TALES FROM THE SCRIPT: THE BEHIND-THE-CAMERA ADVENTURES OF A TV COMEDY WRITER (16 page)

The television season used to be fairly regular. We did twenty-six
shows over thirty-six weeks. That gave us a few non-production
weeks throughout the season to either catch up on scripts that had
fallen behind, or to take a few weeks off to recover from overwork. Of
course, it also left us sixteen weeks of hiatus.

Writers used the hiatus in various ways. Some simply vacationed.
Others took it as an opportunity to write that screenplay they had
always wanted to write or to create a show of their own. Sometimes,
writers used that time to find more work on summer replacement
shows.

i worked on a couple of summer shows. The first was the
Helen
Reddy Show
in the summer of 1973. it was a replacement for Flip
Wilson’s variety show and was produced by Flip’s company.

Flip showed up occasionally to talk with the writers and make
some semblance of being an executive producer. Mostly we just sat
around and had a few laughs. After the show ended, though, Flip Wilson got in some sort of trouble for brandishing a gun and chasing his
in-laws out of the house.

Helen was a very hot vocalist at that time and she attracted some
good guests. One was Jim Croce. His rehearsal was one of the most
memorable of any show i’ve ever been associated with. He and his
band set up to do their number and they played “Bad, Bad Leroy
Brown.” Croce sang such a lively rendition that everyone in the rehearsal hall was clapping along and tapping their toes. it was probably the most astounding performance i’ve ever seen at any rehearsal
or any show i’ve ever attended.

A few months later, Jim Croce was killed in the tragic plane accident.
Helen Reddy’s big hit, “i Am Woman,” was sort of the national
anthem for the feminist movement. The producer of that show was
Carolyn Raskin. One of the guests we had was Gloria Steinem.

i worked with Ray Taylor as my partner on that show. He and i got to
Burbank Studios early one morning because we were scheduled to have a
meeting and script reading with Gloria, who was flying in from new York.

She didn’t arrive at the scheduled time. She didn’t arrive two
hours after the scheduled time. She arrived about five or six hours late
for the rehearsal. nevertheless, we were all cordial when she arrived,
with the possible exception of Ray Taylor. He was aloof.

As we read through the script, Gloria removed the gender from
any word she could. “Hostess” was changed to “host.” “Chairman”
was changed to “chairperson.” Ray and i joked among ourselves that
if we had written the word “manhole cover” into the script, she would
have altered it to “personhole cover.” She neutered everything.

Towards the end of the meeting, Gloria objected to a certain joke
line, not because it was anti-feminine, but because it wasn’t funny
enough. Ray Taylor bristled.

Carolyn Raskin turned to him and whispered, “Let’s get a new
joke there.”
Ray said, “What’s wrong with the joke that’s already there?”
Carolyn said, “We might make it funnier.”
Ray said, “That’s a funny joke as it is.”
Carolyn said, “Well, let’s try some alternatives.”
Ray said, “We don’t need any alternatives. That’s a good joke.”
Finally Carolyn leaned toward Ray and whispered secretively
about Gloria, “She doesn’t like it.”
Ray said loudly and not so secretively, “You mean
it
doesn’t like it.”
With that, he got up, left the meeting, and never returned to the
show. it didn’t make any difference. The show never had much impact.
in 1976, Bob Tamplin, an executive at CBS, asked Ed Simmons,
Bill Richmond, and i to go see Kelly Monteith, a young comedian at
the Horn, a club in Santa Monica. Bob was trying to get him a summer show on the network schedule.
We saw him and liked him. We were willing to create a summer
variety show for him. We did the show with most of the Carol Burnett team: Ed Simmons produced and Bill Richmond and i wrote
along with Rick Hawkins and Liz Sage.
Again, the show didn’t amount to much. Kelly was funny and
likeable, but the show didn’t impress either the executives or the
viewing audience.
Probably the highlight of the short four-week season was getting
the opportunity to work with George Gobel. i always admired Gobel
when his show was hot. i found him to be a naturally funny man and
a delight to work with.
We also had Freddy Prinze as a guest. He was okay to work with.
He wasn’t as personable as Gobel, but he wasn’t a thorn in the side,
either. it was not long after that Freddy shot himself.
Again, i would have hesitated had i known i was working with a
guy who carried a gun.
i didn’t do any summer replacement shows after that. They were
too heavily armed.

