By being picked up for next year, Law & Order will become the longest running scripted drama in television history, its twenty-one seasons surpassing Gunsmoke’s twenty, though I suspect Gunsmoke exceeds Law & Order’s episode output, since, in Gunsmoke’s day, they made 36 to 39 episodes per season, whereas today, they only make 22 to 24 episodes, and, if you’re picked up for only half a season, 13.
Phew, that’s a long sentence. And not all that interesting. Though for those who do find it interesting, I can imagine the heated debate:
LAW & ORDER FAN: “We’re the longest running drama.”
GUNSMOKE FAN: “We made more episodes.”
LAW & ORDER FAN: “We’re the longest running drama.”
GUNSMOKE FAN: “We made more episodes.”
You can play that loop till the cows come home, after which the cows would immediately leave, because who wants to listen to that all night?
I’ve been an enormous Law & Order fan from the very beginning. I continue to watch the syndicated reruns to this very day. Often more than once a day, and often the same episode more than once, though not the same episode more than once on the same day. More on the “same episode re-watch” issue later.
(I rarely watch the two Law & Order spin-offs – Criminal Intent and Special Victims Unit, being particularly put off by the latter series, beginning with its title. They’re not special victims, they're “Horribly Sexually Abused Victims”, though that doesn’t quite “sing” like “Special Victims.” It’s like the show’s selling point: “If you like victims, you’ll love the special victims.”)
I was working at Universal Studios at the time Law & Order was created there, so I know a little about the back-story. Apparently, in the late eighties, hour shows were not selling well in syndication. The then studio boss was therefore intrigued by the idea of a drama, whose single-story episodes could be split into half-hour segments, thus making them easier to sell.
Out of this business necessity came Law & Order, offering two separate components of the same half-hour story – the first component concentrating on “law” (the police investigation) and the second on “order” (the trial). At some point, however, the “splitting the episode” experiment was abandoned, and the show was delivered intact in its now familiar one-hour format.
(One other semi-interesting factoid to round out the story. The “law and order” concept had already been done. It was called Arrest and Trial. The main difference was that each episode of Arrest and Trial lasted ninety minutes. The series ran for one season.)
Why do I love Law & Order? Is it because of the “ripped from the headlines” storylines? No. The “ripped from the headlines” episodes are my least favorite and, in my view, the show’s least successful offerings.
Is it the suspense? Despite how it’s promoted on television, Law & Order has little to do with “Cracking the case.” Invariably, the person arrested near the middle of the episode committed the crime.
Is it the “clank-clank” music they play to bridge the scenes? I like the “clank-clank” music – it seems to fit – it sounds like prison bars clanking shut. The “clank-clank” music is indeed an enhancing effect; but I wouldn’t want to listen to an hour of it, let alone twenty-one seasons. Three or four “clank-clanks” per episode is about all I can handle.
Is it the show’s acting that I appreciate? The series’ regulars’ acting has been, generally, uneven and is, to a large degree, irrelevant. The show is the star. Over the years, Law & Order has regularly changed its continuing cast members, indicating that even the producer doesn’t care who’s in it. As long as they’re cheap.
(Parenthetically, in the late eighties, Universal dispatched me to New York to try and persuade longtime Law & Order regular, and fine actor, Sam Waterston, to star in a comedy pilot I was making called Family Man. Waterston seemed genuinely interested, but he ultimately turned us down. Which proved to be a good thing, because, during his sixteen-year tenure on Law & Order, Waterston has never made me laugh once.)
I love Law & Order because of the arguments. In the end, the tension on Law & Order depends not on their tracking down the perpetrator – they invariably do – but rather on whether or not the protagonists – the New York District Attorneys’ Office – can successfully make their case to the jury.
Our interest is held till the last minute, because – and this is what’s great about Law & Order when it’s at its best – the arguments are written in a skillful and carefully considered manner. The audience may know the defendant is guilty – being privy to information that’s been ruled “inadmissible” in the trial – but there is no way of our determining which of the opposing lawyers' arguments the jury will buy.
The jury's decision involves more than their simply applying the law. In virtually every episode, you have longstanding legal concerns – for example, you’re not allowed to kill people – going head to head with emotional issues.
For example, a light-skinned black attorney, passing for white at some snooty law firm, kills someone who’s threatening to expose his secret. His lawyer argues for a ruling of “Temporary Insanity, due to ‘Race Rage.’” We’re aware of our country’s history of discrimination. If this discrimination did not exist, the defendant would have had no need to conceal his racial identity. However, given the, arguably, still-present climate of inequality, his client, argues his attorney, was compelled to act the way he did.
Sometimes, it’s the D.A’s office that plays the “emotion” card. A gun manufacturer makes a rifle that, though legal, can be easily converted into a more deadly assault weapon, which is not legal. The D.A. puts the gun manufacturer on trial, calling them a cold-hearted menace to public safety. The gun manufacturer’s attorney claims that his client’s actions were entirely within the law.
In every episode, Law & Order’s suspense hangs not the question of innocence or guilt, but on
How will the jury decide?
One final factor that keeps me returning to Law & Order reruns. Remember when I said, “More about the ‘same episode re-watch’ issue later”? This is “later.” So here we go.
I watch the same episodes of Law & Order over and over for a very simple reason. As many times as I’ve seen them, I almost never remember how they turn out. Credit for my forgetting can be explained by the reasonable and even-handed manner in which the cases are presented. Though it could also be a matter of advancing age.
