"Anatomy Of A Script I Didn't Write"

I’ve been asked to post more about the sitcom-writing process.  So I will.  Not because I’ve been asked to.  (IN AN INDIGNANT FRENCH ACCENT)  “What am I, a dog, to be led around by de nooz?”  (BACK TO ME)  I want to write about the sitcom-writing process. 

Does that sound convincing to you?  I am doing my best here.  Still, you may sense some discernible foot dragging.  I guess, to be honest, sitcom writing is just not my favorite subject to write about, and only partly because they won’t let me do it anymore.  Though I will not clarify the size of that “partly.” 

I wrote sitcom episodes because I had an interest, and because I could.  But while this was happening, I did exceedingly little evaluating of what exactly I was doing.  I just did it.  My primary goal being to finish the assignment, and not get yelled at.  

But (some) people want me to write about writing.  Even though, every day in this venue, by my – he said humbly – scrupulous selection process and my frequent drawing attention to what I’m doing while I’m doing it, I am, by example and demonstration, talking about writing. 

It would appear, however, that those “some people” don’t want me to talk about blog post writing; they want me to talk about a form of writing that could make a person a living.  So, as requested, and also because at least some degree I want to, here we go. 

The script I have selected to examine has been voted, in one poll, “The Funniest Sitcom Episode Of All Time”, and in another, one of the “Top Three.”  The episode, from the rightfully honored Mary Tyler Moore Show (from 1975), is entitled “Chuckles Bites The Dust”, and its esteemed author is the late and justifiably revered David Lloyd (who, in the indisputable evidence that “The Mackintosh does not fall far from the tree”, is the father of Modern Family co-creator Christopher Lloyd.) 

(When David passed away from a cancer variation, I contributed money to the requested appropriate charity.  David’s wife sent back a very kind “Thank you” note, including the information that David had liked me.  I was touched hearing that, as I had always seen myself as an annoyance.  David’s M.O. was to work quickly, and, in my congenital deliberateness, I was continually slowing things down.  Apparently, he didn’t resent my questioning as much as his face reflected he did.)    

David Lloyd was, I believe, the most prolific sitcom scriptwriter of all time.  While I wrote eight sitcom episode scripts per season – and it virtually killed me to do so – David Lloyd wrote sixteen.  And he made it look easy.  (I always felt this was due to the discipline he’d developed studying at Yale that I missed out on attending the University of Toronto.)

How did it he do it?  Well, to me, David Lloyd wrote scripts with the no-nonsense efficiency of a man filling in a crossword puzzle. 

In collaboration with the show runners of the series he was contributing to, David constructed a detailed story outline – like the infrastructural skeleton of a skyscraper – and when he wrote the subsequent script, he assiduously adhered to that outline, with no extraneous “side trips”, in a lean, mean and unerringly successful effort to deliver drafts that were remarkably “close”, thus relieving the show’s writing staffs of onerous Production Week rewrites.

(By contrast, I felt like I was first, creating the crossword puzzle, and then filling it in.  There’s this Yiddish word – fablongit.  It’s like you’re lost in the jungle and you’re macheteing your way out.  That’s was always the way I felt.  “I don’t know what I’m doing – Oh!  I did it!”  No matter how many scripts I tackled, my always blundering writing process was inevitably the same.)

Of the dozens – maybe hundreds, of scripts he wrote, David’s arguably most outstanding effort – even the “Greats” produce standouts – was the aforementioned “Chuckles Bites The Dust.” 

You could tell the actors knew they’d been blessed with something out of the ordinary that week.  Even watching on television, I could see an unmistakable gleam in their eyes that said, “The writer has presented us with a beautiful, big fat pitch right down the middle.  Let’s knock this sucker out of the park!”

