For instance, what if Ulysses S. Grant's oldest child Frederick had become William McKinley's vice-president instead of Teddy Roosevelt? Yes, Frederick Grant. It could've happened. If it had, America would be very different today. In some ways, better. Fred Grant was a great man with a noble, enlightened vision for the future. He had none of Roosevelt's false and destructive bravado. We paid tribute to him in our screenplay, "The Wars of Julia Grant," but what's a tribute worth when he was denied the presidency?
On a personal note, I deserved a job on the "Bill Cosby Show." Or did I? What if I had gotten it? Would it have become a nightmare? I can't help wondering, what if?...even though it leaves my stomach slightly unsettled.
Before the "Cosby Show" became a series, Marcy Carsey, the executive producer, invited me to her home to watch the pilot episode. The prospect of a job as a staff writer filled me with irrepressible joy. I was humming, singing, tingling with excitement as I drove to Westwood for our meeting. My agent had hand-delivered one of my scripts to her and she liked it! If she and I got along, I'd be heading for New York. Or so I thought.
I really needed the job. As a student in Berkeley I didn't have a TV, didn't go to movies, and pretty much disdained show business. Too trivial for the likes of lofty me. Fate--in the form of a fellow student with a summer job in Los Angeles--changed all that. I was persuaded to write a script. It was a joke, really, done for a laugh, but it got me a job in Hollywood. My friend's summer employer, Tom Pollock, warned me to "watch out for the sexuality at Paramount." He wasn't kidding. What I witnessed on my first day there made me cringe. An aging, distinguished-looking gentleman with a fancy walking stick caught my attention. He seemed charming in an Old Hollywood sort of way. The charm faded fast when he used the walking stick to lift a secretary's skirt. She didn't smack him, possibly because her job was at stake. Neither did the next object of his scrutiny, who, I would learn, was an actress whose feigned delight during these ugly encounters honed her skills and kept her working.
But I was a writer. I assumed that exempted my legs from an appalling inspection by the predatory producer. It didn't. He approached, waving his walking stick. I bolted. And I kept my distance from then on, often making a spectacle of myself in the process. According to one secretary, I was mocked as the most naive person on the lot.
It was a common practice among the secretaries to exchange anecdotes about their bosses' lurid activities. No one called it sexual harassment--and certainly not rape. It was business as usual. Show business as usual. Those in charge felt that being successful entitled them to act out their infantile fantasies. And what was wrong with that? they would probably have said. Weren't they also providing opportunities for women to advance?
I once criticized a well-known producer-writer for famously lurking around high school cheerleaders and offering his chosen few--or many--"auditions." He cheerfully responded that he felt like "a kid in a candy store," and how could I blame him for enjoying himself? And didn't I realize how happy these young girls were to get close to someone who could make them a star? Harvey had convinced himself he was practically being a humanitarian. But deep down he knew--and it bothered him--that without his position of power, he would face ridicule and rejection from these Teen Queens who were now fawning over him.
One secretary laughed bitterly when she said, "Show business was made for men who couldn't get a date in high school." It was obviously true for many executives, whose success in show business couldn't displace feelings of inadequacy which plagued them from childhood. It was that nagging inferiority that caused them to take advantage of frightened, vulnerable, or desperately ambitious women. Women they saw as equals were liable to destroy their egos by rejecting awkward, offensive advances.
"What Makes Sammy Run?" screenwriter Budd Schulberg was the son of B.P. Schulbert, a Paramount executive in the 1920s. In his autobiography, "Moving Pictures, Memoirs of a Hollywood Prince," Budd wrote about his philandering father's passive sexual abuse of the women who depended on him for their careers, including the beautiful but tormented superstar, Clara Bow, for whom Budd felt a special fondness, even though he unfairly considered her a "dumbbell."
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| Budd Schulberg |
Not only did executives like B.P. use women to enhance their adolescent sense of "manhood," they used the movies for their personal wish fulfillment. What they couldn't do themselves, they voyeuristically slapped onto the silver screen. Movies became repulsively pornographic, violating every code of common decency, with scenes of unrestrained violence toward women. Hollywood had gone too far, and in 1930 Will Hays was called in as the official arbiter of unacceptable screen behavior. He toned down the sex and violence, but a legacy of slightly more subtle behind-the-scenes abuse remained.
Of course, not every man at Paramount had a terrible attitude toward women. Many intelligent, sensitive, creative human beings worked there. Some became good friends of mine. One of them gave me the best job I ever had at "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," and its sequel show, "Forever Fernwood." The executive producer, Norman Lear, was elderly, but the rest of us were young, idealistic egalitarians. I believe the idea of slipping drugs into a woman's drink would have embarrassed and outraged the men who were forging a New Hollywood.
Unfortunately, Fernwood was not really Forever. It eventually disappeared from the TV map and became only a pleasant memory for those of us who worked there. I was forced to enter the freelance arena. But not for long. Or so I thought.
A sweet old-fashioned husband and wife writing and producing team offered me a job on what would become an inexplicably successful sitcom. All I had to do was meet with the executive producer to get his stamp of approval. Just so he wouldn't feel left out. Things went well. He and I talked amiably about nothing for awhile. Then he remarked that I reminded him of a farm girl. And wouldn't I have fun in Benedict Canyon, watching his corn grow? Not exactly. I mumbled something stupid about vegetables not appealing to me. He looked displeased, and that was the end of that job.
Now I was on my way to meet one of the most powerful women in television--and she liked my work! What could go wrong! Nothing! And nothing did. Marcy Carsey lived in a lovely, but unassuming house in Westwood, not far from UCLA. I met her husband, who was charming, and her child's nanny, who was probably a student. Marcy was attractive in a pleasantly modest, unadorned way. She was soft-spoken and easy-going--not at all tense, brittle, and pulsating ambition as I might have thought. We chatted. I mentioned that Bill Cosby was once the opening act for the Kingston Trio. My sisters took me to the concert when I was a kid and we all fell in love with Bill--as well as the Kingston Trio. Marcy was also a fan, which made me like her even more.
We were getting along so well, I regretted having to interrupt our conversation to view a silly sitcom. But, it had to be done. Marcy showed me to a room, put on the pilot, and left me alone to watch. About half-way through, the nanny poked her head in to ask what I thought of the show. "I like it," I said. She made a face. "Really?!" Her disbelief reminded me of me. When I was in school, nothing about television--and especially sitcoms--seemed worthwhile. But now I was being honest. I would like--even love--any show willing to reward me with a paycheck.
When our meeting ended, Marcy walked me to my VW Beetle, which was parked in her driveway. "Are you taking that to New York with you?" she grinned. Then she said something about talking to the guys about me--there were other producers involved, including Cosby. They must've said no, because I didn't get that job either. The show went to New York without me.
When "Cosby Show" became a television sensation, Cosby produced other shows, one of which tantalized me with the possibility of a job. I was called in for a meeting with the female producer--I've forgotten her name and the name of the show--it was that memorable. She arrived late, after what she said was a tough meeting with Bill. It was very late in the day and we were both tired. After a pleasant conversation, she shook her head morosely and said, "You don't want to work here." I did...but I didn't.
After Cosby's major hit ended, he did another show, this time produced by my old boss at "Mary Hartman." He sent me the pilot from New York, and again I allowed myself to dream of a fat paycheck. It didn't happen. The show disappeared fast and left me disappointed.
The "What if..." game haunted me. I wanted to work for Cosby, but what if I had? If I learned what he was really like, it would have been intolerable. Would I have quit? Would I have thrown a fit? Who knows? It's much easier to think about Fred Grant as president.
