Bertram and the Networks

As the Super Chief approached Los Angeles on its overnight run from Santa Fe, Bertram Bascomb Baylor sat in the club car thoughtfully sipping some 25-year-old Scotch that had been placed aboard for his convenience by the press department of the Federal Broadcasting Company. United Broadcasting had arranged for Bertram's train accommodations (he had a thing about flying) and it had behooved Federal to get in there fast with a little judicious care and feeding of its own.

Bertram, whose syndicated television column, Inside the Eye, appeared in 226 papers, lived in and worked out of East Pecos, New Mexico, a somewhat preposterous place for any kind of columnist unless he happened to have a wealthy wife who liked it there. Marigold Hartley Benson Hosthwaite Spencer Baylor was wealthy and liked it there. So much for that.

Such being the case, Bertram Bascomb had fallen into the pleasant habit of making annual trips (he would never call them pilgrimages) to New York and Hollywood, subsidized in annual turn by the three major networks. His daily column was a model of pedantry, edged with that tiny but effective bit of steel that indicated he knew where 17 different bodies were buried and was not above digging any or all of them up. Tallish, thinnish and high of brow, he had twice testified as to the state of television before Senate committees and had twice caused three network presidents to check through the expense vouchers and ask why so much money had been spent in keeping Mr. Baylor "happy."

People who didn't have to curry favor with Bertram Bascomb generally referred to him as a pompous ass. The rare comedy show he found to his liking was invariably pronounced "enormously funny," and no drama had it made unless Baylor gave it the accolade "enormously moving."

Bertram himself was something of a contradiction in qualities, possessing those which ordinarily didn't mix well in a single individual and which, in fact, didn't mix too well in Bertram. He was a self-styled intellectual, having been brought up on Edgar Guest, Rudyard Kipling, Sinclair Lewis, Maxfield Parrish, Johann Strauss and Guy Lombardo. He was firmly convinced that television could and must be improved and that he, Bertram Bascomb Baylor, was its appointed savior. At the same time, he had a large and well-developed appetite for whiskey, women and other people's expense accounts, bolstered by an equally large ego.

Aboard the Super Chief, Scotch in hand, Bertram was reading a script called The Lonely Vigil, written by Bertram Bascomb Baylor. It had to do with a fisherman patiently waiting for a fish and there was more than a slight resemblance in the story, if not in the writing, to Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea. It was the kind of thing Bertram would like to have seen as the traditional opening episode of Omnibus every season, had Omnibus still been on the air. He considered it, in fact, four notches better than Amahl and the Night Visitors. Besides, it had only the one character and was written in blank verse. He had discussed its outline with Senator Brazwell and the Senator had been keenly enthusiastic. He hadn't read it, but he liked it.

Just as he was about to accept an Emmy as the creator-producer-writer of Omnibus Revisited ("I am enormously moved ..."), Bertram was roused by the tap of the conductor's hand on his (continued on page 200)Bertram(continued from page 142) shoulder. "Pasadena in five minutes, Mr. Baylor." Bertram sighed and nodded. Getting off the train at Pasadena was an annoying ploy of his. In the old days, before the invention of the DC-3, Hollywood-bound celebrities invariably got off the train at Pasadena to "avoid" the press and the admiring throngs, thus guaranteeing the presence of both without the distraction of other debarking passengers. Bertram did it as a matter of form. He considered it a graceful bow to an old tradition.

Casey Flannagan, United's publicity director, considered it a damned nuisance. Bertram was not someone who could be met by an underling and Casey had to make the drive over to Pasadena himself. Surprisingly, he found himself defending the hated freeway on the way back. Bertram was the kind of irritating pedant whose condemnation of anything, up to and including narcotics, child labor and communism, invariably moved one to its instant defense.

Dusk was gathering strength by the time Casey ushered his charge into a $40-a-day bungalow on the grounds of the Holmby Hills Hotel.

"She's in the shower," he said wearily as Bertram cocked an ear at the sound of running water.

"Fine," said Bertram. "What's her name?"

"Marlene."

"The last one was Sheilah and the one before that Sandra. Isn't anybody named Mary anymore?"

"My wife's name is Mary," Flannagan said, wishing he hadn't.

"Oh," Bertram said. "Well, we're having dinner here?"

"At seven, with Chuck Chamblis. He's the star of---"

"I know, I know--he's the star of The House on H Street, your big new and different two-hour dramatic series. It's different because it's longer. Fifteen years ago it would have made a passable B picture and nobody would have spent a dime promoting it."