While i worked on all of the shows i’ve already written about, i was
also writing material for Bob Hope’s television specials and personal
appearances. The Hope work provided extra income during those
years, but that wasn’t the primary reason why i was happy to accept
the assignment. i wrote for Bob Hope, and for a while, i also wrote for
Phyllis Diller, both so that i could keep my writing sharp and funny.

Television writing was usually a compromise, and the individual
writer rarely had any pride of authorship. it’s writing by committee.
Even if i wrote something on my own, it was under the supervision
of the producers of the show. There was usually input from the other
writers, the director, the stars, and maybe the executives, and their
ideas were all combined by the time it became a script and appeared
on a screen.

Even if no one else added a word of dialogue to my script, they
invariably add input, direction, and notes of some sort or another.
The writing might have been mine, but it was guided by the direction
of others. i felt all of that weakened my material. To illustrate, on the
nabors show, we were doing a routine about the phoniness of Hollywood and how you could never trust anything in Tinseltown to be

real. At one of the writers meetings, i ad-libbed a gag: “You can’t believe anything you see in the movies. i don’t know whether you know
it or not, but John Wayne sleeps with a night light.”

it got a big laugh in the room and the producers immediately penciled it into the script.
After a minute or two, one of the writers objected. “You know,
sleeping with a night light doesn’t necessarily mean that a person is
a sissy.” That didn’t matter because the perception was that it did.
People listening to the gag immediately understood the concept and
laughed at it. nevertheless, the writers then began to accommodate
that writer’s objection. “How about, ‘John Wayne is so afraid of the
dark that he sleeps with a night light?’” “John Wayne always asks to
sleep with his Mommy.”
They began to explain the joke so much that the humor was lost.
Finally, the producers took it out of the script after overanalyzing the
logic of the joke, all because one writer, who probably did sleep with
a night light, felt that the joke offended his manhood and rebelled.
Many times, the producers said about some of my lines, “That’s a
think
joke.” That irritated me somewhat because, to me, all good jokes
are think jokes. The audience thought about it, understood it, and
that produced the laugh. As far as i was concerned, taking the
think
out of a joke also took the
joke
out of a joke.
i also learned very quickly that TV writers never wrote any weak
material. At least in their opinion, they didn’t. There were always
other excuses why material didn’t work. The lighting was wrong. The
set was not right for the material. The actor read it wrong. The director shot it wrong. The audience wasn’t paying attention. Rarely was
it the fault of the writer.
With one-liner writing for comedians like Bob Hope and Phyllis
Diller, the joke was presented to the audience. if it got screams, it was
a great line. if it didn’t, it wasn’t. it was that simple and that honest.
For me, television writing was unsatisfying.
Phyllis offered me a preview of what was to come when i told
her i had been hired to work in network television. She said, “Don’t
become a fat-ass Hollywood writer.” During my first season on a staff,
i began to see what she meant. in fact, i had a desk piece made with
the engraving “DBAFAHW” on it. it was a constant reminder to me
to keep the writing sharp and not become a fat-ass Hollywood writer.
That’s why i wrote for Hope.
Here’s how i wrote for him: Bob called and requested material on
some subject. Usually, it was something in the news, or something
that was being talked about by everyone. Sometimes, though, it was a
more esoteric subject. For example, he once called and wanted material about some man whose name i didn’t recognize. Bob said, “Oh,
he used to play cards with General Eisenhower during the war.”
One time, Bob called and wanted material about psychiatrists.
He was doing a convention for them and wanted some jokes aimed
specifically at them. Well, writing for psychiatrists was easy. However, when i tried to call the gags in to Bob, he said, “Oh, i made a
mistake. it’s not a psychiatrists’ convention. it’s chiropractors.” That
meant writing a whole new batch of jokes in a hurry.
i made it a personal discipline to always write at least thirty gags
on any topic that Bob gave me, unless of course, i didn’t have the
time. Often, Bob called, gave me some information, and said, “Write
me some jokes. i’ll call you back in about ten minutes.” Well, in that
case, i wrote what i could in ten minutes. Bob always called on time.
When the phone rang and i picked it up, he wouldn’t say “Hello” or
“How are you?” He’d simply say, “Thrill me.”
He just wanted the jokes.
i set a personal goal of at least thirty jokes for a several reasons.
i wanted to show Bob that i could produce, that i could turn out a
good quantity of quality jokes in a hurry. Some of the other writers objected. “You’re writing so much that it makes it tough on us.”
