TALES FROM THE SCRIPT: THE BEHIND-THE-CAMERA ADVENTURES OF A TV COMEDY WRITER (10 page)

When she arrived at the offices, we learned she was as gorgeous
dressed as she was naked. See-through blouses were in vogue at that time,
and she was dressed in vogue. What we viewed in the magazine earlier, we
could see just as plainly through her blouse. Both views were enjoyable.
The writer had made arrangements to take the young lady to
lunch at a restaurant just across Beverly Boulevard from our offices. it
was a newly opened restaurant called Dubrovnik. So, we all decided
to have lunch there, too, because it was convenient and because a seethrough blouse was a terrible thing to waste. We all piled in and were
our show-off funniest. i’ll skip most of the lunchtime humor because
it had that “you had to be there” ring to it, but at the end of lunch, Pat
McCormick stood on one of the tables in his boxer shorts.
He announced, “i’m buying lunch, but i don’t have my wallet with
me. i’m leaving my trousers here as a good faith down payment.” He
stuck his trousers up into the lattice work that decorated the ceiling.
The owner of the restaurant got very upset and rushed over to
our table.
He spoke with a heavy accent. “Meester MeeCormick,
Meester MeeCormick, what are you doing?”
Pat said, “i guess you’re not using to dealing with us circus folk,
are you?”
Pat got down, grabbed the half empty bottle of wine from the
table, and began to exit, while his trousers were still wedged in the
ceiling. Laughing hysterically, we all followed him outside. The frustrated owner didn’t think it was funny.
“Meester MeeCormick, you cannot take the wine. You cannot
take the wine.”
Pat just kept walking in his boxer shorts across Beverly Boulevard.
“i will lose my license Meester MeeCormick. Please . . . i will lose
my license.”
Pat paid no attention.
The owner grabbed the bottle of wine and tried to wrest it from
Pat’s grip. That was in the middle of Beverly Boulevard, a very heavily
traveled road. As they tugged back and forth, the rest of us stood on
the sidewalk laughing.
Finally, one of our writers, who only was about five-feet, twoinches tall, threw a shawl over his head and began crossing the street,
completely blind. Cars zoomed to a halt. it looked like a Mexican
blanket with feet crossing the street.
Ronnie Graham, who wrote the musical numbers for the show,
had broken his leg in a motorcycle accident, and he was in a cast and
on crutches. He hobbled out into the middle of Beverly Boulevard,
where McCormick and the restaurant proprietor were still tugging at
the bottle of wine. Ronnie shouted loudly, “i can walk! i can walk!”
Then, he threw his crutches across the boulevard, raised his arms
heavenward, and fell flat on his ass.
i ran across the street and hurried into the safety of the Cosby
Show offices before the authorities arrived or someone got killed.
i’m not sure whether that Playboy centerfold ever dated another
television comedy writer or not.
The show was fun, but it was doomed. it lasted that one season.
My next gig was on the picket line.

i was making more money than i ever thought i would. The Guild
decreed that we should be making more, so they went on strike. We
writers couldn’t work, we didn’t get paid, we were not permitted to
negotiate for future work, and we had to walk a picket line. i walked
outside of Universal Studios. i had never been in Universal Studios,
but i paraded in front of it trying to keep other people from going in.

Everyone who belonged to the Guild had to walk the picket line.
no excuses were accepted. One day, i walked beside a very nice, older
woman. We carried our signs in typical unionized boredom. As we
walked, we conversed and i asked her what kind of writing she did.
She informed me that she wasn’t a writer. She worked for a major
star. He sent his maid to do his picket carrying chores.

One morning, as we dutifully circled the gate in front of one of
Universal’s entrances, Carroll O’Connor drove by in a beautiful Rolls
Royce. Carroll O’Connor was the actor who played Archie Bunker
on
All In the Family
. He braked at the guard house and then a loud
discussion began. Apparently, Carroll O’Connor was quite upset that
he would not be allowed to park his car in Universal’s lot while he
came out and picketed their studio for being unfair to writers.