Flannagan let it pass. "At seven," he reminded. "And please, don't bring the broad. Chamblis will have his wife with him and she wouldn't like it. Her name is Priscilla."

• • •

The following morning, while Chuck Chamblis was telling everyone on Stage Six out at Magnet Studios that he had had his last out-of-town press interview, he didn't give a damn what United Broadcasting said, Bertram Bascomb was being gingerly ushered into the presence of Harvey Brewster, vice-president in charge of programing, Hollywood, by a slightly red-eyed Casey Flannagan.

"Bert!" said Brewster, his voice ringing with the sincerity of a used-car salesman at the sight of a prospect.

There is an art to meeting and greeting the press and every broadcasting executive worth his inflated salary had it down pat: Treat him as a friend, as an equal, as a brain. Defer to his opinions. Praise his latest column. And tell him nothing more than is absolutely necessary.

Having done all this, Brewster launched into his standard defense of television, hoping to forestall the standard Baylor attack. "I think you'll have to admit, Bert, that with all its faults and problems, television is doing a remarkably good job. When you consider---"

Bertram waved a weary hand to interrupt. "I've been all through that in front of two Senate committees, Harve. I've got something here that's a lot more interesting. A script. Mine. It's exactly the kind of thing Washington is looking for on TV, only nobody seems to know how to write it. Well, here it is. I wanted you to be the first to see it because--well, you've always leveled with me, Harve, and I have a lot of friends at United, a lot of friends." What he meant was, he'd gotten a lot of loot from United, including several trips to New York and Hollywood, and he was on a buddy-buddy basis with the network president, but these were not things gentlemen discussed among themselves. They just thought about them. Constantly.

Brewster blanched. The last thing in the world he wanted to be stuck with was a script from a TV columnist, least of all one from Bertram Bascomb Baylor.

"Bert," he said, his voice treading the thin line between intended earnestness and hidden panic, "knowing you and your work, I'm sure it's an outstanding job. But you know policy at United--everything goes through the story department. We spend a lot of money on the story department and they're well worth it. Everything goes through there."

Bertram smiled thinly. "New young writers and relatives from the East you can tell that to, Harve," he said. "But not to old Bert here. I especially want you to read this because you're one of the very few genuinely sensitive souls in this business. The job you and your people did on The Last Days of the Aztecs was outstanding, superb, enormously moving."

Brewster could almost physically feel the trap closing. "Bert," he said, "you know I'd love to read anything of yours, but I can't even read the title of a thing that comes in here without an agent. You know that."

"I have an agent, Harve."

Brewster had used his last defense. "Well, fine, then!" he said, mustering what heartiness he could. "I'll take it home with me tonight. And I sure appreciate your letting us have first crack at it."

"I'll call you in the morning," Bertram informed him unnecessarily. "I'll be interested in knowing what you think of it. It's an allegory."

"It's a what?" Brewster was now frozen in his seat.

"An allegory. It's the story of mankind and his emotions as told through the relationship between a man and a fish. Harve, it's good to see you again. I'll talk to you in the morning."

The door closed gently behind Bertram and Flannagan. Brewster followed them with his mind's eye, saw them out of the outer office and down the hall, then flicked on the intercom. "Miss Fanchon," he said. "If Mr. Baylor calls between nine and ten in the morning, I'm not in yet. If he calls after ten, I'm on a set at Paramount. Then I'm at lunch, you don't know where. In fact, you've been trying to reach me with a New York call and can't find me. And then I've gone to Santa Barbara for an emergency conference with someone. You think who it is. One other thing. Have the phone company change my home number immediately and make it unlisted. Thank you."

He leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. After a moment he leaned over and flicked on the intercom again. "Miss Fanchon, be sure to give New York the new home phone."

One hour later Clarence Frisby, vice-president in charge of programing, Hollywood, for the Federal Broadcasting Company, flicked on his intercom. "Miss Lemming," he said, a great weight in his voice, "book me on the eight-A.M. plane for New York in the morning. And if--no, not if--when Mr. Baylor calls, tell him I'll be in the East indefinitely."

One hour after that the intercom gracing the office of Joshua Frost, vice-president in charge of programing, Hollywood, for Global Television, was flicked into action. "Miss Pumphrey. When Mr. Baylor calls in the morning, tell him I'm out. I leave it to you to figure out where, but just be sure it's someplace where I can't be reached. Meanwhile, get me Mr. Brewster on the phone at United."