And they did.  Before I even begin talking about the writing elements that made “Chuckles” special, it’s essential to acknowledge how extra-effortfully magnificent the performances were.  It’s one thing to see the pitch; it’s another to whack it prodigiously over the fence.  First, there’s the requisite talent, which the MTM ensemble undeniably possessed.  But then, there’s accessing that ability at the desired moment, and propelling it into overdrive.  I mentioned that gleam in the actors’ eyes?  Imagine a trained hunting dog that “sees bird.” 

A scriptwriter could not possibly ask for more.

From a writing standpoint, “Chuckles Bites The Dust” set the qualitative standard that the rest of us would from then on be shooting for.  I never attained that standard myself, but I am certain that the lessons I picked up and internalized as I watched it on TV that Saturday night got me a tiny bit closer.

And for that, I belatedly, posthumously and appreciatively thank David Lloyd. 

Tomorrow:  Examining the specifics.

"The Second Time"

I’m making progress, if by progress you mean being aware that you are doing something you want to do differently but you continue doing it the same way rather than actually doing the thing differently.  That last step – the literal change in behavior – that’s a big one.  But I still feel I have moved in the right direction – still doing something, it’s true, but being aware that I don’t want to anymore.  I like to believe that’s a behavioral step forward.  Which is also a step forward in my optimism.  Though it could be a step forward in my self-delusion.  These things are not simple.

Can you please stop this and tell the story?

All right – I was just clearing my throat.  So okay, recently, I re-watched the film Moneyball, which is a “based on actual events” – my favorite form of fiction – accounting of how the cash-strapped Oakland A’s revolutionized the game of baseball by employing overlooked computer generated factoids to determine which players they should sign to provide them with the best chance of winning, despite having a rock-bottom payroll.

When I first saw Moneyball, I was not overly impressed.  The movie itself seemed cheap, skimping, I imagine for budgetary reasons, on the on-field action, where the true excitement of the game is taking place, in favor of showing us extended scenes of telephone deal-making, which are understandably cheaper.  I’ll bet they weren’t even using real phones.

The story was also not the most arresting, crescendoing with the A’s 20-game string of consecutive victories, at best, a seasonal asterisk to baseball fans not living in Oakland.  The team assembled by the revolutionary recruiting system did not advance far in the playoffs, let alone get anywhere close to the World Series, making it a movie about a team trying something different doing surprisingly well, though, in fact, no better than the Oakland team of the year before that did equally well with the old system. 

My overall reaction was, it’s a baseball movie – always a plus for me – and it had some performing charms (particularly an unexpectedly winning Jonah Hill.)  But from a story standpoint, it did not particularly hold water.  A little water, maybe, but not close to enough to quench my thirst.  For a more compelling storyline.

(Note:  Moneyball was rewritten by Aaron Sorkin, in whose other screenplays – most notably A Few Good Men and The Social Network – I have detected elements of a bluff – basically, style over substance.  Moneyball felt the same to me – a tap-dancing gloss instead of a story I found genuinely satisfying.)

And then, I watched it again on cable.

And suddenly, where on the first viewing, I was unable to see the trees for the forest, I was now overwhelmingly won over by the trees.  

“Take Two” of Moneyball – the movie is a charming little gem.  Yes, the production’s low budget, but what is more appropriate for a movie about a low-budget baseball team?  The message is resonating – two Little Engines That Could.

On second viewing, the interstitial moments start to pop – the wounded reactions of the scouts as their tried-and-true methods are ignominiously rejected; the stricken expression of the catcher suddenly demoted to the minors; the humanizing interludes where the movie’s lead character, the team’s General Manager who is taking a huge chance that could easily blow up in his face assures his daughter than he is in no danger of getting fired.

Jonah Hill’s nuanced performance, a revelation compared to the Judd Apatow-movie riffing we’re familiar with, I recognized on the first viewing.  But I did not anywhere near sufficiently notice Brad Pitt, ditching all forms of Oscars-vote luring “look at me-fulness” for the gestures, tics and superstitious maneuvers of a driven, out-on-a-limb executive, who, having been a celebrated washout as a player, is determined to prove himself in the game.

