In a recent conversation with a family member who works for
a gigantic foreign- based company – though this could very likely be the case
with all companies – the rule for
“Upper Management”, he explained, was that if they did not move up during the
scheduled review periods, they would inevitably be moved out. This, I imagine, is meant to incentive
employees to do whatever it takes to garner a promotion.
From my Major Dad
investigation, trolling for story ideas, I seem to recall a similar situation in the Marine Corps, wherein,
if an officer was not promoted in the course of two consecutive review periods,
they had to turn in their haircuts and become a civilian. That was too glib. They let them keep your haircuts.
This got me got pondering if there was a paralleling situation
in my own racket. Does show business also employ an enforced “Up or Out” protocol? The answer appears to be “Yes” and “No.”
Which leaves a lot to be desired in the “satisfying” department, but at
least I have something to write about.
Using myself as an example, which is the only example I am
cognizant of in depth:
I have mentioned, though I do not believe recently, that my
most extended “happiest time” writing for television took place in the mid-to-late
seventies, when I was working for the Mary Tyler Moore Company.
It was my happiest time – okay, yes, because I was young – but
for lots of other reasons as well – the invigorating quality of the work, the
“family” feeling deliberately generated by the ownership, and the Ivy League
college ambiance of the “Studio Center” lot on, which the MTM series were produced. (And
it has nothing to do with the
company’s barracuda-like “Business Affairs” executives who pinched every penny
on behalf of their bosses, inevitably driving the company’s prodigious writing
talent to studios that were more financially forthcoming.)
The primary reason
I relished the job, however – was that, after a disturbing experience as a
“Story Editor” on Phyllis, where the
lead actress habitually arrived hours late for the table readings and was insensitive
in her remarks concerning the writing, I abandoned that job and settled in,
writing eight scripts per season for MTM’s
stable of comedies, including the Mary
Tyler Moore Show, Phyllis, Rhoda, a short-lived series called Doc, The Tony Randall Show,
an even shorter-lived series called The Betty White Show, and, in its final
season, The Bob Newhart Show (the one
in which Newhart played a psychologist).
I was the luckiest writer in Hollywood – arguably, since there was not actually a
contest. They gave me my own office and
a parking space, I wrote for quality TV shows, and I went home. No excruciatingly late rewrite nights, no
dealing with actors and, perhaps most importantly – to me, and though they were
unaware of it, to the vehicles on the road around me – no driving home in the
dark.
On sunny mornings – which in Los Angeles – sorry, Canada –
is virtually every morning – I could
be found, decked out a t-shirt, cutoff jeans shorts and sandals, sitting on the
step outside the two-floor-high, Spanish-style structure housing the company’s
production offices, writing on a yellow, legal pad fastened to a clipboard balancing
on my knees. Judging from the reactions
of the exhausted staff writers passing me as they trudged inside, though they
made considerably more money than me and ranked substantially higher on the “totem
pole”, there was at least a momentary
impulse to switch places with me.
It did not help that I was humming.
After those halcyon three seasons, I reluctantly relocated
to the older and grungier Paramount
Pictures lot, accompanying my bosses who had been contracted to create new TV
shows there, the first of them being Taxi. My job description remained unchanged. I wrote “multiples”, by which is meant
multiple scripts, and I was never on staff.
Appended to my Paramount-era resume
would be ultimately nine episodes of Taxi
and four additional episodes of Cheers.
Around then is when things radically changed.
And they never changed back.
Show business includes no official “move up or move out”
dialectic. It’s just that if you don’t
move up, people – “people” meaning the studio executives, and to some degree your
own agent whose commissions increase with their clients’ upgrades in salary – eventually
wonder why you didn’t.
In show business, providing you’re successful, you move up not because if you don’t move up, you’re
fired. You move up because you’re expected to.
So I did.
I created a show – Best
of the West – and I ran it. The experience
sent me directly to therapy. Later in my
career, I accepted prodigiously rewarding “overall deals”, multi-year contracts
to develop new TV shows. When two of
those shows went into production – Family
Man and Major Dad – I was naturally
expected to run them.
Virtually every day as “Executive Producer”, I wondered,
“What happened to that kid who wrote scripts in the
sunshine?”
It now occurs to me that I had actually done this to myself. Nobody insisted
that I move up. I was offered an
opportunity, and at least a part of me, I must confess, welcomed it.
I have frequently opined, “It is better to be a boss than to have a boss.” I am pretty sure
I said that when I wasn’t the boss. When
I was, I am uncertain I’d have agreed.
The rewards were palpable, the opportunity dangling in front
of me. Maybe I simply succumbed to the
temptation. And the flattery – I’m the
muffin and they’re slathering on the jelly.
I mean, how do say “Stop!” to jelly?
In truth, I’m not really sure you can realistically stay in one place. Today, the “multiples” writer has
disappeared, all the scripts now written “in house” by the series’ writing
staffs, or – and I cannot imagine enjoying this
– “group” written around a table, writers slinging suggestions in a cacophony
of testosterone. (And lady
testosterone.)
Change is inevitable.
But, also inevitably, it is not always a change for the
better.
This got me got pondering if there was a paralleling situation
in my own racket. Does show business also employ an enforced “Up or Out” protocol? The answer appears to be “Yes” and “No.”
Which leaves a lot to be desired in the “satisfying” department, but at
least I have something to write about.