Some of those incidents might have seemed funnier to me if my
circumstances weren’t decidedly unfunny. The Cosby show had not
been renewed, so i was out of work.

There was some talk about a job offer from
The Carol Burnett Show
.
i told my agent that a strike was imminent, so we should wrap up negotiations. He assured me that even though i couldn’t work on the show
during the strike, he could surely negotiate a contract for me.

He was wrong.
We found out that negotiations were forbidden during strikes, too.
i had no work, no prospects, and no income. Walking in a circle

Other people didn’t make it any more fun, either.
One morning, we circled near a bus stop bench. A woman watched us walking
around carrying our picket signs that proclaimed that the studios were
unfair to writers. She was eating from a little bag of sunflower seeds.

Finally, as her bus was approaching, she spoke to us. “How much
do you make for writing a show?” she asked.
i said, “i’m not exactly sure,” i responded. “i think it’s about
$10,000.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “For a half-hour of work?” she asked.
“Well, it’s not really a half-hour of work,” i said. i was going to go
on and explained that it takes many hours of meetings, writing, and
rewriting to produce a half-hour of television comedy.
She would hear none of that. Her bus arrived and she had to get on,
but she glared at me in anger. Before getting on the bus, she threw the bag
of sunflower seeds at me. The doors closed and she rode off, satisfied that
she had done her bit to retaliate against greedy television scribes.

Another morning a truck stopped at a red light near the Universal
gate i was picketing. The driver glanced toward us and gave a raised
fist salute—one union brother offering support for another. All of
us acknowledged his greeting. The truck driver shouted over to us,
“What are you guys striking for?”

i personally had no idea. Being a relative newcomer to the industry, i didn’t get too involved in union proceedings. i was just happy
to be included in the membership. it delighted me to be allowed to
enter those hallowed studios, so i certainly didn’t want to antagonize
them. i was a kid locked in a candy store. First, let me savor the candy
before you give me a lecture on how bad sugar is for the teeth and
overall health.

i had no idea what we were striking for, but part of it must have
been money. it always was.
So i shouted back to my brother in the labor movement, “More
money.”
Just then, the light turned green. However, before driving off he
shouted back, “You want more money for that crap you write?”
So much for union loyalty.
One young gentleman approached a group of us, as we ambled
around, supposedly fiercely protesting studio injustice to writers.
“You guys writers?” he asked.
We said we were.
“i’m a writer, too,” he told us.
He went on. “i haven’t sold anything yet, but i’m taking a course
over at the Writers Guild.”
“Wonderful,” we said.
He told us who was teaching the course. The teacher was a wellestablished, well-known, and well-respected writer. Some of my fellow picketers knew that gentleman personally; others of us knew him
by reputation.
The young man said, “i wrote a script that he said was pretty good.”
“That’s great,” we said.
Our new friend went and retrieved a copy of the script from his
car. Probably he figured we wouldn’t believe his tale unless he showed
us the words on the page.
“Here it is,” he said.
We just looked at it. it’s very hard to picket and read at the same
time, besides i wasn’t at all sure that we might not be in violation of
Guild rules if we read a script during the strike. There was no point in
taking any chances.
The aspiring writer said, “The instructor told me that it needed a
few changes, and if i did a rewrite, he might be able to show it to some
friends and maybe get me a sale.”
“That’s terrific,” we all agreed.
The youngster said, “Yeah, well, if he wants me to do any work on
this script, he’s going to have to pay me.”
As the aspiring writer walked off with the imperfect, but nearly viable script under his arm, i thought to myself that i’d probably never
meet him in any of the writers meetings.
i never have met him.
Of course, i don’t remember his name or what he looked like. He
may have sold several scripts and become the head of some studio,
for all i know.
He wanted to be paid while he learned how to write. i had already
learned some things. i wanted to get that strike over with and get paid
for having already learned how to write.
But, no, i just kept walking in circles . . . walking in circles . . . walking in circles.