Mr. Brewster was reached. "Harvey? Josh Frost ... I know it's your turn this year to pick up the Baylor tab, so I presume he has already been in to see you ... Ah. And did he force feed you with a script he's written? ... He did. Have you read it? ... No, neither have I. I'm afraid to. How do you say no to a guy who's read by everybody in Hollywood and New York and twelve million people in between? ... What do you mean, 'only' ten million? ... Well, what are you going to do about it? Look, it's a cinch Frisby's been sandbagged with this thing, too. Let's the three of us have lunch tomorrow ... No, not at the Derby. The three of us seen together would start all sorts of crazy rumors. Better come over to my place ... You know, the old Jean Harlow place on Rexford. And you'd better bring Casey Flannagan."

• • •

The following day the three executives and their publicity directors gathered at Frost's home. The old Jean Harlow place on Rexford. Lunch out of the way, Frost addressed himself to the three publicity men. "Have you gentlemen read this--uh--this--er this?" They shook their heads. "Well, I'm going to read this opening scene to you. It will give you an exceptionally clear idea of what we're up against."

He settled back in his chair and began to read.

" 'It is dawn. As the camera pans the horizon, slowly, a tiny speck is seen in the distance. The camera trucks in. The speck is now revealed to us as a rowboat and in it there sits a man. He is not a young man nor is he an old man. He is just a man. He is Man. As the camera comes full upon him, he speaks. (Note: As this is an allegory, it is not necessary to do this scene in actual water. The power and the sweep of the allegory will bring the sea to life as it unfolds and it can be staged with inexpensive simplicity.)' "

A number of interesting facial expressions, none of them ecstatic, were registered around the table during Frost's reading. He paused, sighed, then said: "Are you ready for the power and the sweep?"

He continued reading.

"Man now speaks:

'The sun is lonely here.

I sit alone and breathe the damp salt and know that I must live.

And I must wait.

I must wait for strike of time ...

The wind is lonely here.

And still I sit alone and hear the creak of man-made oar

And God's own breath on westward wing.' "

There was a long pause, and silence. One of the publicity directors, the one with the quickest recuperative powers, said flatly, "You're kidding."

Frost gave him a cold look. "You know what it costs to cater a luncheon when your wife doesn't feel like cooking? I am not kidding. Gentlemen, we have a nice little common problem here. Mr. Bertram Bascomb Baylor thinks this is the greatest thing since the invention of the kinescope and he fully expects one of us to produce it and actually put it on the air. I wouldn't wish it on either one of you, any more than I'd expect you to wish it on me. So what are we going to do about it?"

Various suggestions, all of them impractical and a few of them somewhat lewd, were made and discarded.

Josh Frost finally summed things up. "Gentlemen, it's a cinch that Bert Baylor holds the balance of power here. If we all three turn him down, I hardly have to tell you what he's going to say in his column--and keep on saying. That culture means nothing to us. That we are illiterate moneygrabbers. Et cetera, et cetera. He's the Bible in Washington, and we're all in enough trouble back there without any more bad news from this jerk. If one of us does do this idiot script, that network gets graceful bows from Bertram and garbage pails from every other critic in the country while the other two are put on Baylor's crap list.

"Now I have a suggestion. Let's put together something called the Tri-Net Workshop, a place for new talent to try out its little wings. Air it once a week or once a month or as seldom as we possibly can. We take turns at it, and it goes Sunday afternoon at three when everybody is out playing polo instead of watching television. We'll start with Mr. Bertram Bascomb Baylor's The Lonely Vigil. We'll have filmed statements from the three network presidents, which will take some of the onus off the one that has to air Baylor's little horror. And when the critics get through with The Lonely Vigil, I think that will be the end of Bertram Bascomb and the Tri-Net Workshop. Whichever network gets stuck with it, the other two will share expenses on an equal basis."

The idea quietly soaked in, like a coat of clean white paint covering an old eyesore. "I like it," Brewster said finally, "but isn't Baylor going to see through it?"

"No," Frost said. "All we have to do is sell it to him. You forget the man's ego. What other writer ever got such cooperation from all three networks?"

"As an ex-writer myself," Frisby growled, "I resent the use of the word in connection with Bertram Baylor. But I think you're right, this just might work."

Frost was named a committee of one to deal with Bertram and reached for the patio phone. There was a touch of confusion at the beginning of the conversation, Bertram having been under the impression that Frost had had to go to Alberta, Canada, for his father's funeral and Frost having forgotten, momentarily, his instructions to his secretary. They made an appointment for lunch the next day, in Bertram's bungalow.