Using myself as an example, which is the only example I am
cognizant of in depth:
I have mentioned, though I do not believe recently, that my
most extended “happiest time” writing for television took place in the mid-to-late
seventies, when I was working for the Mary Tyler Moore Company.
It was my happiest time – okay, yes, because I was young – but
for lots of other reasons as well – the invigorating quality of the work, the
“family” feeling deliberately generated by the ownership, and the Ivy League
college ambiance of the “Studio Center” lot on, which the MTM series were produced. (And
it has nothing to do with the
company’s barracuda-like “Business Affairs” executives who pinched every penny
on behalf of their bosses, inevitably driving the company’s prodigious writing
talent to studios that were more financially forthcoming.)
The primary reason
I relished the job, however – was that, after a disturbing experience as a
“Story Editor” on Phyllis, where the
lead actress habitually arrived hours late for the table readings and was insensitive
in her remarks concerning the writing, I abandoned that job and settled in,
writing eight scripts per season for MTM’s
stable of comedies, including the Mary
Tyler Moore Show, Phyllis, Rhoda, a short-lived series called Doc, The Tony Randall Show,
an even shorter-lived series called The Betty White Show, and, in its final
season, The Bob Newhart Show (the one
in which Newhart played a psychologist).
I was the luckiest writer in Hollywood – arguably, since there was not actually a
contest. They gave me my own office and
a parking space, I wrote for quality TV shows, and I went home. No excruciatingly late rewrite nights, no
dealing with actors and, perhaps most importantly – to me, and though they were
unaware of it, to the vehicles on the road around me – no driving home in the
dark.
On sunny mornings – which in Los Angeles – sorry, Canada –
is virtually every morning – I could
be found, decked out a t-shirt, cutoff jeans shorts and sandals, sitting on the
step outside the two-floor-high, Spanish-style structure housing the company’s
production offices, writing on a yellow, legal pad fastened to a clipboard
balancing on my knees. Judging from the
reactions of the exhausted staff writers passing me as they trudged inside, though
they made considerably more money than me and ranked substantially higher on
the “totem pole”, there was at least a momentary
impulse to switch places with me.
It did not help that I was humming.
After those halcyon three seasons, I reluctantly relocated
to the older and grungier Paramount
Pictures lot, accompanying my bosses who had been contracted to create new TV
shows there, the first of them being Taxi. My job description remained unchanged. I wrote “multiples”, by which is meant
multiple scripts, and I was never on staff.
Appended to my Paramount-era resume
would be ultimately nine episodes of Taxi
and four additional episodes of Cheers.
Around then is when things radically changed.
And they never changed back.
Show business includes no official “move up or move out”
dialectic. It’s just that if you don’t
move up, people – “people” meaning the studio executives, and to some degree your
own agent whose commissions increase with their clients’ upgrades in salary – eventually
wonder why you didn’t.
In show business, providing you’re successful, you move up not because if you don’t move up, you’re
fired. You move up because you’re expected to.
So I did.
I created a show – Best
of the West – and I ran it. The
experience sent me directly to therapy.
Later in my career, I accepted prodigiously rewarding “overall deals”,
multi-year contracts to develop new TV shows.
When two of those shows went into production – Family Man and Major Dad
– I was naturally expected to run them.
Virtually every day as “Executive Producer”, I wondered,
“What happened to that kid who wrote scripts in the
sunshine?”
It now occurs to me that I had actually done this to myself. Nobody insisted
that I move up. I was offered an
opportunity, and at least a part of me, I must confess, welcomed it.
I have frequently opined, “It is better to be a boss than to have a boss.” I am pretty
sure I said that when I wasn’t the boss.
When I was, I am uncertain I’d have agreed.
The rewards were palpable, the opportunity dangling in front
of me. Maybe I simply succumbed to the
temptation. And the flattery – I’m the
muffin and they’re slathering on the jelly.
I mean, how do say “Stop!” to jelly?
In truth, I’m not really sure you can realistically stay in one place. Today, the “multiples” writer has
disappeared, all the scripts now written “in house” by the series’ writing
staffs, or – and I cannot imagine enjoying this
– “group” written around a table, writers slinging suggestions in a cacophony
of testosterone. (And lady
testosterone.)
Change is inevitable.
But, also inevitably, it is not always a change for the
better.
--------------------------------------------------
Answers to "My First Contest: 1-9 ; 2-6; 3-4; 4-3; 5-1; 6-10; 7-12; 8-8; 9-2; 10-7; 11-5; 12-11.
The name I made up: Zylindra.
Which, to me, makes no less sense that any of the others.
--------------------------------------------------
Answers to "My First Contest: 1-9 ; 2-6; 3-4; 4-3; 5-1; 6-10; 7-12; 8-8; 9-2; 10-7; 11-5; 12-11.
The name I made up: Zylindra.
Which, to me, makes no less sense that any of the others.
Is this a test to see if we are paying attention?
ReplyDeleteDuring the reading of today's piece, I had an instant 're-play' experience. As did all readers, I assume.
ReplyDeleteInteresting topic, one that many of us have experienced in our careers. Now that I'm retired, we all know what the next move is.
Wow! You just provided your own rerun! ;-)
ReplyDeleteReruns aside, your actual next move should have been to move your work (though not yourself) to Britain, where one or two writers still write whole (short) series before filming begins. You could have lived in LA, written in the sunshine, and just showed up in London for pre-production.
ReplyDeletewg