Again, i remembered Phyllis Diller’s admonition, “Don’t become a
fat ass Hollywood writer,” and i kept turning out a good amount of
material. if they were worried about their jobs, i believed that they
should then write more.
Second, i felt that by writing more jokes, i wrote better jokes. if
Bob had thirty of my gags to chose from, he’d select more of my gags.
in order to write that many, i divided the topic up into sub-topics.
if the material was about the President’s State of the Union Address,
i listed the main topics he talked about, what the opposing party
thought of it, how the television stations covered it, how it might affect us as citizens, how it might affect other nations, and so on. Then,
i wrote five or six gags on each of the sub-topics, and eventually, i had
a routine of thirty to thirty-five jokes on the main topic.
i wrote the jokes in any order. For instance, my first joke might have
been about taxes, which might have been the first sub-topic. The next
joke might have been about France’s reaction to the speech, which might
have been my fifth sub-topic. i just kept writing gags in random order.
When i’d typed enough jokes, i cut them into individual pieces
and arranged them into separate piles according to sub-topics. Then, i
arranged each of the jokes in a sub-topic in a logical order, and rewrote
any that needed rewriting in order to keep a natural, conversational
flow going. Then, i put the sub-topics into a logical order, again rewriting wherever it was needed to maintain the conversational rhythm. Finally, i retyped the jokes and submitted them to Bob. When computers came into existence, they made that “cut and paste” process quicker
and easier, but in the beginning, i literally cut, pasted, and retyped.
The process was time consuming, but it made the writing of the
gags easier and it made the final product much more organized. it
worked, too, because Bob commented once that he could use my material as it was written. He said, “Whatever you’re doing, keep on
doing it.” So i did.
To further emphasize my frustration with television writing, i
once used that same process to write a piece for Frank Sutton on the
nabors show. When one producer came in and saw the small pieces
of paper scattered all over my desk while i was rearranging them into
neat, logical piles, he went through the roof. “Why are you wasting
all this time?”
i said, “it makes the routine more logical.”
“Just put numbers beside each joke,” he said.
That would work, too, for some. For me, it was too distracting to
keep searching back and forth through the collection of gags to see
which number came next and so on. By arranging them in order, i
was free to shuffle them around, rearrange them easily, and see the
results more clearly and more quickly.
However, the producer insisted i not waste time by doing this, so
i didn’t. i didn’t want to waste valuable writing time while the higher
paid writers in the next room were busy playing darts.
Bob Hope’s method of using writers had another fringe benefit
for me. He always wanted the material quickly. “Here’s the topic,
now where are the jokes?” He wasn’t demanding, dictatorial, or unpleasant about it. it was just that he wanted results. His writers had
to be able to produce funny material on demand.
Consequently, there was no time to allow myself the luxury of
writer’s block. i had to turn out material, so i did. it was that simple.
Phil Lasker, whowas another of Bob Hope’s writers for a short
time, said, “You can turn in good material to Bob Hope or you can
turn in bad material to Bob Hope, but you can’t turn in
no
material to
Bob Hope.” i had to put something on the pages, so i wrote. i didn’t
have time to put it off, feel sorry for myself, or to wander about my
office moaning, “There’s nothing funny about this topic.” i just wrote.
Phil Lasker also had a funny take on writer’s block. He claimed
that writers were the only people who could enjoy this luxury. He
said, “Suppose you’re on your way to a meeting in San Francisco. You
get off the plane, grab your luggage, and hop into a cab. You tell the
driver, ‘Take me to the St. Francis hotel.’ The driver says, ‘Oh, i’m
sorry. i’ve got cab driver’s block. i can’t take you there.’ You’d hit him
over the head with your briefcase.” Phil’s point was that there’s no
such thing as “Cab Driver’s Block,” and there was truly no such thing
as writer’s block among Bob’s writers.
When Bob was traveling, he’d often call from wherever he was with
some interesting local angle or a new topic that he wanted to do that night.
i’d work on it, and then read the jokes to him over the phone. normally,
he’d listen and evaluate the gags as i read. “Check that one,” he’d say.
When i was done reading the gags, i read the checked ones back
to him. He either copied them down or memorized them and used
them that evening. Once, i was on the phone with him and he wasn’t
making any comments about the material. i said, “Do you want me
to check any of these?”
He said, “Just keep reading . . . keep reading.”
So, i continued to read the gags. Then, over the phone, i heard