Enjoying multiple viewings of the same episode – one of the meager blessings of a deteriorating mind.
Though I wouldn’t have watched once, if I didn’t love the arguments.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
"Hitting in the Clutch"
What do you know? It’s a trilogy.
Two posts ago, it was “Punt” – there’s a creative Moment of Truth and despite your best efforts, you are unable to come through. Yesterday, the Moment of Truth was imaginatively sidestepped with “A Brilliant Idea.” Today, the Moment of Truth reappears. But this time, it has to be confronted. Successfully.
There is no way around it. It’s the bottom of ninth with the game on the line. There is no pinch hitter available. It’s you. And it’s now.
Exciting, isn’t it?
The example this time is not comedic. It’s musical. But it makes no difference. Moments of Truth are all the same. The target is there. You hit it dead center. Or it’s over.
Here’s a confession that may cost me some male readership. Of the particularly manly variety. Which I can scarcely afford to lose. My daughter, Anna, once asked me who I thought read my blog more, men or women. I reflexively replied both. I don’t think either of us believed me.
Here comes the confession. Gentlemen, prepare to flee.
I was a big fan of The Little Mermaid. Not the story. Too girly. And I’m not trying to win the men back by saying that. The story meant nothing to me. A half-fish girl wants to live on land. I’m really not interested.
What I loved about The Little Mermaid was the colorful underwater world the animators devised, and most especially, I loved the songs, most especially of the “most especially” the Jamaican flavored “Under The Sea.” And even more “most especially” than that, I loved “Kiss The Girl”, which I can almost play on the piano, though don’t ask me to, because I’m too nervous to play in front of people.
The Little Mermaid’s songs made me an immediate fan. As a result, I could hardly wait for the movie’s songwriting team’s – Howard Ashman and Alan Menken’s – follow-up animated outing, Beauty and the Beast. (It was helpful to have had a very young daughter at the time. I had a “cover.” I could pretend I was going to these movies for her.)
The first part of Beauty and the Beast disappointed me. Not the visual element, that part was fine, though I’m not really a visual person. Basically, I watch with my ears. I don’t care about HD or 3-D, or any other D. Just give me a picture that’s not out of focus. When it is out of focus, I start worrying it’s my eyes.
It was Beauty and the Beast’s songs were letting me down. Generally, they were eh. Nobody one does this like Gaston. Nobody does that like Gaston. What do I care? I didn’t like Gaston.
An entire song of bragging? I’m Canadian. Bragging turns me off.
The other notable song, “Be Our Guest”, was so vanilla, it ended up as a jingle for some hotel chain.
Where’s the fun here? Where’s the memorability? This was a Disney musical. I wanted “Zippity-Doo-Dah.” Not a laundry list of Gaston’s accomplishments, and high-kicking crockery.
The movie I’d been looking forward to was losing its hold on me. I was on the brink of falling asleep. Which, to be honest, I do a lot in movies. But this time, I wanted to.
We’re beyond the halfway point. I can feel the movie edging towards its Moment of Truth. The “Big Event” is about to play out.
There’s this grand ballroom. The beast, bathed and nicely dressed, is having a date, or something, with the girl, also nicely dressed (and presumably bathed as well).
They’re eating at a long table, one of them at each end. Then, the girl gets up, walks the length of the table (not on the table, beside the table.) She takes the beast’s hand, and escorts him onto the dance floor. She places his hands in the appropriate spots, and they begin to dance.
This is it, the “make or break” moment of the movie. Dramatic. Romantic. And emotional – a self-conscious ugly guy, with what one imagines are enormous feet, is slow-dancing with a really beautiful girl – who knows which way this will go? So there’s danger in there too. He’s so big, and she’s so petite…though, you know, it’s a kids’ movie, so it probably won’t be too bad.
It is also the Moment of Truth for the songs. So far, nothing has popped. No competition for Randy Newman in the “Best Song” Oscar sweepstakes.
This is the title song. It has to clear the fences. The entire movie is riding on it.
The introduction is sweetly melodic. It’s a promising start.
And here we go. I’m a little on edge. Everything’s on the line here.
Shhh. The teapot is singing.
“Tale as old as time
True as it can be
Barely even friends
Then somebody bends
Unexpectedly…”
Wow. They rhymed “be” and “unexpectedly.” That was surprising. And that rhyming pattern. “A-B-C-C-B.” I’ve never seen that before. I like it. I also like that eternal quality they’re going for. It’s not just any story. It’s a “tale as old as time.”
Let’s see what they do next.
“Just a little change
Small to say the least
Both a little scared
Neither one prepared
Beauty and the Beast.”
Neat and compact. I like the “scared” and “prepared” rhyme. This song growing on me. Will the “bridge” keep me onboard?
“Ever just the same
Ever a surprise
Ever as before
Ever just as sure
As the sun will rise…”
There’s a surging quality in the arrangement. It’s carrying me away.
“Tale as old as time
Tune as old as song
Bittersweet and strange
Finding you can change
Learning you were wrong…”
Whoh, this song is deep. And now it’s surging even higher!
“Certain as the sun
Rising in the East
Tale as old as time
Song as old as rhyme
Beauty and the Beast…”
Okay, now go quiet. Oh, my God, it is going quiet!