This turned out to be a mistake, because Bertram apparently hadn't left the bungalow in two days. Neither had Marlene. Nor was Bertram completely sober. He was at that stage where a degree of reasonably lucid, if highly impractical, solemnity had taken over.

"Joshie," he said after listening to Frost's pitch, "the trouble with you people here in Hollywood is that you don't think big. You're on the right track but you're going in the wrong direction. It would be fatal, you understand, to give network exposure to completely unknown talent, even on a Sunday afternoon ... which is something else I want to straighten out with you later. Joshie, old man, you have the solution staring you right in the face and you don't have the imagination to see it. What you have, right here on a silver platter, is--The Bertram Bascomb Baylor Theater! I have the name, don't you see? Tri-Net Workshop means nothing. But Bertram Bascomb Baylor--that means something! Even at three o'clock on Sunday afternoon, that name will draw an audience--although that time period is something I want to discuss with you as we go along.

"And I have more than just the name, Joshie boy. I have the ability. You think The Lonely Vigil was just a one-shot, don't you? You think it's the first and only thing I ever wrote and I got lucky, don't you? You thought I was just a li'l ol' country boy come up here from New Mexico to peddle you an amateurish script, that you'd buy just because you were afraid not to, didn't you? Well, old Bert fooled you, didn't he? That script was so good that just one network wasn't big enough to handle it, wasn't it?

"An' I'll tell you something else, Joshie boy. I got six more scripts in my briefcase there and I got two more than that sittin' home waitin' to be finished. You think The Lonely Vigil is good, wait till you read Woman's Work. And wait till you see Marlene baby in it!"

When Josh Frost finally managed to escape from the bungalow, he found himself tottering. He called a hasty meeting with the others, telling them Bertram was now apparently all set to sever his New Mexico ties and move to Hollywood, bag and baggage.

"He already has the baggage," Frost added sourly. "Her name is Marlene and she'll have the lead in his second show, Woman's Work. What am I saying?"

"Yes," snapped a highly nettled Brewster. "What are you saying? First you sell him on the idea that we all think he's great, and now he's selling us on the idea that he's even greater. You got us on this hook, Josh, and now you had damned well better get us off it. If one little tiny word of this gets back to our New York people, we're all dead."

Frost blanched. "Baylor!" he said, horror-stricken. "Is that guy nutty enough to give this to the trade papers?"

He leaped for his intercom. "Get me Jules Pollard at Variety." He sat silent, head in hands. The other five slumped in their chairs. The suddenly ringing phone sounded like the bell for round ten of a lost fight. "Jules? Josh Frost. Have you talked with Bert Baylor today? ... You have ... He did." He covered the mouthpiece and said to the others, "We're dead." Then into the phone, "Jules, it simply isn't true ... Well, yes, I did talk to him. But ... Well, yes, I did mention a workshop. But ... But Jules, you don't understand ... No, no, that was his idea. You don't think we'd be idiots enough to offer that maniac his own series, do you? ... What do you mean, don't ask you that question? ... Jules, if you print that, I'll deny it. We'll all deny it. And I'll pull every stick of advertising this network ever thought of giving you."

The sudden screams in the background were Brewster, Frisby and three press agents saying, "Now wait a minute, wait a minute!" The thought of all that daily free publicity going down the drain was almost too much for them.

"No, no, I didn't mean that, Jules," a now-sweating Frost went on. "I lost my head. But I'll lose my job if you run any kind of story on this, even a denial. Can't you just forget it? Make like it never happened? ... What do you mean, what will you tell Baylor? Tell him you didn't have the space, it went into overset, anything ... No, no, you do not tell him we have denied it. You haven't even talked to me ... Jules, please ... Jules! ... Jules?"

He hung up, Jules having preceded him in this maneuver. "I don't know what he's going to do, but whatever it is, it can't do us any good. We're all going to have to call our New York people and soften 'em up for the blow."

"I'll call yours if you'll call mine," Brewster said gloomily.

It was Casey Flannagan who finally led the way into the light. "Gentlemen," he mused, "we have all overlooked a very simple fact."

They all looked at him, as hungry cocker spaniels to their master.

"There is a Mrs. Baylor. Bertram Bascomb has a wife."

"I don't want to meet her," Frisby said. "I don't even want to see a woman who would marry Bertram Bascomb Baylor."

"You miss the point," Flannagan said patiently. "There is Baylor and there is Marlene baby--and there are network press photographers."

The point now came crashing into their midst and lay there like a ticking bomb.

"You want to put us in the blackmail business?" Frost asked.

"You are already in the blackmail business, but in the wrong end of it. If you are going to be in it at all, it makes more sense not to be the victim."

