The Other Side of Mulholland

For all the money thrown around in Hollywood, surprisingly little of it is spent on interior design. Most offices look like they were designed by Kmart. Homogeneous and functional and some times funky. The reason is simple. No one ever stays in an office long enough to do more than put up a poster of their last project and a picture of the family. If the job goes well, you get bumped up to a bigger, better office. If it doesn't, you move on to another characterless office at another studio. It drives the mail room guys crazy.

Jonathan Scott's office was fitting for one of the 247 vice presidents who worked on the Sony lot. The title vice president of comedy development for the Columbia TriStar Television Group was pretty much as low as you wanted to be in the studio system--senior vice president was, of course, better, and executive vice president better still. But to be a president was even cooler--after all, Sony, Columbia's parent company, had only 26 of those, one for each division, plus a few extras. The United States of America, by comparison, has one, but the world of fantasy is so much more complicated than the real one.

That Nancy and Perry's meeting was taking place in Jonathan's office was good--for Jonathan. It meant executives from higher up in the food chain would be coming to his turf, a clear sign that Dire Straights, the pilot script, was his project.

As writers, Nancy and Perry were the first to arrive. Nancy and Perry were more than partners, they were also a couple. Like so many relationships in LA, theirs began romantically and soon developed professional overtones. In a show of commitment unique to the city, they had formed Comstock Productions, their own production company. A male assistant with a headset ushered them into Jonathan's office. The first thing Jonathan did, after pleasantries, was leave--having no intention of sitting in his own office with two writers. He skulked in the hall until his bosses arrived, running late as always.

"I think we can pretty much cut to the chase here," said Jonathan, leaning against his desk as Nancy and Perry sat on the couch and the two senior executives took the two chairs. "We've read what (continued on page 100)Mulholland(continued from page 92) you've done and we feel passionate about it."

The others nodded in agreement as they scanned Perry's treatment.

"I believe it's important to go only with projects you feel passionate about," said Jonathan.

"Passion is what this business is all about," added one of the other executives. "Without passion, what do we have?"

"This whole concept is exactly what TV needs right now," said the other. "It's very fresh and yet traditional."

"That's where the culture is right now," said Jonathan. "People want new things, but they want them to be familiar. That's why it's so easy to be passionate about this show."

"I consider myself a passion player," said Nancy firmly. "And I know this is the best work we've done. And there's no one I'd rather be in business with than Columbia. I wouldn't even take this project anywhere else."

Perry leaned forward to speak, but Nancy squeezed his knee in a none too subtle reminder that this was her turn. He was left to ponder how, exactly, he had managed to write something that was new and old at the same time.

Jonathan looked for a sign from the most senior executive. He received a slight nod.

"I think we're ready to put Comstock on the lot and tape this pilot. Our guys will do everything in their power to get this on a network for next season--and I think you both know that NBC owes us a big favor this year. I'd have no qualms about calling in this favor on your show."

"That's fantastic," said Nancy. "We want partners who feel as strongly about this as we do."

Perry felt a bit of a squirm factor. He was all for shmoozing Hollywood types--he'd done his share of it--but Nancy was pouring it on a bit heavy.

"We'll want protection, of course," she went on. "We have to be the show-runners or we'll take it elsewhere."

"That goes without saying," said Jonathan. "It's not just the script we're buying. It's you. It's your energy, your intensity, your...." He paused, not wanting to use the P word yet again, but the thesaurus in his mind faltered. "And yes, your passion. Heather says such great things about you, and you know how important her word is to us."

"I'm very glad to hear that," said Nancy. "We're not interested in a one-show arrangement. I have a notebook with dozens of good ideas, and after we prove ourselves to you with Dire Straights, we fully intend to gear up to do more shows and become a major force."

"That's the type of thinking we like to hear," said Jonathan. She was clearly pleasing the two executives. In fact, everyone was happy but Perry, who wondered what these wonderful ideas were and who had come up with them. He hadn't, and Nancy certainly hadn't bothered burdening him with any ideas she might have had. Besides, wasn't he the creative force behind Comstock?

As congratulations were exchanged and arrangements made to bring the agents into this, Perry sat on the couch stunned. I sold a script, he thought. To a big studio. His biggest credit so far had been for Boing, a low-rent cable game show, writing smartass questions. Now he was a real writer. And very soon, he'd be a real producer, and he was only 26 years old.