“Tale as old as time
Song as old as rhyme
Beauty and…
The Beast.”
Tears are streaming down my cheeks. Maybe for the song. Its wisdom has moved me. Its lyricism has touched my heart. Most importantly, the writers had faced their Moment of Truth head on
And they hammered it out of the park.
--------------------------------------------
My thanks to my friend, Gracie, who provided me with step-by-step instructions for embedding things in my blog, and to my daughter, Anna, for successfully following those instructions while I watched. It looked really easy.
Two posts ago, it was “Punt” – there’s a creative Moment of Truth and despite your best efforts, you are unable to come through. Yesterday, the Moment of Truth was imaginatively sidestepped with “A Brilliant Idea.” Today, the Moment of Truth reappears. But this time, it has to be confronted. Successfully.
There is no way around it. It’s the bottom of ninth with the game on the line. There is no pinch hitter available. It’s you. And it’s now.
Exciting, isn’t it?
The example this time is not comedic. It’s musical. But it makes no difference. Moments of Truth are all the same. The target is there. You hit it dead center. Or it’s over.
Here’s a confession that may cost me some male readership. Of the particularly manly variety. Which I can scarcely afford to lose. My daughter, Anna, once asked me who I thought read my blog more, men or women. I reflexively replied both. I don’t think either of us believed me.
Here comes the confession. Gentlemen, prepare to flee.
I was a big fan of The Little Mermaid. Not the story. Too girly. And I’m not trying to win the men back by saying that. The story meant nothing to me. A half-fish girl wants to live on land. I’m really not interested.
What I loved about The Little Mermaid was the colorful underwater world the animators devised, and most especially, I loved the songs, most especially of the “most especially” the Jamaican flavored “Under The Sea.” And even more “most especially” than that, I loved “Kiss The Girl”, which I can almost play on the piano, though don’t ask me to, because I’m too nervous to play in front of people.
The Little Mermaid’s songs made me an immediate fan. As a result, I could hardly wait for the movie’s songwriting team’s – Howard Ashman and Alan Menken’s – follow-up animated outing, Beauty and the Beast. (It was helpful to have had a very young daughter at the time. I had a “cover.” I could pretend I was going to these movies for her.)
The first part of Beauty and the Beast disappointed me. Not the visual element, that part was fine, though I’m not really a visual person. Basically, I watch with my ears. I don’t care about HD or 3-D, or any other D. Just give me a picture that’s not out of focus. When it is out of focus, I start worrying it’s my eyes.
It was Beauty and the Beast’s songs were letting me down. Generally, they were eh. Nobody one does this like Gaston. Nobody does that like Gaston. What do I care? I didn’t like Gaston.
An entire song of bragging? I’m Canadian. Bragging turns me off.
The other notable song, “Be Our Guest”, was so vanilla, it ended up as a jingle for some hotel chain.
Where’s the fun here? Where’s the memorability? This was a Disney musical. I wanted “Zippity-Doo-Dah.” Not a laundry list of Gaston’s accomplishments, and high-kicking crockery.
The movie I’d been looking forward to was losing its hold on me. I was on the brink of falling asleep. Which, to be honest, I do a lot in movies. But this time, I wanted to.
We’re beyond the halfway point. I can feel the movie edging towards its Moment of Truth. The “Big Event” is about to play out.
There’s this grand ballroom. The beast, bathed and nicely dressed, is having a date, or something, with the girl, also nicely dressed (and presumably bathed as well).
They’re eating at a long table, one of them at each end. Then, the girl gets up, walks the length of the table (not on the table, beside the table.) She takes the beast’s hand, and escorts him onto the dance floor. She places his hands in the appropriate spots, and they begin to dance.
This is it, the “make or break” moment of the movie. Dramatic. Romantic. And emotional – a self-conscious ugly guy, with what one imagines are enormous feet, is slow-dancing with a really beautiful girl – who knows which way this will go? So there’s danger in there too. He’s so big, and she’s so petite…though, you know, it’s a kids’ movie, so it probably won’t be too bad.
It is also the Moment of Truth for the songs. So far, nothing has popped. No competition for Randy Newman in the “Best Song” Oscar sweepstakes.
This is the title song. It has to clear the fences. The entire movie is riding on it.
The introduction is sweetly melodic. It’s a promising start.
And here we go. I’m a little on edge. Everything’s on the line here.
Shhh. The teapot is singing.
“Tale as old as time
True as it can be
Barely even friends
Then somebody bends
Unexpectedly…”
Wow. They rhymed “be” and “unexpectedly.” That was surprising. And that rhyming pattern. “A-B-C-C-B.” I’ve never seen that before. I like it. I also like that eternal quality they’re going for. It’s not just any story. It’s a “tale as old as time.”
Let’s see what they do next.
“Just a little change
Small to say the least
Both a little scared
Neither one prepared
Beauty and the Beast.”
Neat and compact. I like the “scared” and “prepared” rhyme. This song growing on me. Will the “bridge” keep me onboard?
“Ever just the same
Ever a surprise
Ever as before
Ever just as sure
As the sun will rise…”
There’s a surging quality in the arrangement. It’s carrying me away.
“Tale as old as time
Tune as old as song
Bittersweet and strange
Finding you can change
Learning you were wrong…”
Whoh, this song is deep. And now it’s surging even higher!
