The Writers: A History of American Screenwriters and Their Guild (26 page)

I have no rights. . . . In the summer of 1958 Sid Caesar, myself, and a couple of other writers—I think Mel Brooks—went to London that summer of ’58 and did shows on the British Broadcasting Company. At the same time . . . Max Liebman sold the rights to
Your Show of Shows
and the sketches appeared re-written on a commercial network in London. With horror I watched one of the sketches I wrote being shown and I had no credit. As a matter of fact, I recall this was a sketch about Sid Caesar climbing towards middle class, getting a maid for the first time and in England [it switched] from a maid to a butler. So that show was based on
Your Show of Shows
which sabotaged Sid Caesar’s and other writer’s attempt to be fresh in London. [Someone sold] these sketches without having to answer to the writers.
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It is likely that some of Tolkin’s contemporaries experienced similar treatment, whether or not they ever became aware of the fact. Writers had no method of compensation when their scripts were used for a second time in
the United States or abroad. Some writers were even denied credit if a story was sold rather than a series. Television writers were ready to go into negotiations with a long list of demands.

Both film and television writers started to make plans for negotiations. David Harmon remembered the us-versus-them mentality between his fellow television writers and the film writers. “Nobody really liked us and I don’t blame them because they were running a nice little club. And we were trying to run a trade union—and not [doing it] too effectively, because we didn’t have power.”
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The needs of film and television writers seemed to be entirely separate. The first contract up for renewal was with independent film producers, most of which were distributing through United Artists. In April 1959, a hopeful WGA West gave film producers a list of twenty demands, including a 70 percent increase in wage minimums, a guarantee that film writers get 6 percent of the first $100,000 of absolute gross receipts for the airing of films they had written on television and pay TV (a tiny segment that writers believed would flourish in time), 4 percent of absolute gross receipts over $100,000, and a detailed renegotiation of separation of rights. Rights, they believed, would recognize film writers’ basic proprietary interest in their scripts (something that television writers had been able to work out in 1955).
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The Screen Actors Guild and Directors Guild of America were eager to get the same deal. But producers refused, claiming in October 1959 that “if we grant the writers’ demands, it’s possible we would find ourselves giving away all the profits in attempting to meet future demands.”
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Another tactic used by the indie producers was to claim that screenwriters who were hired to write particular scripts could not strike under US law because they were contractors rather than employees. While some agreements were signed by the end of October 1959, a WGA strike against the independents ended in November with a deal set for 4 percent of gross profits after the studio had recouped its costs and deductions were made for distribution fees, prints, and advertising. When the contract was signed, the WGA agreed that the settlement would be reassessed and modified to match the deal it ultimately made with the majors. A
New York Times
reporter commented that the agreement “reveals the theatrical film producers’ growing dependence on free television and the dreamed-of golden egg of pay-television.”
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The writers were able to get a respectable contract with the independent producers regarding minimums, a percentage of post-1948 film sales to
television, and compensation for pay television. The Alliance of TV Film Producers (ATFP) and its lawyers were watching closely, and they were determined not to be so generous when it came time for the major studios to negotiate. In October 1959, the law offices of O’Melveny and Myers sent a memo to Alliance members: “In view of the Guild’s current strike against certain theatrical producers and our tentative reading of the temperature of the Guild, we thought it appropriate at this time to point to you the expiration date [of the current contract, July 15, 1960] and suggest that any stockpiling of scripts for your production schedule after January 15, which you can achieve between now and then, may be helpful.”
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The Alliance was prepared to refuse residuals or royalties to all three guilds in its negotiations. That lawyers were handling all negotiations for the studio heads was a point of increased frustration for the WGA and its new executive director, Michael Franklin, who would hold the post from 1958 to 1978. “When subordinates are doing the actual negotiating and their superiors are not involved, it becomes very easy for the superior to say, ‘Tell ’em no.’ . . . But if the company presidents were to sit down across the table from us and become aware of the problems and issues involved, the results could be more fruitful.”
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Contract negotiations were at a near collapse by November. All of the major studios except Warner Bros. publicly announced that they would shoot films abroad if the strike held back their production schedules in the United States.
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As 1959 ended and negotiations came to a standstill, film writers realized they would have to go back on strike. David Harmon remembered, “We were not prepared for a strike. We were very ill prepared. We didn’t expect it. We figured a compromise would come around. That we would give and they would give. They were like a stone wall.”
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Writers’ income from film and television totaled approximately $30 million in 1959.
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In a strange turn of events, the WGA realized that it could help fund the film writers’ strike against the major studios through a 2 percent assessment on wages from those members still actively working, including members writing for television who were being paid by the same studios that some film writers were striking against. At the time, twenty-seven of the ninety-eight primetime half-hour series were being produced by the majors.
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And finally, the WGA membership voted to put $47,000 from the Writers Guild Foundation holdings into the WGA’s strike fund.