"It was almost anticlimactic, wasn't it?" he said as they walked down the hall after the meeting. "I expected more. Maybe champagne. Confetti. Party favors."

"Didn't you feel the energy level in the room?" asked Nancy incredulously. "That was the most intense vibe I've ever felt. It was like the room was vibrating. Did you see how well I played them? I told them everything they wanted to hear. It was like I could read their minds."

"Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet," mused Perry. "What do we do now? Do you want to go to Starbucks or something?"

"We'll celebrate tonight. I've got to get back. And I should call Heather on the cell as soon as I get in the car. She's waiting to hear from me."

Nancy had a day job. She was personal assistant to Heather Windward, one of the most talked-about young actresses in Hollywood, known for her numerous love affairs with famous Gen-X actors and her exquisite taste in tattoos. Heather and Nancy wandered the world together, particularly during brooding, post-love affair trips to Italy and France. They were close in age, so many people assumed employer and employee were friends. Nancy subtly fostered that delusion, not because she wanted to be a star's friend, but because it might help her get one of her projects off the ground and land the job of her dreams--producer. All those trips to the dry cleaner were finally paying off.

They kissed goodbye and Perry got in his Honda and drove off. When he got to the corner, he had an idea--perhaps they should do the Trader Vic's thing for dinner tonight, and invite some friends, maybe even his brother Tim. He waited at the corner for Nancy's car. After a few minutes, when he saw no sign of her, he figured she had gone out another exit, and he moved on.

•

Even before the van hit the impenetrable wall of traffic on Sunset Boulevard, everyone was in a snappish, surly mood. It wasn't just that it was day four of an unbearably hot, windy patch of weather. Barry was in a bad mood because he was the driver, the setting sun was hitting him square in the eyes and he was driving his wife's minivan. He hated minivans. He hated that he owned one, but he'd been persuaded by the rest of the guys at Boing to bring the van to work so they could all take one car to Perry's going-away bash at the beach. And if bringing the minivan wasn't bad enough, the fact that it was his car made him the de facto designated driver.

Lee, Jim, Tony and Dick were pissed off, too. It was frustrating enough to watch one of their own--Perry, hardly the most talented of the group--leave the humble world of basic cable for a pilot at a real studio, but they also had to honor the guy, take him out for the traditional round of drinks at someplace outside the neighborhood, something that would be special, more of an occasion. Jim had innocently suggested Gladstone's 4 Fish, a tourist trap with mediocre food but strong tropical drinks and a great location on the beach, where Sunset Boulevard hits Pacific Coast Highway. Since the beach is one of those mystical places that sound great--until you actually face the bother of getting there--everyone immediately agreed. Shortly before they climbed into the van, they all silently realized what a huge mistake it was.

Perry kept checking his watch. He understood the tradition. It would have been an insult not to take him out for a farewell drink. He deserved that much, he figured. As the reality of his success sunk in, he was beginning to feel a bit proud. He even understood the jealousy and anger aimed his way from his former co-workers--that was probably the best part of the whole evening. The only thing he couldn't accept was the traffic gridlock.

"Turn on the radio," suggested Perry. "Let's see why we're not moving."

Barry pushed the first button on the minivan radio and got instant results. "And, of course, that raging brush fire in Malibu is making a mess out of traffic on Pacific Coast Highway," announced KFWB's newsreader. "The highway patrol has closed off traffic at Topanga, so be prepared for serious delays."

Usually, fires in Malibu are no inconvenience to the rest of Los Angeles. In fact, on the long list of multiple natural disasters that strike southern California (continued on page 162)Mulholland(continued from page 100) regularly, they were among the most entertaining. They make for great TV, they always include an impressive celebrity quotient (what could be better than watching a panicked David Hasselhoff hosing down his mansion with a green garden hose--the only time he had touched any piece of his own yard equipment since moving to Malibu?) and, better yet, brush fires are a nicely localized problem. If you live in West LA, the fire might as well be in the Pacific Northwest. The only way you know LA is in the throes of peril is that regular TV programming is preempted and replaced with Team Coverage of brave firefighters and spunky celebrities fighting to save their multimillion-dollar estates. Fires make for much better TV than earthquakes, since earthquakes strike with no warning and are over before the average TV commercial. Fires rage on for days, they involve dramatic water-dropping aircraft and they're somewhat pretty, if you can forget the downside.

