal involving members of the 1962 University of Kentucky football team.

You both were the subjects of some bizarre relationship rumors. Rock Hudson, urban legend has it, married Jim Nabors (the hunk who played Gomer Pyle). And you’re dating Madonna.

Speaking of which, I now have to wonder, do you need performance-enhancing drugs to satisfy her too? (Although no one would fault you for that one.)

Your organization said they would support you – something about your being part of the Yankees “family” (and them still owing you $270 million they can’t get out of, despite looking into it). Hollywood, likewise, rallied around Mr. Hudson. Modern Screen Magazine did not take back his “Most Popular Actor of 1954” award. He was allowed to continue his craft, albeit now on television. McMillan & Wife, starring he and Susan St. James, became a long running series, their only disagreement being who should play the wife? It is doubtful that the Yankees would farm you out to the Charleston Riverdogs. Again, it’s that family member and quarter-billion-dollar investment thing.

But I will say this: Rock Hudson’s fans were crushed -- not to mention Elizabeth Taylor (“At least when Eddie Fisher kisses me he’s not picturing Tab Hunter!”). And Alex, your fans will be shocked and deeply saddened – even the seven who never suspected this in the first place.

And you lied to America’s most respected journalist (and sweetheart), Katie Couric – not easy to do when that pit-bull just keeps pounding you and pounding you. Rock Hudson never actually lied. He just happened to frequent bath houses that didn’t appeal to women.

But you admitted your mistake. That took courage (and a leak from the union). And as you said on Monday’s ESPN interview with relentless muckraker, Peter Gammon (with coaching from your agent/humanitarian, Scott Boras), “the truth will set you free.” You claim that since 2004 (the year penalties were first implemented) you had a change of conscience and you’ve been clean. And this time we don’t have to just take your word. You graciously have provided us proof with your atrocious playoff numbers. So that’s a good start. Will the baseball world ever forgive you? Will your accomplishments on the field be forever diminished? Will Red Sox fans ever stop laughing? Time will tell, but for now, Alex, just hang in there. Send Katie an apology. And if you really believe the truth will set you free, you might want to take another cue from Rock Hudson. Come out of the closet.