“Certain as the sun
Rising in the East
Tale as old as time
Song as old as rhyme
Beauty and the Beast…”
Okay, now go quiet. Oh, my God, it is going quiet!
“Tale as old as time
Song as old as rhyme
Beauty and…
The Beast.”
Tears are streaming down my cheeks. Maybe for the song. Its wisdom has moved me. Its lyricism has touched my heart. Most importantly, the writers had faced their Moment of Truth head on
And they hammered it out of the park.
--------------------------------------------
My thanks to my friend, Gracie, who provided me with step-by-step instructions for embedding things in my blog, and to my daughter, Anna, for successfully following those instructions while I watched. It looked really easy.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
"A Brilliant Idea"
Yesterday, I wrote about the agony of writers searching for a desperately needed joke and being unable to come up with it. Today, I’ll tell you about a joke that was written because the writers couldn’t come up with the desperately needed joke.
To me, this is heroic and wonderful. It’s more than taking lemons and making lemonade. It’s taking lemons and devising a joke that’s arguably better than any joke they might ultimately have found. We’re talking magic here.
Maybe this joke is funnier to me than it would be to a non-writer, because I know where it came from. It came from futility and failure. For me, that doubles the funny. But even cut in half, there’s still enough ha-ha to go around.
Okay…
The joke comes from a play called A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum, written by Burt Shevelove and Larry Gelbart. I know very little about Burt Shevelove. But Larry Gelbart, unfortunately now departed, is a comedy-writing icon. Among his other award-winning projects, Gelbart created the television series M*A*S*H, and worked on maybe the last great movie comedy, Tootsie.
(Gelbart is also reputed to have been exceedingly – and uncharacteristically for a comedy writer – nice. Most comedy writers are angry people, masquerading, with greater or lesser degrees of success, as nice. Not mentioning any names.
Forum, based on a play by the Roman playwright, Plautus, is a musical farce. Fast and funny. And stunningly complicated. I saw the original production in 1962. Its star was Zero Mostel. He was the best comic actor I have ever seen. A dominating stage presence with razor-sharp timing. A corpulent man who, when dancing, could miraculously appear dainty.
The situation is this: Pseudolus, played by Mostel, is a slave, craving to be free. He is told he can become free, if he helps his young master, Hero, connect with his true love, Philia, an arrangement complicated by the fact that Philia, a sex slave, though still a virgin, has been purchased by another man, who is approaching rapidly to take her away. I told you it was complicated.
The problem is clear; the solution, far less so. The tension mounts as Pseudolus and Hero pace up and down, trying to find a way out of this dilemma.
Finally, Pseudolus, breaking the silence, proclaims:
“A brilliant idea!”
An excited Hero races to his side.
“Yes! Yes!”
To which Pseudolus responds,
“That’s what we need. A brilliant idea.”
They didn’t have a brilliant idea. Not the characters, and not the writers. So they devised a joke that would accentuate the void. It didn’t solve the problem. Or move the story forward one centimeter. They had concocted a “place-holder” joke. And it made the audience howl.
Writers, as well as future writers, who in 1962 didn’t know they were writers, though they maybe should have known, because they sensed immediately what the professionals were up to
laughed hardest of all.
A joke about not being able to come up with a joke. And it gets an enormous laugh.
What do I say to that?
Nothing.
I simply nod appreciatively, and bow respectfully towards my betters.
To me, this is heroic and wonderful. It’s more than taking lemons and making lemonade. It’s taking lemons and devising a joke that’s arguably better than any joke they might ultimately have found. We’re talking magic here.
Maybe this joke is funnier to me than it would be to a non-writer, because I know where it came from. It came from futility and failure. For me, that doubles the funny. But even cut in half, there’s still enough ha-ha to go around.
Okay…
The joke comes from a play called A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum, written by Burt Shevelove and Larry Gelbart. I know very little about Burt Shevelove. But Larry Gelbart, unfortunately now departed, is a comedy-writing icon. Among his other award-winning projects, Gelbart created the television series M*A*S*H, and worked on maybe the last great movie comedy, Tootsie.
(Gelbart is also reputed to have been exceedingly – and uncharacteristically for a comedy writer – nice. Most comedy writers are angry people, masquerading, with greater or lesser degrees of success, as nice. Not mentioning any names.
Forum, based on a play by the Roman playwright, Plautus, is a musical farce. Fast and funny. And stunningly complicated. I saw the original production in 1962. Its star was Zero Mostel. He was the best comic actor I have ever seen. A dominating stage presence with razor-sharp timing. A corpulent man who, when dancing, could miraculously appear dainty.
The situation is this: Pseudolus, played by Mostel, is a slave, craving to be free. He is told he can become free, if he helps his young master, Hero, connect with his true love, Philia, an arrangement complicated by the fact that Philia, a sex slave, though still a virgin, has been purchased by another man, who is approaching rapidly to take her away. I told you it was complicated.
The problem is clear; the solution, far less so. The tension mounts as Pseudolus and Hero pace up and down, trying to find a way out of this dilemma.
Finally, Pseudolus, breaking the silence, proclaims:
“A brilliant idea!”
An excited Hero races to his side.
“Yes! Yes!”
To which Pseudolus responds,
“That’s what we need. A brilliant idea.”