"Should we turn around?" asked Barry, being the practical one.

Lee, Jim, Tony and Dick were feeling more adventurous. The idea of sitting at a bar, pounding vodka martinis, listening to the sirens as neighboring fire departments raced to help, watching Team Coverage on the TV over the bar--it all sounded good to them. Perry voted to proceed, as well. He didn't want to be cheated out of his moment just because a few beach houses were burning to the ground and the traffic was thick with fire trucks.

Johnny Carson, Barbra Streisand, Dick Clark, David Geffen, Martin Sheen--the news anchors sounded like they were hawking maps to the stars' homes. Those were the homes in danger, they said. Not "immediate danger," as it turned out. The fire was currently burning in a remote area of Decker Canyon, a bit north of Malibu's celebrity enclave and more where horses and cranky loners lived.

Even though the fire was in its infancy--threatening homes, not burning them to the ground--the Team Coverage had an odd effect on Perry and his friends. It made them jealous.

"I'd love to move Eloise and the kids out to Malibu," Barry sighed. "The schools are so good and the air is so clean."

"Don't property values drop after a fire like this?" wondered Lee. "Couldn't we all afford a nice beachfront condo? Aren't all these rich idiots fleeing for Beverly Hills right now?"

"People in Malibu never move," said Tony. "The house burns down and they rebuild it. A big wave demolishes their front deck and they replace it with a bigger deck. The rains fill their living rooms with mud and they buy new Oriental rugs. They're insanely loyal."

"And insanely rich," added Jim.

Perry didn't say anything, but it occurred to him that Malibu was at best a pipe dream, for everyone else from Boing. Now that he was a showrunner, he was the only one in a position to actually afford the Malibu lifestyle and, fires or no, the idea suddenly had a certain appeal.

•

Perry had barely moved into his new office and suddenly everyone was behaving differently. His parents acted as if he was already rich, old friends hinted around for jobs while making sarcastic asides about his dumb luck, newer friends pretended they'd been friends for years and, in the most surreal moment, his agent called--just to say hi.

His brother Tim's reaction was easier to understand--what brothers aren't plagued by sibling rivalry? It wasn't as if things were going great for Tim. Sure, he had a job, but it was writing about entertainment for a website, not exactly a dream come true. The guys at work, the other writers who were busy trying to sell their screenplays, well, of course, they'd have mixed emotions. But the thinly disguised resentment from the world at large was bothersome.

Oddly enough Perry's gym--normally a source of vanity and insecurity--was now his only refuge. It didn't matter much what time you showed up at 24-Hour Fitness, Peter--the lord of the gym--was there, wandering from machine to machine, playing racquetball, drinking a Snapple at the snack bar. Mostly, though, Peter chatted. Stout, muscular and in his early 50s, he introduced himself as a TV producer. While he used the present tense and he did maintain a small office at one of the studios, his career seemed to exist well in the past, during the golden age of variety shows, back when Dinah Shore was a singer, not a dead lesbian icon. When Regis Philbin was lucky to be a sidekick. Back before Donny and Marie had emotional problems they happily shared on Entertainment Tonight. Back before Cher had tattoos and Sonny took ski lessons. Peter hadn't had a show on the air since the Eighties, but he'd apparently made good money while he could--he drove a Mercedes and had plenty of free time. In any given three-hour span, he might work out for 20 minutes. However, he knew everyone and picked up on every speck of gossip.

"I can't figure out why Nancy would hire the likes of you to work on her show," said Peter.

"She has no choice," said Perry. "I'm the brains of the operation. I wrote the script."

"Yes, and we all know how powerful a writer is in Hollywood," said Peter.

Perry laughed. "It's just a commitment to do a pilot. There are no guarantees," he said, mentally knocking on wood.

"That's a good way of looking at it," said Peter. "It's a great first step--not that many people get to do pilots. There are a lot of people involved in pilots who find themselves back waiting tables when the pilot doesn't sell."

"Or writing game show questions," Perry said.

"What's your role now that the script is written?"

"Nancy and I will be the showrunners. We'll start casting in the next couple of weeks and shoot the pilot as is. If it goes, it goes--and then I'll have a TV show, I guess."

"Be careful," warned Peter. "Lots of things can go wrong. You're going to be dealing with a lot of people who will be looking out for themselves. You have to watch out for yourself, OK?"