Brad Pitt’s performance is a wonder to behold.  And so underplayed that I missed it completed, focused instead on the insufficiencies of the plot.

I was not wrong about what I originally didn’t like about Moneyball.  But the ancillary components that had previously eluded me are delicious.

Why didn’t I see that in the first place?

Because story matters to me more than anything.  And it always will.  But it’s time to accept that all stories have some holes in them, and take notice of, and pleasure in, the creativity attended to the elements.  Someday, I might even come out of the theater saying, “The story made no sense, but, you know in that living room scene?  The coffee table was sensational!”

In the meantime, I will settle for this.

Last weekend, we saw The Sapphires, a film about four young Australian aborigine women who form a singing group and perform for the troops during the Viet Nam War. 

The girls are delightful; the guy (who played the policeman in Bridesmaids) holds the picture together.  Overall, the movie made me genuinely tear up, and put a smile on my heart.

And I shall happily leave it at that.

The story was a little…

Stop it!

Okay.

 

"Stay Humble, My Friend"

Returning from an extended vacation, you are inevitably greeted with a stack of mail – catalogues, bills, magazines, solicitations from charitable organizations – “How are you going to feel if you come down with this disease and you didn’t give us anything to help find the cure?” – and for members of the Writers Guild, the most eye-catching delivery of all…

The Letter in the Green Envelope.

The Letter in the Green Envelope contains residual checks, otherwise known as, “Look at that!  Free money!” 

Years ago, the Writers Guild negotiated a deal with producers, stipulating that, every time an episode is rebroadcast, the writer of that episode gets paid a pre-designated percentage of their original fee as a residual.  Which is only fair, don’t you think? 

Before such an arrangement, when episodes were rebroadcast, the actors, writers and directors of those reruns got nothing.  The production company got paid when it sold the show to the broadcasting entity.  The broadcasting entity got paid when they sold commercials time on the show.  But the people who actually made the show got zero.  As they say in cricket when an unconscionable decision is made:

“How’s that!”

So now we get something.  And it arrives in a Green Envelope.

Sorting the mail after our trip, I immediately spotted one.  Eschewing the latest issue of Forbes magazine (which I never asked for) and a request for money from the Arthritis Foundation (“You’ve got those barking thumb joints, and you’re tossing us in the trash?”), I went straight to it.

Opening the Green Envelope is reminiscent of a game show, where the value of the item behind the curtain you chose is entirely unpredictable, ranging from relatively bupkis (ziperooney) to a substantial chunk of change.  The tension mounts to a fever point, as you slide out the statement, and you find out what you got.

Sometimes, it’s a token denomination, resulting from a tiny sale overseas.  (I once got a Best of the West residual resulting from a rebroadcast in the Philippines.)  Sometimes, it’s a compilation residual, an accumulation of miniscule amounts that, taken together, substantially add up.  And sometimes – if you’re lucky – they do a network TV tribute retrospective to The Cosby Show, and a clip from your “goldfish” episode offsets the plane fare for your European excursion.

Therein lies the excitement.  What’s it gonna be?

The Check Number was 3210717.  The check date, 03/01/2013.  The “Project Title” was the Mary Tyler Moore Show. 

The “Residual Gross Amount” was…

Sixteen cents.

I did not, however, receive that entire amount.  A percentage of the aggregate was deducted for tax purposes.  The final tally, made out to the recipient said:  “Pay To The Order Of Earl Pomerantz”

The check amounted, in its totality, to…

A dime.

The six-cent deduction being broken down in the following manner:

Federal Withholding – four cents.  Federal OASD/EE (whatever that is) – one cent.  And California State Withholding – one cent.

Leaving ten cents – free and clear – for the writer.

As the post title intones:

“Stay Humble, My Friend.”

Now, let’s think about this for a minute.  Somebody had to report the purchase of my episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  Somebody had to take notice of that report, and calculate exactly how much I was resultingly owed as a residual.  Somebody had to cut the check.  Somebody had to oversee the addressing, making sure it was correct, and that the appropriate First Class stamp was attached (in the case of the stamp affixed to my Green Envelope, a stamp in the amount of forty-six cents.)  And somebody had to make sure my residual payment went out.