the orchestra playing “Thanks for the Memory.” An announcer said,
“Ladies and gentlemen, Bob Hope.”
Bob said into the phone, “i’ve got to go now. i’m on.”
He hung up, went onstage, and presumably did some of the lines
i had just read to him.
Bob loved material, lots of it. Whenever he traveled, there were
two things he wanted constantly by his side—his makeup case and
his briefcase full of pages of jokes. He refused to drive off in his limousine unless both of those items were safely in the car with him.
He loved quantity. i believe that’s why i did so well with Bob. i
wrote fast, i wrote a lot, and i wrote well, too.
When i handed an envelope full of material to Bob, he wouldn’t
open it immediately. He hefted it in his hands to check its weight. if it
was heavy enough, he’d say, “That’s good.” He was kidding, of course,
but the writer did get the idea that he wanted a goodly amount of
jokes.
Bob was understanding, too. Once, i handed him a batch of material and he asked me, “is this brilliant?”
i gave him an honest answer. i said, “To tell you the truth, Bob,
it’s not.”
He said, “Oh well, some of the other guys will be on.”
Bob appreciated writers and the work they did for him and his
career. At an interview for his ninetieth birthday telecast, someone
asked him, “You’ve had many great writers over the years. Could you
have accomplished what you have without those writers?”
Bob answered with a quip. “i never needed writers . . . unless, of
course, i wanted to say something.”
Then, he gave a serious reply. He said, “i know show business and
i know comedy. i would have made it without writers, but i never
would have made it big time.”
Once, Bob and i sat in his dressing room discussing a particular
joke. He wanted it to read one way and i argued that it should go a
different way. We discussed it for some time, and i finally said, “Why
are we going back and forth like this? We both know you’re going to
win the argument.”
Bob pointed a finger at me and said, “Don’t ever think like that. i
hire you because you know what you’re talking about and i want you
to give me your opinion straight out.”
nevertheless, i think he did win the argument.
That was a nice thing to say to a writer, but it wasn’t the biggest
compliment i ever got from Bob. One time, he asked me to write a
song for one of his specials. Reluctantly, i did. i felt he should get
professional song writers to do that, but he insisted that i give it a try.
i wrote the lyrics, picked out the melody on my guitar, sang it into
a tape recorder, and presented it to Bob. Before he played the tape, he
asked, “is this brilliant?”
i said, “Bob, if i could write great song lyrics, would i be spending
my time writing comedy?”
He gave me a serious look and said, “i think you would, Gene. i
really think you would.”
i’ve always cherished that remark.
The song that he forced me to write played great on the show. it
was nominated for an Emmy for “Original Music.” it didn’t win, but
it was nice to get the nomination.
Working with Bob was like getting a PhD in comedy, not only on
stage, but also in handling audiences and people offstage, too. One thing
i learned in working with him was not to be too demanding of myself.
When he was doing a special from the Montreal Olympics, he
asked me to write a parody of “Put it There, Pal” for him and Bing
Crosby. i was thrilled. Those were two of my show business idols. i
had met Crosby when i worked on the Burnett show, but i had never
written for him. That opportunity delighted me.
However, the material i turned out didn’t delight me. i was disappointed in my efforts and i told Bob that when i handed the piece to him.
i didn’t travel to Montreal with the show because i was working
on the staff of other shows. However, i watched the telecast. The musical parody of “Put it There, Pal” was sung by Bob and Bing exactly
as i had written it, and it was the highlight of the show.
i was stunned, and i realized two things: first, Hope and Crosby
added luster to material that wasn’t sparkling on paper. Second, we professional joke writers, even when we are off, are still pretty damned good.
That gave me a renewed confidence in my writing.
Bob worked the writers hard, but he had no qualms about that
because he felt he paid us well, and he did.
One year, we finished taping the last special of the season. All
of us writers gathered in Bob’s dressing room to say our goodbyes.
As Bob was changing, he said to us, “i’m going to notre Dame next
week. Get me some football jokes, will you?”
One of the writers said, “Bob, we’ve been doing football jokes all
season. You haven’t used a lot of them. Use some of them at notre
Dame. You don’t need new jokes.”
Hope thought about that for a second, went right up to that particular writer and said, “i pay you with new money, don’t i?”
We all wrote new football jokes.
Bob called any time of the day or night on any day of the week, including weekends and holidays. We wrote when he called. Once, he told
me that he was going on a fishing trip to Alaska. He said he’d be in a
remote spot without telephones and he’d be gone for two to three weeks.