They didn’t have a brilliant idea. Not the characters, and not the writers. So they devised a joke that would accentuate the void. It didn’t solve the problem. Or move the story forward one centimeter. They had concocted a “place-holder” joke. And it made the audience howl.
Writers, as well as future writers, who in 1962 didn’t know they were writers, though they maybe should have known, because they sensed immediately what the professionals were up to
laughed hardest of all.
A joke about not being able to come up with a joke. And it gets an enormous laugh.
What do I say to that?
Nothing.
I simply nod appreciatively, and bow respectfully towards my betters.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
"Punt"
Billionaire show biz and sports entrepreneur Tom Werner (The Cosby Show, Rosanne, The Boston Red Sox) would offer this philosophical approach for when you’re searching for the answer to some current concern and you’re coming up empty. In such situations, Werner would advise,
“Sometimes, you just have to punt.”
For those few of you who are unfamiliar with that spinal injury surrounded by a game known as football, the term “punt” refers to your team’s kicking the ball away, when, after three plays, they are is unable to gain the required ten yards which would allow them to continue on offense.
Punting reflects a temporary surrender. You’re acknowledging a momentary defeat, knowing there’ll be other chances to go on offense down the line. Unless the game ends before that, in which case, there won’t be. Though there’s always the next game, where you can try again.
You haven’t got it, you punt. That’s the plan. Why is this philosophical? Because it’s reasonable. If you ignore this approach, you can drive yourself crazy looking for an answer. And still come up with nothing. Even worse, you can burn yourself out in the effort. Meaning, you’ll have nothing left for the certain battles yet to come.
I know about this stuff. Being too proud to accept even temporary defeat, I almost never punted when I should have. And I burned out repeatedly as a result. Case in point: Seven episodes struggling for perfection on The Cosby Show, and I went home in a head-spinning stupor that did not leave me for months. I still have occasional flashbacks.
The issue of punting often came up during late-night rewrite sessions. A room full of writers would be stuck looking for a certain joke, a joke they needed, not only for a laugh, but to make what they considered to be an essential story point.
I remember once, when I was running the rewrite room on Major Dad, we were stuck on a joke for forty-five minutes. Words cannot adequately describe how excruciating that feels. During those “stuck” moments, the rewrite room feels entirely airless. “I’m going to die looking for this joke” is a not uncommon, nor unreasonable, thought. Forty-five minutes in a futile joke search will have you seriously reconsidering Law School.
The situation was this: The Major, who had gotten married, maybe, two weeks after meeting his bride-to-be, is finally meeting his now wife’s parents. His father-in-law turns out to be an elitist, snooty jerk, ashamed to tell his high-class friends that his daughter had stooped considerably beneath her “station” to marry a Marine. The Major is fully aware of his father-in-law’s feelings.
Early in the episode, the Major and his obnoxious father-in-law engage in a private, “one on one” that includes the following exchange:
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: Surely, you don’t intend to remain a Marine your entire life.
THE MAJOR: Oh, no. I’ve got it all planned out. When my hitch is up, I know exactly what line of work I’ll go into.
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: What’s that?
(JOKE TO COME)
“JOKE TO COME” is what you say when you haven’t got the joke. In this case, we needed a joke involving a post-retirement job the Major could haunt the snobby father-in-law with that was even less acceptable than his being a Marine. And we couldn’t think of one.
For forty-five minutes.
The room was full of writers, sitting around a table, desperately struggling to find the joke. You could see the junior writers trying to look invisible, like in class, when you want the teacher to call on someone else. The veteran writers kept pitching. But nothing was ringing the bell.
“Let’s keep looking,” I instruct my rapidly drooping staff.
We thought. We pitched. We shot the pitches down. And we thought some more. Our heads throbbed with emptiness, beyond the fervent longing that we were somewhere else.
Time to punt? Settle for the least terrible joke pitch, or move on and come back to this later?
Not yet.
“We’ll take a break,” I announce.
Ten minutes. To clear our heads, and go to the bathroom. “We’ll get it when we come back.” We’d better. The clock was edging towards midnight. And we were only on Page 8.
I think I’ve mentioned this before. Sometimes, during a break, the answer I’ve been searching for suddenly pops into my head. I don’t why that works. Maybe the tension in the rewrite room constricts my creativity. Maybe the release of accumulated bodily fluids opens me up. I don’t know what it is. But it works surprisingly often.
(Note: It does not help to move the rewrites to the bathroom. The bathroom then simply becomes the rewrite room with urinals. And the women writers have to stand outside. You don't mess with the way of things. The rewrite room is for rewrites. The bathroom is for peeing and shattering insights.)
After the break, I reconvene the writers, and I pitch my solution:
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: Surely, you don’t intend to remain a Marine your entire life.
THE MAJOR: Oh, no. I’ve got it all planned out. When my hitch is up, I know exactly what line of work I’ll go into.
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: What’s that?
THE MAJOR: Gator wrestling.
It was exactly the right job. “Gator wrestling” made being a Marine look being President of Princeton University. I felt enormous relief. I had found an answer.
And I didn’t have to punt.
“Sometimes, you just have to punt.”
For those few of you who are unfamiliar with that spinal injury surrounded by a game known as football, the term “punt” refers to your team’s kicking the ball away, when, after three plays, they are is unable to gain the required ten yards which would allow them to continue on offense.