The strike ended, not so much happily as predictably. We writers got
some of what we wanted and some of what we didn’t want. The producers gave us some of what we thought we had coming to us and
some of what they thought we had coming to us. So, it was a compromise that we fought hard for and won . . . or lost.

The strange thing about writers’ strikes is that a good percentage of the Guild members also have production companies. in effect,
many of us picket ourselves. We carry signs that should read, “i’m
unfair to me.” However, in the end, it somehow makes sense, and the
Guild does an awful lot of good for its members.

The good, post-strike news from my agent was that Carol Burnett’s
people did indeed want me. The bad, post-strike news was they wanted
me for a lot less than i wanted them to want me for. in fact, they wanted
me for only about half of what i wanted them to want me for.

i told my agent, “i can’t accept an offer that low.” no other offers
were forthcoming as yet, but that one was unacceptable.
My agent asked his usual question: “Are you prepared to lose it?”
i said, “Yes.”
My agent said, “i’ll talk to them again. Personally, i think there
must be a misunderstanding.”

He went back to the Burnett people and came back with some
good, post-strike news. There was a misunderstanding. They had me
mixed up with someone else they wanted. They doubled their offer.

We negotiated from that point and i finally got an offer i could accept.
So, i went to work for
The Carol Burnett Show.
Carol had been on the air for six seasons. it never did great in

the ratings, but it never did that badly, either. it was a good show, respected by the viewers and by the industry. The sixth season, though,
was problematic for them. During that year, they had both a producing team and a head-writing team. Apparently, they were adversarial. The writers had a problem about which team they should pay
allegiance to and whether they should follow the producers’ orders
and irritate the head-writers, or do what the head-writers wanted and
annoy the producers. it became such turmoil that Carol got rid of the
producers and most of the writing staff after that sixth season. That
was when i came in—with the new wave.

Ed Simmons was hired as the new producer/head-writer. He
took all of the writing staff to lunch one day in order to wine us, dine
us, and give us the company line. “We’re going to stand together this
year. When one person writes a good sketch, we all wrote it. When
someone writes a bad sketch, we all wrote it. Morale among the writers will be very high this year because we’re going to work as a team.”

After the lunch, Ed and i stayed on for a post-luncheon drink at
the bar. “Good luck” i said to Ed, meaning that i listened to his spiel,
but i never believed it would work. He assured me that he was sincere
and that he would hold himself and us to his words.

Of course, Simmons didn’t manage to keep all of his State of the
Staff promises. When we went to work, he told us that one of his
goals for the upcoming season was to never lose a sketch. “Once a
sketch goes into the show, it stays there,” he vowed.

The very first sketch we wrote for the very first show was cut at
the very first writers meeting after the very first run-through. My
partner and i wrote the sketch.

Joe Hamilton, Carol’s husband and executive-producer of the
show, said, “The ‘Evel Knievel’ sketch is out.” He said it in a way that
left no room for discussion.

My heart broke and i was a bit angry internally. i couldn’t express
it externally because i was a frightened young writer who was happy
to be working, especially on a prestigious show like
The Carol Burnett
Show
. i wasn’t about to become confrontational.