And Nancy, thought Perry. I have to watch out for the two of us. Instead of bringing them closer, success seemed to be a big distraction. They'd had dinner only once since the fateful meeting--Nancy was constantly busy--and their phone conversations were hurried and unsatisfying. When he'd try to talk, she'd sound annoyed and impatient, always eager to get back to Heather. She was rushed when they talked business and she had no time whatsoever for any of that mushy stuff that's part of a normal relationship. Perry sometimes feared that while he was looking for a girlfriend, Nancy wanted to be more of a business partner. The sad thing was that Perry often doubted whether she was all that suited for either role.

When he got back to his apartment, there were eight messages waiting for him. One was from Tim, who said he had convinced his boss to do a small feature on Perry's new show for the Hollywood Today website. There was a forced cheerfulness in Tim's voice, but Perry was impressed by the brotherly gesture.

Of course, there were two calls from Nancy--her voice racing, her tone urgent. "Heather has some more really good casting ideas," she said in her first message. "I really want you to hear them." "I can't make dinner tonight--sorry, hon," said the second message.

"Heather needs me to go with her to the Garden of Eden. She has to see her ex and it's freaking her out."

Mom called, announcing a special Sunday dinner ("Your dad is taking us all out to Casa Vega," she said excitedly), and Dad called in his typically car-centered way ("It occurred to me that you might be thinking of getting rid of the Civic and I wanted to remind you that I can get you a good deal on an Accord, or, if you wanted, an Acura").

The remaining three calls came from friends, who had heard it through the grapevine. It was male bonding at its best--not one of them could actually muster congratulations without sarcasm. Paul, his basketball buddy, had it down.

"Whoa, they've lowered the bar. A comedy? You're only funny when you play basketball, and you get your biggest laughs when you get hurt. You, sir, are the Steve Guttenberg of writers--a no-talent who succeeds where we hardworking, artistic types fail. So congratulations, and don't forget all those times you promised me a job. As luck would have it, I'm available."

•

"How's life among the rich and famous?" asked Tim.

Perry could answer that question in so many ways: He could say, "It sucks," which, given the odd turn his relationship with Nancy was taking, would be true. He could say, "It's great," which was also accurate enough. In a world in which every waiter, secretary and car mechanic is poised over an iMac, churning out enough screenplays to decimate a rain forest, Perry had done something neat--he had sold a half-hour sitcom to a big-time studio and no matter what happened, even if the show was never picked up by a network, he'd see his pilot episode produced, his lines spoken by real actors on a real set, and he'd have an office on the Sony lot with business cards that read: executive producer.

"It reads better than it lives," he told Tim, taking the writerly way out.

"Shouldn't you be deliriously happy?" asked Tim. "Shouldn't you and Nancy be hanging out at Morton's with David Kelley and Michelle Pfeiffer?"

"I probably should be deliriously happy, but I'm not. Things are weird with Nancy--I mean, I can't tell you how weird. Wait, I can. Here's how weird they are: I'm thinking of having lunch with Dad and asking him about women. That's how weird they are."

"Dad? Our dad?"

"Yes, Syd Newman, owner of the Valley's third-largest Honda dealership and husband of the bossiest woman in all of Studio City."

"What advice could Dad possibly give? 'Roll over and play dead--it's worked for me?' You could have come to me. I'm your age at least. I'm hurt," said Tim.

"You're gay."

"We have feelings. You could argue we have more feelings, especially me. I have way too many feelings. Anyway, just because I'm gay shouldn't disqualify me. At least disqualify me for a good reason--like my total failure at any relationships whatsoever."

"Well, there was that."

"I still want to help. I know lots of stuff. I watch a lot of TV. I have all this relationship information from Lucy and Ricky to Will and Grace. It's all stored upstairs and available for you, as my brother."

"I write TV, remember?"

"Oh yes, that does cheapen it, doesn't it? Just think, my entire worldview has been formed by people like you. No wonder I'm fucked up."

"You're a paragon of normalcy compared with my girlfriend-slash-partner."

"So how bad is it? And what happens with the show if you two aren't getting along?"

"I haven't seen her and she's too busy to talk. A wall has gone up and I don't know why. Maybe she feels guilty because the show is my idea and all. She wants so much to be important and this is really my show. Maybe I'm making it out to be more than it is. I just don't know," said Perry.

