"It's All In The Stars"

The late Peter Sellers (The Mouse That Roared, Being There, the Pink Panther movies) was a monumentally gifted comic actor. He was also a passionate follower of astrology. Sellers had his own personal astrologer, and would never take on a project without first consulting his guru.

This story was told to me by Peter Sellers’ agent, whose name was Dennis.

Dennis informs Sellers of a new movie offer, laying out all the details – the nature of the role, the fee, the dates they’d be filming, everything. Sellers remains impassive, telling Dennis he’ll give him his decision after running the proposition by his astrologer.

Sellers calls his astrologer, and tells him about the movie offer. The astrologer instructs Sellers to sit tight. He’ll study Sellers’ chart, and get back to him with his advice.

The astrologer immediately calls Dennis.

“Is it a good offer?”

“It’s a great offer.”

“Fine.”

The astrologer calls Sellers back and tells him to take the job.

Apparently, Sellers never caught on. As far as he knew, he was responding to the direction of his astrological guru, when, in truth, he was simply listening to his agent.

"London Times - Part Six"

Steve was the nephew of my former orthodontist.

That’s how he introduced himself when I received his unexpected call. “I’m your former orthodontist’s nephew,” he announced. Both he and my former orthodontist had the same last name, and when he arrived at my front door, I spotted a familiar arrangement of baldness, so I had no reason to dispute his claim. I just didn’t know what he was doing at my house.

I had never met Steve, and having endured both nerve-tingling pain when my braces were tightened and gagging bouts of nausea during the taking of “impressions”, I was no great fan of his uncle. But here he was.

“Welcome,” I said.

What else could I say, “Go away!”?

Steve explained that a mutual friend from Toronto had suggested that, when he was in London, he should look me up. This happened with no small frequency. But normally, the unexpected callers were people I knew, like my mother’s friends, Alfie Freeman and his wife Mary, who were instructed to take me to a decent place for dinner, so my mother would know that, for one meal at least, I wasn’t eating crap.

Steve was a stranger. For me, the chilling word “stranger” brings to mind the line delivered by Walter Brennan in the classic western, Red River:

I never liked strangers. That’s because no stranger ever “good-newsed” me.

This is hardly an alien sentiment to me.

It turned out that Steve was a nice stranger. (Challenging my general view of humanity.) His new bride, however, was not. (Re-enforcing my general view of humanity. I was one-for-two. Wariness remained a reasonable response.)

Steve and his American bride – she was from Detroit – had married just a few days before. Their plan was to enjoy a couple of weeks touring the famous landmarks of England, then settle for the year in London, working as substitute teachers, in a beleaguered British school system, where the only qualification for the job of substitute teacher (for British citizens and members of the Commonwealth) was a college degree in anything.

Canada was a member of the Commonwealth. The Detroit woman was married to a Canadian. Both had college degrees. Ergo, two qualified substitute teachers.

Yeah, about that woman. I mean, she was admittedly darkly beautiful and impeccably groomed, but she had this pinched face and wrinkled-up nose that said, “Something smells here.” It turns out what she meant by “here” was England. The whole place.

Steve’s new bride was clearly used to better things. Better heat. Better plumbing. Better phone service. Better food. Better everything. Plus, it appeared, though it was never articulated, servants. I immediately sensed that the “year in London” adventure had not been her idea.

I quickly received confirmation of this impression when, after two days in England, Steve’s new bride abruptly packed her bags and returned to Detroit. Steve was devastated by her departure. As the only person he knew in London, it fell to me to comfort and console my former orthodontist’s nephew.

Besides being devastated, Steve was also angry. A lot of planning (now, clearly, all his) had gone into the “year in London” strategy, and he was not ready to throw it all away. That’s why, when she left, he stayed. (I actually don’t know why he stayed. I don’t know for sure why she left. It could have been Steve. But going by her disparaging commentary on England, it definitely wasn’t all Steve.)

A couple of days after his wife’s exit to Michigan, the mourning period apparently over, I get a call from Steve. He was thinking about the honeymoon plans – touring the famous landmarks of England. Steve was determined not to abandon those plans merely because his wife had left the country. He asked me if I’d like to accompany him instead.

Well, sir…

I had never visited the famous landmarks of England. I had no car (nor a license, nor any interest in driving on the left). And at the time of his invitation, I had nothing to do.