Joe further explained, “That sketch was never any damn good.”
On the drive home, i thought, that sketch was put into the script,
read on Monday, rehearsed for three days, and dropped just two days
before the show aired. if it was “never any damn good,” i had to wonder who picked it, put it in the show, and sent it to the typists. So, i
got even more offended at his tirade.
The next day, i went back to work and took it like a man. i had no
power to do anything else.
Ed Simmons must have felt like a pitcher who throws a home run
ball on his first pitch to the plate and then curses, “Damn it, there goes
my no-hitter.”
Bill Richmond and i had worked together on the staff at
Laugh-In,
but we didn’t work as a team on that show. We were paired up on the
Burnett Show. One question was who would get top billing. i kind
of felt that “Perret and Richmond” had more of a rhythm to it than
“Richmond and Perret.” Richmond may have felt the opposite.
Anyway, Ed Simmons came into our office one day and tossed a
coin. i called it in the air and lost. We were listed on the credits as
“Bill Richmond and Gene Perret.” However, i insisted that with all
great comedy teams, the funny one got bottom billing. Dean Martin
and Jerry Lewis, Abbott and Costello, Burns and Allen . . . and “Bill
Richmond and Gene Perret.” The real comedy talent came last. it
was my petulant form of rationalization and revenge.
Despite my billing setback, the Burnett show was ideal for a writer
for many reasons. First, it was a terrifically talented staff that worked
together and got along well, thanks to Ed Simmons’ leadership. Everyone pulled together and there were few problems when someone offered suggestions for a sketch or even worked on a rewrite of a sketch.
So long as the material was funny when it aired, we stayed happy.
Second, the show was well-respected by the viewers and the
industry. That was rare in television. We used to kid that when we
went to a party and people asked, “What do you do for a living?” We
answered that we were accountants. Saying that we were television
writers would prompt the next question, “What show do you write
for?” When we told them, the questioner would inevitably say, “i hate
that show.” Most viewers pretended to hate every show. As a staff
writer on the Burnett show, though, we were proud to say we wrote
for it. People liked that show.
Third, the show had a very talented cast and they respected the
script. Much of the attitude of a show came from the star, and Carol
was very fair with the writers. The cast and the director gave the script
the benefit of the doubt every time. Even when the writing was weak,
they’d give it 110 percent and add little bits that improved it.
Harvey Korman had a reputation as somewhat of a whiner on the
show, but his complaints were neither harmful nor malicious. it was
almost like a pleasant hobby for him.
At the end of each season, the show would throw a huge party
with dinner and drinks in one of the rehearsal halls followed by what
we called “The Flip Show” in the studio. The Flip Show was emceed
by Carol Burnett and anyone on the show was free to present a sketch,
a musical piece, a comedy bit, or whatever would satirize the season.
it was a great, fun way to end the show for the year.
Ed Simmons did a routine in which he read from his diary as producer of the show. He said of Harvey: “July 15
^th
. . . Harvey came into
my office and complained that he didn’t have enough to do on the
show. August 15
^th
. . . Harvey came into my office and complained
that he had too much to do on the show. September 15
^th
. . . Harvey
came into my office and complained that everything was OK.”
One writer from a previous season mentioned that the Burnett
cast always added to the script and made it even better than it was
on paper. Many on that writing staff were offended by the remark.
They wanted
all
the credit for brilliant sketches to go to the writing
staff. They objected to actors stealing part of their thunder. However,
i thought the remark was perfectly valid. The performers did make
the sketches better. That’s what they were supposed to do.
in order to produce a quality show, writing and performing
should fuse into a solid presentation. neither one can excel without
the other. Once they fuse, it’s almost impossible to tell whose input
produced what. it’s like making Jell-O, you mix water with a powder,
chill it, and you have a solid, jiggling mass. Once that mass sets up,
though, it’s impossible to define which part is water and which part is
powder. That’s the same with a quality comedy presentation.
Thanks to Carol’s example, i believe the performers never criticized the writers for a weak script. They got pedestrian sketches from