Punting reflects a temporary surrender. You’re acknowledging a momentary defeat, knowing there’ll be other chances to go on offense down the line. Unless the game ends before that, in which case, there won’t be. Though there’s always the next game, where you can try again.
You haven’t got it, you punt. That’s the plan. Why is this philosophical? Because it’s reasonable. If you ignore this approach, you can drive yourself crazy looking for an answer. And still come up with nothing. Even worse, you can burn yourself out in the effort. Meaning, you’ll have nothing left for the certain battles yet to come.
I know about this stuff. Being too proud to accept even temporary defeat, I almost never punted when I should have. And I burned out repeatedly as a result. Case in point: Seven episodes struggling for perfection on The Cosby Show, and I went home in a head-spinning stupor that did not leave me for months. I still have occasional flashbacks.
The issue of punting often came up during late-night rewrite sessions. A room full of writers would be stuck looking for a certain joke, a joke they needed, not only for a laugh, but to make what they considered to be an essential story point.
I remember once, when I was running the rewrite room on Major Dad, we were stuck on a joke for forty-five minutes. Words cannot adequately describe how excruciating that feels. During those “stuck” moments, the rewrite room feels entirely airless. “I’m going to die looking for this joke” is a not uncommon, nor unreasonable, thought. Forty-five minutes in a futile joke search will have you seriously reconsidering Law School.
The situation was this: The Major, who had gotten married, maybe, two weeks after meeting his bride-to-be, is finally meeting his now wife’s parents. His father-in-law turns out to be an elitist, snooty jerk, ashamed to tell his high-class friends that his daughter had stooped considerably beneath her “station” to marry a Marine. The Major is fully aware of his father-in-law’s feelings.
Early in the episode, the Major and his obnoxious father-in-law engage in a private, “one on one” that includes the following exchange:
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: Surely, you don’t intend to remain a Marine your entire life.
THE MAJOR: Oh, no. I’ve got it all planned out. When my hitch is up, I know exactly what line of work I’ll go into.
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: What’s that?
(JOKE TO COME)
“JOKE TO COME” is what you say when you haven’t got the joke. In this case, we needed a joke involving a post-retirement job the Major could haunt the snobby father-in-law with that was even less acceptable than his being a Marine. And we couldn’t think of one.
For forty-five minutes.
The room was full of writers, sitting around a table, desperately struggling to find the joke. You could see the junior writers trying to look invisible, like in class, when you want the teacher to call on someone else. The veteran writers kept pitching. But nothing was ringing the bell.
“Let’s keep looking,” I instruct my rapidly drooping staff.
We thought. We pitched. We shot the pitches down. And we thought some more. Our heads throbbed with emptiness, beyond the fervent longing that we were somewhere else.
Time to punt? Settle for the least terrible joke pitch, or move on and come back to this later?
Not yet.
“We’ll take a break,” I announce.
Ten minutes. To clear our heads, and go to the bathroom. “We’ll get it when we come back.” We’d better. The clock was edging towards midnight. And we were only on Page 8.
I think I’ve mentioned this before. Sometimes, during a break, the answer I’ve been searching for suddenly pops into my head. I don’t why that works. Maybe the tension in the rewrite room constricts my creativity. Maybe the release of accumulated bodily fluids opens me up. I don’t know what it is. But it works surprisingly often.
(Note: It does not help to move the rewrites to the bathroom. The bathroom then simply becomes the rewrite room with urinals. And the women writers have to stand outside. You don't mess with the way of things. The rewrite room is for rewrites. The bathroom is for peeing and shattering insights.)
After the break, I reconvene the writers, and I pitch my solution:
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: Surely, you don’t intend to remain a Marine your entire life.
THE MAJOR: Oh, no. I’ve got it all planned out. When my hitch is up, I know exactly what line of work I’ll go into.
SNOBBY FATHER-IN-LAW: What’s that?
THE MAJOR: Gator wrestling.
It was exactly the right job. “Gator wrestling” made being a Marine look being President of Princeton University. I felt enormous relief. I had found an answer.
And I didn’t have to punt.
Monday, April 5, 2010
"Head Scratcher Number One"
One side spits on the other side.
Advantage: The other side.
The other side calls it Kristallnacht.
And the advantage is gone.
Why don’t people understand that?
Advantage: The other side.
The other side calls it Kristallnacht.
And the advantage is gone.
Why don’t people understand that?
Friday, April 2, 2010
"You Never Know"
Driving home from the gym this morning, I came in on a discussion on a “Talk Radio” station concerning the military bases that we have in Germany and Japan. And as I’m listening, I’m thinking, as most people, I imagine, do:
“What are they still doing there?”
Since the war that originally sent them to those “hot spots” has been over for sixty-five years, you’d think it might be time for the personnel that are stationed there to come home. It would appear – you know, with the collapse of the Soviet Union and Japan having no army – that the situation has sufficiently cooled for those particular deployments – though I don’t claim to be an expert on the subject – to be over.
Wouldn’t you think?
(It seems to me, if the post-war situation in Germany was that serious in the first place, they would never have sent Elvis.)
Jumping back a few decades, the last apartment I lived in in Toronto happened to be located two blocks from what was called back then the Yugoslavian Embassy. The embassy was housed in large, stone structure, situated on the corner of a somewhat major thoroughfare – Spadina Road – and a side street that ran into it.