So I said okay.

And that’s how I got to go on Steve’s honeymoon instead of his wife.

It was a memorable experience. We explored historic Windsor Castle. We stopped at Stratford-Upon-Avon, home of William Shakespeare, taking in a superlative Henry the Fourth - Part One.

Then it was off to Oxford.

We toured the venerable university, lolling happily on the grounds, as we downed pints of “bitter” from pewter tankards whose bottoms were made of glass, the glass being the source, it was explained to us, of the toast, “Here’s looking at you.”

The image that remains most vividly was of me, seated at one end of a rickety old boat, my hair blowing in the wind, as Steve, stationed at the other end wielding a long wooden pole, “punted” us capably down the river that wound lazily through the campus. How we laughed when he had to duck suddenly to avoid the bridge. Steve was agile but tall.

And then, suddenly, it was over. Despite her wretched behavior, Steve pined desperately for his absent bride. And so, abandoning his dream of “a year in London”, he boarded a plane for Detroit, hoping for reconciliation.

I had to let him go. It was the right thing to do.

I never heard from Steve again. (Maybe he wasn’t that nice.) I have no idea if they got back together. A part of me hopes that they didn’t. That’s not me, being awful. I just knew he could do better.

I went on with my life. One must, you know. I felt damaged, but resilient. Steve was gone, it was true, but after all,

We’d always have Oxford.

"Yoga in a Nutshell"

THE SCENE: A TYPICAL YOGA STUDIO – MELLOW, SPIRITUAL AND AUSTERE.

A YOGA CLASS IS COMING TO ITS TRADITIONAL ENDPOINT. A DOZEN PRACTITIONERS LIE COMFORTABLY ON THEIR MATS, LISTENING, AS THEIR INSTRUCTOR LEADS THEM THROUGH THEIR FINAL, TOTAL-BODY RELAXATION EXERCISE.

YOGA INSTRUCTOR: Relax…your toes.

RESPONDING TO THE DIRECTION, THE PRACTITIONERS SEND THEIR BREATH ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THEIR TOES. THEIR TOES IMMEDIATELY UNCLENCH AND RELAX. THE EXERCISE CONTINUES, THE PRACTITIONERS RELAXING AREAS OF THEIR BODY, AS THE INSTRUCTOR PATIENTLY WORKS HIS WAY UPWARD.

YOGA INSTRUCTOR: Relax…your feet. Relax…your ankles. Relax…your calves. Relax…your knees…

AT THIS POINT, A DISTANT VOICE CRIES OUT --

DISTANT VOICE: Fire! Run!

IN THE YOGA CLASS, THE RELAXATION EXERCISE CONTINUES.

YOGA INSTRUCTOR: Relax…your thighs. Relax…your hips. Relax…your abdominals…

WE HEAR THE SOUND OF FIRE ENGINES, THEIR SIRENS SCREAMING LOUDER AS THEY APPROACH. THERE’S A CLAMOR OF EXCITEMENT AS THE FIRE RAGES OUT OF CONTROL.

BUT IN THE YOGA CLASS…

YOGA INSTRUCTOR: Relax…your diaphragm. Relax…your heart. Relax…your lungs…

THE CRACKLING FLAMES MOVE PERILOUSLY CLOSER. THE INSTRUCTOR’S VOICE FINALLY DISAPPEARS, OVERPOWERED BY THE CACOPHONY OF CHAOS AND FIRE.

DISSOLVE TO: TWENTY MINUTES LATER.

WE HEAR THE SOUND OF FIRE HOSES, DOUSING THE LAST FLICKERING EMBERS INTO SUBMISSION. STANDING IN THE YOGA STUDIO, TWO FIREFIGHTERS SURVEY THE TRAGIC DEVASTATION.

FIREFIGHTER NUMBER ONE: Burnt to a crisp.

FIREFIGHTER NUMBER TWO: Yeah. But boy, are they relaxed.

"Story of a Writer - Part Twenty-Two

Throughout my career writing for television, I have invariably received one of two credits: a “Consulting” credit or “Executive Producer” credit.

Once, I received a “Consulting Executive Producer” credit. I may be the only one who ever got that. It was exciting breaking in a new title.