time to time, but they realized that the material couldn’t be superb
every time. When the writing was under par, they accepted that as
part of producing a weekly variety show. They asked us to improve
it as much as we could, and we often worked long hours to make a
weak sketch stronger, and they worked on it themselves at rehearsals.
Sometimes, we saved it; other times, we couldn’t. it was never taken
personally, though. They knew we weren’t trying to kill their careers
or sabotage the show, as some performers on other shows felt.
Fourth, as a writer, we created any wacky character or premise we
wanted. One week, Harvey played a werewolf, and the next week, he
played a distinguished actor. Tim could be a buffoon or a poor creature taking on dog-like characteristics after being bitten by his girl’s
schnauzer. Each sketch we wrote was new and unique. On sitcoms,
of course, we were limited by the characters. Archie Bunker would
always be Archie Bunker; Lucy and Ricky and Fred and Ethel would
always be Lucy and Ricky and Fred and Ethel. it was easy to get tired
of the people and the premises. On
The Carol Burnett Show,
each
premise was different. The people populating the sketches changed
from week to week. The writers were the ones changing them, and
that made the job less monotonous than most and much more fun.
Fifth, the
network suits
left us alone. The show was never very
highly rated, yet it was high enough and respected enough to be renewed each year. The execs wanted to hang around and tamper with
the top-rated shows. Consequently, since we traditionally came in at
around twentieth position each week in the ratings, they weren’t too
involved with us. Also, Carol’s prestige and Joe Hamilton’s toughness
discouraged
the suits
from getting too involved with our show. We ran
it ourselves, and that was always more pleasant.
Bill Richmond and i were very prolific on the show, and our work
was highly regarded by the head-writer, the executive producer, and
the cast. Later, when Carol and Joe Hamilton wanted to syndicate the
show, they asked the writers to take half of their contracted residual
fees. i objected. “We have a contract that spells out our residual fees.”
i said. “Why not abide by it?”
Their representative explained that they were pioneering an attempt to transform a one-hour variety show into a half-hour format
for syndication. it was risky. They could lose money.
i said, “But if it’s successful and makes money, then you get to
keep most of it, while we still get paid at the lesser rate.” They were
asking us to finance their risk, yet allow them to reap most of the profits. To me, it didn’t seem fair.
They understood our complaint and we compromised. Ed Simmons was to make a list of who wrote what for each individual show.
if a writer’s work was represented on any given show, that writer
would get paid the full, contracted residual. if a writer had nothing
on that particular show, the writer would be compensated at half of
the contracted residual.
Bill Richmond and i were represented on almost every show.
However, we also “killed somebody off ” on every show, too.
Whenever we needed a sketch ending, we seemed to go for the ultimate—we assassinated Tim Conway’s character. Usually, we ended
our sketches with devastating explosions. We became known on the
staff as “The Boom-Boom Boys.”
At one time, we had a sign outside our office proclaiming that nickname for all visitors to see. CBS, though, wasn’t happy with that advertisement, so they kept taking the sign down. We put it up a few times
more, but eventually we caved in to their wishes and left the sign off.
At one point, though, we must have had conscience attacks because we vowed never to end our sketches with deaths again. it was
tough, but we adhered to our self-censorship.
The staff in general was liberal with the life of Tim Conway’s characters. We terminated Tim often. Two writers once said that if you
had an ending to a sketch, then writing the sketch was easy. The executive producer said, “Okay, Tim dies at the end. Have the sketch on
my desk by 4:30.”
Rudy DeLuca and Barry Levinson once wrote a sketch that featured Carol Burnett and Tim Conway as husband and wife staying in
a motel room. While they were in bed, trying to sleep, Carol heard
a bug in the room. She wanted Tim to get rid of it. Tim put a glass
over the bug, which supposedly would keep it immobilized and out
of harm’s way for the rest of the night. When they tried to go back
to sleep, the glass shattered. Apparently the insect, which was never
actually seen on camera, was strong enough to move the glass. Other
complications kept the sketch moving, and it was funny.
We needed an ending, though. The first ending written was that