"Casey," Brewster said, "I am going to buy you and your wife the biggest, most expensive dinner Dave Chasen ever served to four people."

• • •

Getting the appropriate pictures was no problem at all. Bertram was now living in the best of all possible worlds. He was ensconced in a luxurious bungalow, all tabs being picked up by United Broadcasting. Three networks were bidding for his services as a writer and producer. The Bertram Bascomb Baylor Theater was all but a reality, which would easily mean a million dollars to him. And Marlene baby was a doll, a darb, a duck. (Marlene had been eating and drinking for free for three days now and this guy even signed for cashmere sweaters. Who needed a career when they still grew guys like Bertram Bascomb?)

On the morning of Bertram's fourth day in town--or, more accurately, in the bungalow--he received a phone call from Harvey Brewster. "Bert," Brewster said, "will you please be in my office at two this afternoon?" There was something in Brewster's voice that gave Bertram pause. That man hadn't even mentioned lunch--and to speak to a member of the press without mentioning lunch was like forgetting the responses in church.

At two o'clock Bertram presented himself in Brewster's office. After all, a million dollars was a million dollars, surely worth getting dressed for, and even leaving the party. Waiting for him were Brewster, Frost and Frisby with their respective publicity directors, and right away Bertram got the feeling that this was not a reception committee bearing the Pulitzer Prize.

"Sit down, Bert," Brewster said with no particular warmth. "We want to talk to you. Casey, would you please give that stack of pictures to Bert." There was a period of uncomfortable silence while Bertram looked at the pictures and began to get the message.

"I, uh, don't quite understand this," he said, understanding it all too well. "If this is your idea of a publicity stunt or something, it's certainly not mine. I want these prints and negatives destroyed immediately."

He'd have had a happier time asking Khrushchev to sign a unilateral total disarmament treaty.

"Bert," Brewster said softly, "there are some things you should know and I will be happy to tick them off for you. One: Your Lonely Vigil script is probably the worst, most immature piece of pretentious trash any one of us has ever read. Two: It is not going to be produced by anybody. Three: There is going to be no Bertram Bascomb Baylor Theater, unless you want to start it yourself at your own expense on some local station in New Mexico that has temporarily run out of fourth-run, fifth-rate old movies. Four: Starting today, you are moving out of the bungalow and into a motel. You also are going to start covering all our shows and writing about them. This may come as something of a distinct shock to you, but we are not shoveling out all this money on your behalf simply because we love you. Five: You have a widely syndicated column, which gives you a lot of power. But we now have these pictures, which gives us even more power. All we ask from you is a fair return for our money and fair treatment in your column. Otherwise these pictures will be hand-delivered by a special messenger to Mrs. Bertram Bascomb Baylor--and there is a really shocking rumor going around, Bertram, to the effect that you married Mrs. Baylor for her money."

Bertram, who was now the color of an uncooked carp, managed to croak out a single word: "Blackmail!"

"Exactly," said Brewster, smiling smoothly. "You have just said the jackpot word--blackmail. But it's really not costing you anything you've ever earned, now, is it? Oh, and by the way, Miss Marlowe has been assigned a small role in the current episode of The House on H Street, so she'll be working for the rest of the time you're here. A shame, but it couldn't be helped."

"Miss Marlowe?" mumbled the dazed Bertram. "I don't know any Miss Marlowe."

"Marlene baby," Brewster said. "Marlowe is her last name. How nice for you that you now know it. You can send her a postcard from East Pecos."

Bertram, defeated, left, a depressing figure. The others left. And Brewster was alone in his office, looking like a man who had just won a long, hard-fought battle with the Internal Revenue Service. He punched the intercom. "Miss Fanchon. Have a bottle of good Scotch sent over to Mr. Pollard at Variety. Just write 'Thanks' on one of my cards, in my handwriting." Josh Frost, he thought to himself, wouldn't think of it, so why add his name?

He picked up his copy of The Lonely Vigil, held it gingerly by one corner, walked across the room and deposited it in a large wastebasket. His intercom buzzed. "Mr. Albright of the Chicago Globe is here to see you."

Brewster sighed. "Show him right in," he said, conscious of the fact that Albright could hear his voice on the intercom. He took a deep breath, braced himself against the table at the far side of the room.

"Roger!" he said, his voice ringing with the sincerity of a used-car salesman at the sight of a prospect. "Roger, baby! How wonderful to see you again! Those pieces on the Senate investigation--marvelous, marvelous! How the hell art you?"