Receiving only these credits is extremely rare. Ask around. You have to be lucky. And be willing to turn down lucrative offers for jobs that aren’t those. (You also have to be short-sighted enough to reject valuable learning experiences. There is also, sadly, that.)

I liked being the consultant or the E.P. (Which are, coincidentally, my initials.) As Executive Producer, there was nobody above me in the show’s hierarchy, which meant I could be “right” just by saying I was. As a consultant, I was outside the hierarchy. I was in a different category. I was the funny uncle, a friendly face from the “outside” who popped in and improved the show.

From my earliest days as a scriptwriter, I was also a consultant. It was during my MTM (Mary Tyler Moore) years, after I quit my only staff job ever – on Phyllis – because I hated it – that I began supplementing my income, consulting, during “Production Week”, on the episodes that I had written. There’d be “Rewrite Nights” and I would pitch in.

Sometimes it was fun, and sometimes it wasn’t. It was fun when the script I’d delivered was in such great shape that there was little to do but accept compliments for having written it so skillfully. That was delightful.

It was less delightful when the show’s Executive Producer had ideas of their own – ideas that, in my view, were making the script worse. At those times, I felt obligated to fight for what I, and, in many cases, the members of the Executive Producer’s writing staff, believed was the better approach.

Unfortunately, being members of that Executive Producer’s writing staff, and understandably reluctant to make waves, the writers who agreed with me were not always that helpful.

Once, I was having a disagreement with the Executive Producer concerning some issue in the script, and I suspected that the writer ranked immediately below her agreed with me, a suspicion that was confirmed during a break. Having discovered an ally, I excitedly inquired,

“How much support can I get from you on this matter?”

To which the writer who ranked immediately below the Executive Producer replied,

“None.”

That’s when it wasn’t so fun.

Not long afterwards, I was invited to consult on scripts that I hadn’t written. That was easier. No vested interested. No pressure. No stress. (No having to talk to the actors or the executives – which is another way of saying, “No pressure. No stress.”)

When an astute and talented writer named Barry Kemp created Newhart – the one where the Bob Newhart character owned an inn in Vermont – he invited me to serve as what he called, “a legitimate story editor.” Presumably, an illegitimate “Story Editor” was a writer who received the credit, “Story Editor” but they didn’t edit any stories.

(In actuality, the “Story Editor” credit simply means, “You’re getting less money than the guy with the ‘Producer’ credit.” Credits are primarily salary designations.)

During the first season of Newhart, scripts would be delivered to my home (already a plus, because I didn’t have to drive anywhere). I’d study them, and then type up my suggestions. (This being before e-mail and fax machines, someone then had to pick up my suggestions and drive them back to the studio. I apologize herewith for the traffic and pollution problems I may have added to. Though I don’t know how many accidents I prevented by staying out of my car.)

During my career, I provided similar consulting services (though sometimes I had to go in) on a number of television series. The job felt like a natural fit. As was not unusual in my career, somebody else had found me my niche.

Whether I consulting on the iconic Larry Sanders Show, starring Garry Shandling, or the barely noticed Goode Behavior, starring Sherman Hemsley – I consulted on both shows during the same season – I took my assignment equally seriously.

(The seemingly incongruous double-duty won me respect from the Goode Behavior writers, who were impressed that I consulted on Larry Sanders, and heaping derision from some Larry Sanders writers, who couldn’t believe I was working on Goode Behavior. “How’s Shoiman”, I’d be hootingly asked.)

What, specifically, did the consulting job involve? Well, generically there was inevitably the issue of length. Shows – though less so on HBO – had to conform to a “time format.” We were always looking for “cuts.”

“You don’t need Page 8,” I’d suggest.

“Why not?” I’d be asked.

“You never need Page 8.”

This wasn’t always helpful, but it never failed to lighten the mood.

As for the content, to me, no matter the show, the job remained the same: Understand what they were trying to accomplish in the story, and suggest things that would help them reach that goal more successfully. It is my belief that all stories – I’m talking about half-hour comedies, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it really was all stories – have an inherent trajectory:

To me, the internal structure of a story is like the natural progression that you find in music. You may not be able to articulate it, but when the chord structure deviates from its inevitable path, the final arrangement sounds “off.” It’s the same with a script. The consultant’s job is to listen for the “off” parts, and “fine tune” them, so they’re harmoniously back on track. (My music analogy’s admittedly shaky, but hopefully you get what I’m drivin’ at.)