Years before I moved into the area, a faction of anti-government troublemakers had blown the Yugoslavian Embassy up. Not the whole thing – I mean, they didn’t drop anything from a plane – but the place was pretty messed up. The current venue was the rebuilt version.
The official response to the attack was immediate. The day after the bombing, the Toronto police department assigned two officers to the full-time duty of protecting the Yugoslavian Embassy. Not the same two officers – they would have gotten tired – but rotating teams of two officers.
From that time on, whenever you’d pass the building, you would always see two uniformed police officers casually – though alertly – proceeding up the sidewalk adjacent to Spadina Road, making a right turn, and then proceeding along the side street. When they reached the end of the building, they would turn around and proceed back along the side street, turning left, and proceeding down Spadina Road, until finally, they returned to the place where they’d started. At which point, they would turn around and do it again.
The teams of police officers followed this exact same routine twenty-fours a day, seven days a week, holidays not excluded.
After engaging in this security surveillance for seven years, somebody said, “Enough.” The situation had cooled. The costs were adding up, and, I mean, come on. “How long is this supposed to drag on, eh?”
So they stopped sending the policemen.
The next day, somebody blew up the embassy.
I don’t know what keeps the soldiers in Germany and Japan. But it is possible somebody told them that story.
“What are they still doing there?”
Since the war that originally sent them to those “hot spots” has been over for sixty-five years, you’d think it might be time for the personnel that are stationed there to come home. It would appear – you know, with the collapse of the Soviet Union and Japan having no army – that the situation has sufficiently cooled for those particular deployments – though I don’t claim to be an expert on the subject – to be over.
Wouldn’t you think?
(It seems to me, if the post-war situation in Germany was that serious in the first place, they would never have sent Elvis.)
Jumping back a few decades, the last apartment I lived in in Toronto happened to be located two blocks from what was called back then the Yugoslavian Embassy. The embassy was housed in large, stone structure, situated on the corner of a somewhat major thoroughfare – Spadina Road – and a side street that ran into it.
Years before I moved into the area, a faction of anti-government troublemakers had blown the Yugoslavian Embassy up. Not the whole thing – I mean, they didn’t drop anything from a plane – but the place was pretty messed up. The current venue was the rebuilt version.
The official response to the attack was immediate. The day after the bombing, the Toronto police department assigned two officers to the full-time duty of protecting the Yugoslavian Embassy. Not the same two officers – they would have gotten tired – but rotating teams of two officers.
From that time on, whenever you’d pass the building, you would always see two uniformed police officers casually – though alertly – proceeding up the sidewalk adjacent to Spadina Road, making a right turn, and then proceeding along the side street. When they reached the end of the building, they would turn around and proceed back along the side street, turning left, and proceeding down Spadina Road, until finally, they returned to the place where they’d started. At which point, they would turn around and do it again.
The teams of police officers followed this exact same routine twenty-fours a day, seven days a week, holidays not excluded.
After engaging in this security surveillance for seven years, somebody said, “Enough.” The situation had cooled. The costs were adding up, and, I mean, come on. “How long is this supposed to drag on, eh?”
So they stopped sending the policemen.
The next day, somebody blew up the embassy.
I don’t know what keeps the soldiers in Germany and Japan. But it is possible somebody told them that story.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
"A Second Rate Intelligence"
A quotation by F. Scott Fitzgerald maintains that “A test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.”
According to this quotation, a person with a first-rate intelligence can maintain opposing beliefs in their mind and not have to sit down, drink a glass of water and fan themselves till their equilibrium returns. They can simply do it, and go on with their lives. The top of their head doesn’t blow off, or anything.
By this standard, which I take seriously, because a respected “Man of Letters” maintains it’s the case, I hereby make this public confession:
I have a second-rate intelligence. (And possibly lower.)
Hard as I’ve tried, I cannot hold opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. Any effort to do so makes me dizzy, and I have to sit down. The water and the fanning myself are usually unnecessary, but I am really not in good shape.
I can’t help myself. If I’m partial to one idea, the opposing idea will find no room at the inn of my consciousness. (In my unconsciousness, all bets are off.) I do occasionally change the idea that I hold in my second-rate mind. But for me, it’s a matter of being a monogamous (albeit serially monogamous) believer. I can only believe one thing at a time.
This second-rate inflexibility is not a result of advancing age. I was always like that. An example. (Regular readers will not be surprised to find it coming from western movies. My world of experience doesn’t enjoy an enormous range.)
A rider gallops in on his horse. A shot rings out. The horse collapses, throwing the rider to the ground. The horse gets up and trots away…
Okay, we’ll stop right there. You see the problem? I do, and did when I was a kid watching the movie. My head spins just thinking about it.
A shot rings out, and the horse collapses to the ground. What does that mean?
The horse was shot.
The horse gets up and trots away. What does that mean?
The horse was not shot.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is two opposing ideas.
Idea Number One: The horse is shot and collapses to the ground.
So far, so good. But then comes…
Idea Number Two: The horse gets up and trots away.
My temples are beginning to throb.
Maybe there’s an answer I haven’t considered. Let’s see. If the horse was not shot, what then could be the reason for its collapsing to the ground?
Did the horse suddenly feel tired? Did the first shot make it decide to elude injury by deliberately dropping below the line of fire? Was it nursing a grudge against the rider, owing, perhaps, to some unjustified spurring, and it decided to repay this abuse by suddenly collapsing to the ground and throwing its rider…
At the precise moment the shot rang out?