Tim put the bug outside the motel room door. Then Carol felt badly
about exiling a bug and forcing him to live away from his wife and children. She cajoled Tim into going outside to check on the bug. When he
opened the door and stepped outside, the sound effects man produced
a loud “crunch.” Tim had stepped on the insect ending the sketch.
We writers winced. “You can’t end a sketch like that,” we said.
“The viewers will turn against us.” it was interesting that we could kill
Tim Conway off two or three times each week, but we couldn’t bring
ourselves to destroy an unseen, anonymous insect.
On our own, with no complaints from the censors, the network,
or the producer, we writers worked on a new ending.
The new one that the team came up with was probably better than
the original anyway. At Carol’s prompting, Tim went outside to make
sure that the critter was all right. Tim did step outside the room, out
of camera range. He came back in and assured Carol that the bug
family was safe and happy outside the motel room. She was pleased.
Then, as Tim climbed into bed, he turned his back to the camera and
we saw a giant lizard attached to the back of his pajamas. He climbed
into bed and the lights went out. We ended the sketch knowing that
soon all hell would break loose again in that motel room.
Sketch endings gave us Burnett writers our biggest headaches.
On that show, the endings had to be crisp, concise, logical, and most
of all, funny. The finale of each piece on the show was like the punch
line of a joke. it had to be powerful and effective. Otherwise, the
entire sketch would seem flat.
When we writers handed in a first draft of a comedy sketch for
consideration, it often came back to us with notes and recommendations for a rewrite. invariably, one of the suggestions was, “it needs a
better ending.”
My writing partner and i generally felt that the ending we handed
in with the sketch was the optimum finish. Any new ending we created would be a compromise, as far as we were concerned.
Eventually, we devised a deceptive plan to outsmart the authorities. We wrote our sketch with the ending that we felt was appropriate and powerful. However, we didn’t turn that finish in with our first
draft. instead, we’d create an alternate, less effective finale. That’s the
one we submitted with our original pages.
When the decision makers returned the piece for a rewrite with
the inevitable “it needs a better ending” notation, we
pretended
to
struggle with it creatively. After a reasonable amount of time, we’d
simply take our original, preferred ending out of the drawer, attach it
to our sketch as the improved, freshly created, new finish, and turn it
back in. it worked just about every time.
naughty, we admit, but clever.
Two of my favorite sketches that my partner and i wrote during
our five years on the Burnett Show were “no-Frills Airline” and “The
Hollow Hero.”
“no-Frills Airline” was Carol Burnett’s idea. On the first day
of production after our hiatus, Carol spoke with Bill and me about
the idea of airlines offering cheaper flights. For a minimum fee, you
could get on the plane but would get no meals or other luxuries. She
thought it was a funny idea and would make good sketch material.
We agreed and offered to write the piece.
With Carol as the flight attendant, Harvey Korman as the fullpaying passenger, and Tim Conway as the no-frills flyer, it turned out
to be a hilarious piece.
“The Hollow Hero” happened as a result of Bill Richmond reading a book by F. A. Rockwell called “How To Write Plots That Sell.”
Chapter Three in that book is entitled “Jokes as a Goldmine of Plots.”
Using an old joke as a framework, we created the Hollow Hero character, and of course, gave birth to Carol’s parody of a queen.
This sketch worked beautifully on stage. in fact, at the meeting
between the dress rehearsal taping and the air show, Joe Hamilton
announced, “We’re not going to do the ‘Hollow Hero’ sketch again.”
Carol said, “Oh, yes we are.”
Joe argued, “But we’ve got it in the can. it worked perfectly and it
doesn’t need any improvements.”
Carol said, “it’s not often we get a piece of material that is that
much fun to perform. We’re going to do it again.”
We did it again and it worked magnificently a second time.
However, what made that one of my favorite sketches from the
show was the writing of it. Bill and i wrote it in one morning and we
laughed during the entire process. Each line in the sketch was a laugh
generator. We laughed as we wrote it. The other writers laughed when
we read it to them. it was just great fun to assemble. The fact that it
generated laughs on stage also was a fringe benefit. [nOTE: both of
the above sketches are printed in their entirety in Gene Perret’s book,