It wasn’t long before television writers were ready to strike as well. They wanted extended residuals for reruns and foreign distribution of programs and a ban on speculative writing.
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The WGA’s screen board of directors and television board of directors realized that if they went out on strike together and if they were to respect each other’s picket lines, they might find strength in their numbers and a unity in unionism.
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On January 16, 1960, 80–90 screenwriters who were working on assignment as well as 425–500 working telefilm writers walked out on their television producers.
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Two days later the studios laid off a hundred secretaries who had been assigned to writers.
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The studios seemed to be warning the writers that they had no intention of backing down, or perhaps they hoped the tactic would force the work stoppage to end quickly. And yet that week the WGA and the SAG (whose contract with the major studios would expire at the end of the month) finally met not with the studios’ lawyers, but with their presidents, including Spyros Skouras (Twentieth Century–Fox), Barney Balaban (Paramount), Joseph R. Vogel (MGM/Loews), Jack Warner (Warner Bros.), Abe Schneider (Columbia), and Steve Broidy (Allied Artists/Monogram Pictures).
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After negotiations over live television broke down in February, approximately 250 additional writers who worked for live series at NBC, CBS, and ABC joined the telefilm writers in their strike.
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Early in the strike the Guild drafted written warnings to all television writer-producers, story editors, and writer-directors to clarify what work they were and were not permitted to continue during the strike.
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None of these hyphenates were allowed to write, provide ideas for lines, or discuss plotting. A special ground rules committee was established to explain to writer-producers the divide between their writing roles and the other aspects of their work, and every hyphenate was asked to come to Guild headquarters personally to learn the ground rules. Hyphenates were “expected to confine themselves to such non-writing production activities as casting supervision, budget, dailies, editorial, sets, makeup, costumes, etc. They may cut scripts for reasons of budget. They may change a line on set for purposes of bridging. But any basic writing services such as changes in character, plot, motivation [were not allowed. . . . A hyphenate] may diagnose script problems and discuss the same with a studio chief, but he may not prescribe a remedy.”
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This specification of the work of the producer and the writer was a novel idea. Producers could provide language to bridge scenes or actions, and they could cut scripts; writers could not transform, touch up,
doctor, rewrite, or do anything that might be considered performing creative labor. What had become a powerful new job in the television profession—writing and producing together—was now being ripped apart for the sake of strike rules.

For individuals, being a part of the managerial ranks and an employee was a particularly difficult position during a work stoppage. Stephen Lord, who was a writer and associate producer on
Johnny Ringo
at the time of the strike, showed his allegiance to writing—and claimed credit for the first use of the term “hyphenate.” “I said ‘I may be a producer but I’m a writer first and there’s a hyphen between those two words.’ I said, ‘If you noticed I put the writer
before
I put the hyphen and the producer was last.’ I said, ‘If you want to call me anything call me a
hyphenate
.’ And there, I believe, following that meeting there was published a letter in which the word hyphenate was used for the first time in an official missive from this Guild committee.”
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There was much anxiety about whether hyphenates would go out on strike, or, if they did not, whether they would sabotage the strike by writing during the walkout. But most of the hyphenates were committed to the strike, even though many of them, like Rod Serling with
The Twilight Zone
, were paid well enough not to need any of the contractual changes that writers were fighting for.
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But as the strike went on month after month, some striking freelance writers started to distrust some hyphenates, wondering if they were writing or editing scripts.
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The studios did come up with ingenious, if devious, methods for getting new material. Perhaps the most audacious case was that of Warner Bros. Producers. Nonwriters—perhaps secretaries or associate producers—took scripts from one series and switched around characters and locales, thereby turning what might have been a detective series into a Western, and then the company filmed an episode.
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The credits would read, “Written by: W. Hermanos”—namely, Warner Brothers. Writing credits for W. Hermanos appeared on episodes of
77 Sunset Strip
,
Hawaiian Eye, Colt .45
, and
Bourbon Street Beat
, among others.

The SAG had a “no strike” clause in its contract at that time; actors could give as much lip service as they wanted, but they could not go out on a solidarity strike. Rather, SAG continued negotiations for its upcoming contract with the Alliance through the winter. Ultimately, the leadership of SAG settled by conceding revenue on films between 1948 and 1960 in order to assure compensation for films and television series made after 1960. Also as
part of the settlement, the Alliance established a pension plan for SAG. The DGA agreed to a similar plan: post-1960 compensation and a pension plan in exchange for any rights to residuals for films before 1960.

IMAGE 18   Credits sequence for the episode “Sierra” of
77 Sunset Strip
that aired during the 1960 WGA strike, which gives the writing credit to W. Hermanos, or Warner Bros.

Screen grab.
77 Sunset Strip
. Warner Brothers, 1960

After months of striking, the writers were eager to find consensus and get back to work. One of the sticking points was the type of compensation structure the studios would create. Many in the WGA were originally interested in a royalty-based plan, which Lew Wasserman was willing to support. The problem was that the writers would receive zero compensation for the first replay.
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In comparison, the residual plan would allow for pay up front, with gradually diminishing payments for each repeat showing. For a successful film or television series, a royalty plan with continued, steady payment over time would be much more lucrative.

The concept of a royalty plan spoke to old understandings of what it meant to be a writer versus a studio employee. Royalties elevate the level of a writer’s authorial control, because royalties are structured on a concept of ownership of written material. With a royalty structure, a screenwriter would
become much more like a literary author—something that James M. Cain had petitioned the SWG to fight for fifteen years earlier. Frank Moss, who wrote on
Combat!
, agreed, but “unfortunately Mr. Cain . . . was pretty much booed off the floor for having dared to suggest that writers give up their cushiony salaries at Metro, Universal, and Fox in return for owning their copyrights as members of the Dramatists Guild.”
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