The objective is clarity. (The ultimate objective, of course, is comedy, but fuzzy storytelling can inhibit the “ha-ha.”) “Clarifying” can mean noticing the inconsistency between two jokes, which, although both funny, undermine the credibility of character who’s delivering both. “Clarifying” also means eliminating the “wrong turns”, streamlining the storyline so it more smoothly travels to where its theme indicates it wants to go.

Sometimes, I’d suggest adding a speech or some different lines of dialogue. Not to say, “This is funnier”, but to say that, “This joke is more helpfully ‘on story’.” Or “This speech gives the joke you’re pointing towards a nourishing context.” Or “This line capsulizes the moment (and since it’s been ‘built to’ so cleverly, I’m predicting – making sure of coming short of guaranteeing – a hilarious response).”

Nobody’s right all the time. Your success level resides, like baseball, in your batting average.

What I’ve offered is the idealized version of the consulting job. There are times when “consulting” is butting heads with stubborn people. Sometimes, it’s the show’s star, who’s “not a writer” coming in when the work’s nearly done, and changing everything around. And sometimes, it’s people of good will seeing things in diametrically different ways. In these situations, your fondest wish is to get fired. And almost invariably, that wish is granted.

But when the “consulting thing” is really working, you’ll find creative exhilaration, a giddying collaborative chemistry, there’s “break time” hilarity, there’s free dinner, and a check for your services when you’re done. All really good things.

By the way, I still know how to do this stuff.

And I’m available.

"'Feel-Good' Movies"

Recently, on a TV news report, the reporter observed that when economic times get tough, movies inevitably take a turn to the “feel-good” variety. During periods of gloom, audiences gravitate towards movies offering uplift and hope. You go in feeling bad; you come out feeling better. That’s the theory.

The reporter used Slumdog Millionaire as an example of the prototypical “feel-good” movie for our current hard times. I saw Slumdog Millionaire. But let me go somewhere else first. A small digression. I will return shortly.

I wasn’t around for The Great Depression, but I’ve seen many of the movies made during those, arguably even worse, at least so far, hard times. This is not meant to be a comprehensive survey of Depression-era movies. I know Warner Brothers in particular made a number of gritty gangster pictures, but even those had a positive, albeit an inverted positive, message.

Gangster movies were, “Don’t do that” movies. You could tell they were “Don’t do that” movies, because in the end, the head gangster was always gunned down in a hail of bullets. The unmistakable message: If you don’t want to be gunned down in a hail of bullets…don’t do that.

The Depression did have its darker offerings. The Good Earth. The Grapes of Wrath. But the era’s entertainment mainstay was fluff. Lavish musicals, goofball comedies where rich people cavorted in ball gowns and tuxedos drinking “high balls”, whatever they are.

A digression within a digression. This will be quick, I promise.

If I were desperately poor, but had somehow scraped up the dime, or whatever, to see a movie, I would have hated watching rich people partying on the screen, no matter how foolishly they were made to behave.

The subtext of these movies was for the audience to feel superior, their unspoken message: “They’re wealthy but they’re idiots.” That wouldn’t have been enough for me. “Enough” would have been, “They’re wealthy, but there’s poison in the caviar.”

For me, there’d have been no satisfaction watching movies about wealth and privilege, then going home and eating my shoe.

But apparently, I’d have been in the minority.

There is one performer from that turmoiled period who really gets to me. Shirley Temple – the cinematic icon of Depression-era cheerfulness. A curly-headed, chubby-cheeked, multi-talented dynamo, Shirley Temple embodied the “never-say-die” spirit of a nation on its knees. (My favorite Shirley Temple movie: The Little Princess.)

She’d lose her position. She’d lose her father. She’d lose her dog. Nothing could stop her. Shirley Temple would always bounce back. With a smile and a giggle and a “Keep you chin up, the good times are just around the corner.”

Back to today.

I am known (by those who know me) for refusing to patronize dark and/or violent movies. Faced with diminishing movie-going options, at least by my entertainment standards, I was looking forward to the “feel- good” movies of today. (I’m sorry millions of people had to lose their jobs so I could get to see one, but what are you gonna do?)

Which brings me to what I’ve heard called the “feel-good” movie for our time –

Slumdog Millionaire.