That’s a lot of people, making, cumulatively at least, a substantial amount of money.  All in the service of insuring that I received a check in the amount specifically designated as a result of, I am sure, heated Producers-Writers Guild negotiations to determine a mutually agreed upon residual percentage, such that, in the spring of 2013, I could return from my expensive trip to Paris, and receive, when I excitedly tore open my Green Envelope when I got home, a check, signed by a man whose name (it’s a scrawled signature) appears to be David Miller, in the net monetary amount of, as the Snake Oil salesman of the Old West used to say,

One tenth part of a dollar.

Really? 

All that effort and expense of preparation, dispatched in an envelope whose price of delivery is four hundred and sixty per cent higher than the negotiable amount of the check inside?  I say, fire all those people but one, and have that person just send me the stamp!

I wonder if they’re chortling when they mail out a check for sixteen cents, minus the deductible.  I wonder if they compete for the lowest amount – “Hey, Alice, I just got the unbreakable record of all time:  One cent!” 

I wonder if there’s a hierarchy in the “Residuals Department”, where the “Newbee” is assigned the scut work of handling all residual payments of a quarter or lower, where after a year or two’s service, they are eventually moved up to a dollar.  I wonder if there’s a top-ranking official assigned to “Spielberg Residuals”, sending off million-dollar payments, along with an unsolicited spec script for “The Next Indiana Jones.”

On the other hand, paltry as it was, what I received is “Found Money.”  I mean, if I saw a dime lying on the street, I would definitely bend down to pick it up.  And here, I don’t even have to stoop over.  They’re sending it to me in the mail!

Yeah, I’m not good at that “optimism” thing.  I got a dime in the mail. 

How good can that feel?

The best thing I can do is to not cash it, and mess up their accounting.

"Pensees De Paree - Les Hilites"

Here’s how people (with questionable intentions) can mess you up when you return from a trip:

“So you went to Paris, huh?”

“Yeah, it was great.”

“Did you go to the Catacombs?”

“No.”

“The Rodin museum?

“No.”

“The Parisian sewer tour?”

“No.”

“Les Invalides?”

“No.”

“The Pere Lachaise cemetery?”

“No.”

A BEAT.

“Did you go to Paris at all?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do?  Stay in the room?”

Okay, so my “Paris Experience” has been effectively peed upon.  I went, but I, apparently, saw nussing! 

How did I miss everything?  Well, our guidebook asserts there are 1566 things to do in Paris.  We did maybe eleven of them.  But I have to tell you, it was a memorable eleven.

Top of the list was exploring Paris with in the company of my wife, my daughter Anna and her husband Colby.  We were there together.  As Rick said in Casablanca, and no more sincerely than Dr. M expressed it for all of us:

“We will always have Paris.”

  

The touristical highlights?

Riding the buses to destinations unknown (except, hopefully, to the bus driver.)

Visiting the Pantheon, the final resting place of many of France’s most exalted writers – Victor “Les Miserables” Hugo, Alexandre “The Three Museketeers” Dumas, Emile “J’Accuse” Zola.  I like a city that honors its scribblers.   Perhaps someday Los Angeles will similarly entomb its respected sitcom writers. 

Enjoying an extended walking tour (led by the enthusiastic Sophie) exposing us to the great Parisian landmarks – the venerable churches of St. Sulpice, St.-Germain-des-Pres and Notre Dame, the two thousand year-old remnants of the Roman baths, and, perhaps most impressively, the magical street from Midnight In Paris, where they picked up Owen Wilson and took him back to the twenties.  And you know the coolest part?  While we were there, the old clock started bonging. 