I’d say, “Unlikely.”
What’s more likely is this. If the horse collapses, it was shot. If the horse gets up and trots away, it wasn’t shot. But it has to be one or the other. It can’t possibly be both.
The problem is your own eyes are telling you, it is. What we see on the screen is the horse collapsing – meaning it was shot – then getting up and trotting away – meaning it wasn’t.
Against all the known precepts of common sense, the horse appears to have been shot and not shot at the same time.
I would mention this perplexing conundrum to my ten year-old friends. And they would stare at me, often adding the word,
“What?”
In a tone reflecting confusion, disbelief, and a soupcon of pity.
Apparently, my friends were all blessed with first-rate intelligences, and I was cursed with a second-rate one. Why they included me in their lofty company, I have no idea. And at moments like those, neither, I suspect, did they.
My friends instinctively understood that the moviemakers did not want audiences thinking that horses were injured or killed during the making of that picture. (Though in fact, many horses were, due to invisible “trip wires”, the “movie magic” reason for their collapsing to the ground.)
It’s exciting to see a horse fall down, and it’s a relief to see them get up and trot away. The moviemakers satisfied the audience in both regards. It just didn’t make any sense.
To a person with a second-rate intelligence.
The curse persists to this very day. A random example. (I’m sure I’ll think of a better one after I publish.)
There are people who believe that man (and woman) is inherently evil. Yet they oppose controlling their business practices with regulations. Leaving inherently evil people uncontrolled by regulations. Some people have no trouble holding these opposing beliefs. I can’t help myself. I do.
I guess you just never grow out of it.
According to this quotation, a person with a first-rate intelligence can maintain opposing beliefs in their mind and not have to sit down, drink a glass of water and fan themselves till their equilibrium returns. They can simply do it, and go on with their lives. The top of their head doesn’t blow off, or anything.
By this standard, which I take seriously, because a respected “Man of Letters” maintains it’s the case, I hereby make this public confession:
I have a second-rate intelligence. (And possibly lower.)
Hard as I’ve tried, I cannot hold opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. Any effort to do so makes me dizzy, and I have to sit down. The water and the fanning myself are usually unnecessary, but I am really not in good shape.
I can’t help myself. If I’m partial to one idea, the opposing idea will find no room at the inn of my consciousness. (In my unconsciousness, all bets are off.) I do occasionally change the idea that I hold in my second-rate mind. But for me, it’s a matter of being a monogamous (albeit serially monogamous) believer. I can only believe one thing at a time.
This second-rate inflexibility is not a result of advancing age. I was always like that. An example. (Regular readers will not be surprised to find it coming from western movies. My world of experience doesn’t enjoy an enormous range.)
A rider gallops in on his horse. A shot rings out. The horse collapses, throwing the rider to the ground. The horse gets up and trots away…
Okay, we’ll stop right there. You see the problem? I do, and did when I was a kid watching the movie. My head spins just thinking about it.
A shot rings out, and the horse collapses to the ground. What does that mean?
The horse was shot.
The horse gets up and trots away. What does that mean?
The horse was not shot.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is two opposing ideas.
Idea Number One: The horse is shot and collapses to the ground.
So far, so good. But then comes…
Idea Number Two: The horse gets up and trots away.
My temples are beginning to throb.
Maybe there’s an answer I haven’t considered. Let’s see. If the horse was not shot, what then could be the reason for its collapsing to the ground?
Did the horse suddenly feel tired? Did the first shot make it decide to elude injury by deliberately dropping below the line of fire? Was it nursing a grudge against the rider, owing, perhaps, to some unjustified spurring, and it decided to repay this abuse by suddenly collapsing to the ground and throwing its rider…
At the precise moment the shot rang out?
I’d say, “Unlikely.”
What’s more likely is this. If the horse collapses, it was shot. If the horse gets up and trots away, it wasn’t shot. But it has to be one or the other. It can’t possibly be both.
The problem is your own eyes are telling you, it is. What we see on the screen is the horse collapsing – meaning it was shot – then getting up and trotting away – meaning it wasn’t.
Against all the known precepts of common sense, the horse appears to have been shot and not shot at the same time.
I would mention this perplexing conundrum to my ten year-old friends. And they would stare at me, often adding the word,
“What?”
In a tone reflecting confusion, disbelief, and a soupcon of pity.
Apparently, my friends were all blessed with first-rate intelligences, and I was cursed with a second-rate one. Why they included me in their lofty company, I have no idea. And at moments like those, neither, I suspect, did they.
My friends instinctively understood that the moviemakers did not want audiences thinking that horses were injured or killed during the making of that picture. (Though in fact, many horses were, due to invisible “trip wires”, the “movie magic” reason for their collapsing to the ground.)
It’s exciting to see a horse fall down, and it’s a relief to see them get up and trot away. The moviemakers satisfied the audience in both regards. It just didn’t make any sense.
To a person with a second-rate intelligence.
The curse persists to this very day. A random example. (I’m sure I’ll think of a better one after I publish.)
There are people who believe that man (and woman) is inherently evil. Yet they oppose controlling their business practices with regulations. Leaving inherently evil people uncontrolled by regulations. Some people have no trouble holding these opposing beliefs. I can’t help myself. I do.
I guess you just never grow out of it.
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