Synopsis:

A young boy sees his mother murdered before his eyes, toughs it out on the murderous “mean streets” of Mumbai, is recruited into a gang of urchin criminals whose leader deliberately blinds one of its young members (blind street singers make more money) by pouring acid into his eyes, loses the girl of his dreams to prostitution, his brother and later, a sadistic mob boss, he finally gets a break appearing on a television game show, where his life’s experiences fatefully provide him with all the answers, but he’s suspected of cheating so he’s brutally tortured by the police.

Oh me, oh my. Something has happened to the “feel-good” movie.

The “feel-good” movie of today has stuff in it that makes me, at least, feel disgusted.

The question then is:

Where do I go to feel good?
--------------------------------
Ever since his last posting (Friday, January 23), my Uncle Grumpy has been bugging me:

“I went too fast and left a mistaken impression. I used an example about terrorism on our soil – my point being that mostly likely, the timetable for terrorist attacks is primarily in the hands of the terrorists – but I don’t want your readers to think I only yell at the television about one thing.

I keep hearing on cable news that during the Eisenhower administration, the top tax level was 90 percent. It was, but nobody paid it! There were millions of loopholes! They keep saying the ninety percent, but they never mention the loopholes!

They also report that the approval level for Congress is, like, eleven percent. Maybe so, but how does that fit with the voters’ continually sending over ninety percent of them back? People hate the idea of Congress. But they keep re-electing the vast majority of the people. Those news guys keep focusing on the wrong thing!

Those are just two things I yell about. There’s hundreds of them! I didn’t want people thinking there was just one.”

Uncle Grumpy has re-spoken. Hopefully, now, he’ll leave me alone.

"Uncle Grumpy - On Cable News - Again"

Look out! He’s on the rampage! What can I do? He’s my uncle.

As usual, criticisms and complaints – directly to him.
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Cable news.

I hate it. I watch it. I hate that I watch it. Then I watch it some more.

And I hate it.

I thought, after the election…you know, the big show is over, I’ll take a break. But the stuff keeps coming. Is it important? It is that day!

The crazy governor from Illinois. The proposed Treasury Secretary who cheated on his taxes. The Chief Justice screws up the swearing in. Biden turned down Secretary of State.

Caroline Kennedy. They interrupted to report she was withdrawing from consideration and then, later, that she staying in during the same program. These yahoos don’t care what they say. As long as it’s “Breaking News.”

I remember during the Democratic primaries. Cable news reports: “The polls project Obama a shoo-in in New Hampshire.”

Obama loses New Hampshire.

The next day, oh boy. The cable news guys are embarrassed. They’re contrite. They made a mistake. They’ll never do it again.

A week later, “The polls project Obama a shoo-in in South Carolina!”

They’re junkies! They can’t stop themselves! They swear off the stuff…and a week later, they’re doing it again!

I know it’s about ratings. Cable news is a business. It’s not the news people’s fault for inflaming sensibilities, pandering to extremists and monstrously over-hyping the stories. They’re trying to sell tickets. You can’t sell tickets to blah.

There’s a fierce competition for the news-watching audience. You do what you have to do. Even if it means undermining the credibility of your entire operation.

To accurately report on the events of the day.

I know cable news is a clown show. And I still watch. Hoping, against the accumulated evidence of my eyes and ears, that there’s a possibility I might learn something.

What the heck is the matter with me!!!

My nephew told me about this course he recently took in Political Science. Twelve three-hour classes. In the last minute of their last meeting, the teacher sums up the message of his class:

“If you want to learn, listen to all sides.”

Sure.

Answer me this, will ya? When partisan advocates come on cable news shows, exaggerate the virtues of their own position, and demonize the views of the opposition, what exactly are you supposed to learn?

How to exaggerate and demonize?

You don’t learn anything!

They don’t want answers on cable news. They want mud wrestling. That’s why you rarely hear “the next question” on those shows, the question that might result in some actual understanding.

Instead, you hear this:

“Under President Bush, we haven’t had an attack on our soil for seven and a half years.”

The claim stands unchallenged. Because the calendar says it’s true. I’ve seen this a number of times, the last time, three days ago. There’s never any exploration. No “next question.”

Later, maybe in a “personal comment”, we’ll be reminded that Bush was actually president when we had a very big attack.