A second walking tour, (led by Margo, a Dutch emigree who bore a striking resemblance to Susan Sarandon at her most luminous) focused exclusively on the French Revolution.  We were shown the prisons housing the impending guillotine victims, most excitingly, the cell under the Palace of Justice where Marie Antoinette lived out her final moments, winding up at the Place de la Concorde, where the executions were carried out.  Though generally no fan of French aristocracy, the place made me unexpectedly sad.

Owing to Anna’s interests, we visited the Musee des Arts Decoratifs, offering samplings of fashion and furniture throughout the ages.  Colby’s engineering background took us us to the Musee des Arts et Metiers, showcasing scientific instruments and inventions, ranging from a replica of Galileo’s telescope to robotic vehicles that had driven the moon.

Finally…no wait, I have to include this, even though this event was more a highlight for others than for myself, where it fell closer to the opposite end of the memorability spectrum.

Due to one of our family member’s bottomless enthusiasm for a particular form of entertainment, we attended a magic show, conducted entirely in French.  The evening involved, what they call, “close-in” magic, primarily card tricks, accompanied by hilarious (for fluent French speakers) French patter.   

The problem for me was the venue.  Upon entering, we were directed down a spiraling stone staircase to what can only be described as a cave – because that’s what it was, the kind of spot where Jews would meet in secret to hold forbidden services. 

The “auditorium”, which could comfortably accommodate a dozen audience members, instead held forty.   Our party was crowded into the topmost row, from which, no matter the necessity, we would be unable to get out.

At this point, I should inform you that not once during our ten-day visit did I avail myself of our hotel’s tiny elevator, opting instead for the eight-five steps separating our Fourth Floor hotel room from the lobby.  Claustrophobia is my middle name. 

Actually, it’s Raymond, but only because, at my birth, my mother was unaware of my panic-inducing aversion to enclosed spaces.  I do not know how I handled in utero.

The magician would have a daunting challenge ahead of him.  He would have to be distracting enough to make me forget that I was trapped.  How did he do with that?  Well, he was extremely talented.

But not quite talented enough.

One more reminiscence before “finally.”  On the second night of Passover, Dr. M and I attended a communal Seder, conducted in English, French and Hebrew, though not necessarily in that order, and spearheaded by a black piano-playing cantor who performed the traditional Seder melodies to a rockingly infectious ragtime rhythm.  Imagine Little Richard doing Dayenu, and you’ve got it. 

Partaking of Passover seven thousand miles from home, hearing the same songs – albeit idiosyncratically arranged – observing the same Haggaddah rituals, feeling viscerally connected to a group and its three thousand-year history was well worth the elaborate long-distance arrangements. 

Jews together on the holidays – it’s a nourishing thing.

Now, finally, for me, the crowning cherry on the delectable sundae that was our Parisian vacation – a one-day excursion to the Normandy beaches.  (Conducted by the knowledgeable Sendrine, whose response to almost every question was “Absolu’ly.)

Standing on the bluffs, the chill wind whipping at your face, looking out at the water and the beaches down below, with the knowledge and awareness that regular people – “Citizen Soldiers”, they called them – had to force themselves out of the boats, hit the beaches, and ascend those bluffs under withering fire – what can I tell you, it just gets to you.   

At the nearby Memorial Cemetery, where nine thousand of the fallen lie together, there’s a book that visitors are invited to sign, include where they’re from, and offer accompanying “remarks.”  Other visitors wrote down “Honor”, “Respect”, “Duty.”  My emotions moved me to inscribe in the word “Heroes.” 

Though our visit was terrific, and memorable, gustatorially delightful, educational and fun, at our final evening, I heard myself explaining that, for me, Paris, though wonderful, is somebody else’s girlfriend.  I can easily understand why others love her, but on the all-important “Tingle Test”, it does not precisely hit the spot. 

That’s London, for a number of reasons.  And, to some degree, Rome, whose assault of history hits you like a ton of bricks.

Still, I would not have missed Paris – in the company of my loved ones – for the world. 

Au revoir, Paree. 

It’s been great knowin’ ya.