This second thing, I’ve never heard anyone say. “Under President Clinton, who was not known for his anti-terrorism initiatives, there were no attacks on our soil for eight years – 1993 to 2001. How do you account for that?”

Those cable news hosts aren’t stupid. They’re aware of the eight-year Clinton thing. So why don’t they follow up with “the next question”?

Because they want me to get angry. Me and the other suckers watching their stupid, infuriating show. They win when I’m engaged, yelling at my television, “Why don’t you ask that, you big Bozos!” and thinking I’m smarter than the host.

It’s like Wheel of Fortune, when you know the answer, and the contestants don’t.

“‘A PENNY SAVED IS A PENNY EARNED.’ What’s the matter with you?”

My personal opinion? The news should never be a profit center. It’s too damn important.

I know news has been partly entertainment from the get-go. A newsreader wears a bowtie, he’s in show business. But there’s a line. If Edward R. Murrow came back, he’d be shocked.

“I know I had shiny hair and a cigarette. But this is ridiculous!”

Then he’d blow the lid of news-o-tainment.

“The focus of the news must always remain the news itself. Not the people who bring it to us. Not those who purport to parse its meaning, as if we had no reasoning powers of our own. We must take back the news from those who ruthlessly exploit it for commercial purposes, and return it to the serious function it was intended to perform – as a reliable reporter of what actually took place. Good night. And good luck.”

The “Murrows” of today, biting the hand that so lavishly feeds them? I wouldn’t hold my breath.

So we’ve got what we’ve got.

Somebody, please. Take away my remote.

"Drinking The Poison"

Thinking back on my English pub experiences (See: Yesterday) reminded me of a drinking story dating from the same era that involved my mother.

I had not known my mother to be much of a drinker. In fact, I had never witnessed her drinking anything.

Then, one day, everything changed.

While living in London, I came home once for a visit, landing in New York City on my way back to Toronto. My mother met me in New York, and immediately took me to buy clothes she could stomach seeing me wear. When the wardrobe shopping was over, we went out to a restaurant for lunch.

I’m twenty-two years old. I have reached the legal drinking age, plus I had partaken of “bitter” (room temperature English beer) every night at The Horse And Groom for months. My mother, however, has never seen me drink.

We order lunch. Along with my lunch, I bon vivantishly request a frosty glass of American beer. The waiter returns with an ice-cold lager in a tall, tapering glass, setting it down directly in front of me. Excited by the prospect of a beer that is actually cold, I pick up the glass, and I draw it to my lips.

I am hardly oblivious to the moment, or, more appropriately, the “moment.” For the very first time, ever, Earl Raymond Pomerantz will be imbibing an alcoholic beverage in front of his mother.

As I’m about to enjoy my first sip, my mother, who since I’d ordered the drink had said nothing, breaks her silence.

“You know,” she says, with a studied nonchalance, “I haven’t tasted beer in maybe twenty-five years. Let me have a little sip.”

I hesitate, confused. My mother, whom I have never once seen drinking beer, suddenly wants a taste of my beer. Then I think, maybe this is her idea of how this “moment” is supposed to play out.

Rite of passage. Mother and sonny-boy. Sharing a beer.

Okay, then. “Milestone moment.” Here we go.

I pass the beer over to my mother. She takes the glass, raises it to her lips, and she starts to drink.

And drink.

And drink.

And drink.

And drink.

I’m looking at her. Watching this thing happen. My eyes are getting bigger. As I sit there, witnessing my Jewish mother, downing the beer in one long uninterrupted chug.

Until, finally…

She drains my glass of its very last drop.

She then places the now totally empty glass back in front of me, punctuating her actions with a nod, and a single reverberating word:

“Good.”

Only later did I realize the meaning of the event that had just occurred.

Gertrude Pomerantz had fulfilled her maternal obligation.

She has swallowed the poison for her son.
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I want to thank those who took the time to congratulate me on my first anniversary. I also want to thank the people who meant to, but didn't. You're my kind of people.

Another "Thank you" goes to those who shared their "conversation stoppers" with me. It's comforting to know I'm not the only one whose smooth progress is occasionally derailed by strangers. Special kudos to the commenter who told the "dead horse" story. Material like that - with me - you can't lose.

Questions and comments always welcome. And if you want to hear back, try talktoearl@gmail.com.