"I would guess success would throw people for a loop, at least initially," offered Tim. "Not that I have any firsthand experience, but it seems to me they've done TV movies on that.

"Listen," continued Tim. "Why don't you just go and talk to her? Drive over there, to Heather's house or wherever she is, and just sit down and talk. What's the worst that can happen?"

While a dramatic entrance into Heather's guest house was not exactly Perry's style, Tim's advice made a certain amount of sense. Not the type of sense that would hold up to careful scrutiny, Perry knew, so if he was going to follow it, he'd better do so now, before he talked himself out of it. He drove to Laurel Canyon, took a left on Kirkwood and went to the strange cul-de-sac. There, perched on the impossibly steep hill, were four houses, each reachable by its own funicular. The house on the far right belonged to Heather. Perry got in the funicular and pressed the buzzer. Usually, a voice--often Nancy's--would come on the intercom and ask, "Who is it?" This time, the funicular simply started its ascent.

Perry went around the back to the guest house and knocked on the door. "Oh, hi, Perry," said Heather. "Nancy's not here. She's off at the studio. I don't expect her back until four or so. I'll tell her you were here."

"Oh, great--thanks," stammered Perry. "I'll see you later."

"I guess you will, now that we're going to be working together and all."

Perry felt himself go into blink mode--an involuntary spasm of eye twitches when he was forced to process too much information at once.

"Working together?"

"Yes, I know everyone's surprised that I'd even think about doing a sitcom at this point in my life, but something really feels right about it."

"My sitcom? Dire Straights?"

"I think it will be fun. Fun is a good thing. And I haven't had much fun lately."

On the ride down the funicular Perry thought briefly of jumping overboard. It wouldn't work well as a suicide attempt--he'd just roll down the hill and mess up his clothes--but it seemed so appropriate.

What is Heather doing in my TV show? he wondered angrily. There's not one role that's even remotely appropriate for her. Not one. And why didn't Nancy tell me about this?

His mind raced, computing all the possibilities. Had Nancy sold him out, and made some sort of side deal with Heather? Did Columbia and Jonathan Scott know about this? Or was Nancy humoring Heather? That was entirely possible--Nancy had built a career on placating Heather, making her believe she was getting her way only to manipulate her deftly in an entirely different direction. But if that were the case, why hadn't Nancy told him? It would have been good for a laugh, if nothing else.

What was it that Tim had said? "Just sit down and talk. What's the worst that can happen?" Sometimes Tim can be such an idiot, thought Perry.

•

Perry called his agent. He was unavailable. He called Jonathan Scott. Unavailable. He called Nancy several times. Extremely unavailable. Finally, at 11 p.m., feeling too low to talk and too wired to sleep, he turned off the ringer on his phone and took two Dalmane--a potent dose for anyone--and sought refuge in sleep.

He awoke to the sound of his fax machine. Tim was faxing the front page of The Hollywood Reporter:

Heather Windward in Dire Straights

Gen-X poster girl Heather Windward has taken an interesting career switch by agreeing to exec-produce and star in a sitcom, Dire Straights, for Columbia TriStar's TV unit, with a guaranteed berth on NBC in the fall. The show's co-creator and co-executive producer is longtime Windward associate Nancy Marshall, under the Kirkwood Productions banner, a company the duo formed last month.

"I think it's time in my life to have some fun," said Windward. "And I think this show will be different enough to provide the creative challenge it's so hard to get in movies today."

Based loosely on an original script by Marshall and game-show scribe Perry Newman, the show is undergoing a complete revise, with veteran TV hand Babaloo Mandel working with Marshall on a new, hipper version.

"With Heather on board, we have a chance to push the sitcom envelope," said Jonathan Scott, VP of comedy development at Columbia TriStar. "The original pilot was in some ways too traditional. We all want to see something very young and cutting edge."

There was no point in calling Nancy. His rage at her was so intense, there was nothing she could do or say that wouldn't only make him even angrier. There are broken hearts, and there's being used and made to be the fool. It wasn't until this moment that Perry realized how much worse the latter could be.

Perry called his agent first. "I haven't been looking forward to this conversation," said the agent. "This is just one of those ugly things that happen. It happens to everyone sometime or other. Just be thankful you hadn't devoted your life to this before the ax fell. Besides, if the show goes, you'll have some back-end participation. It'll be found money. Mailbox money. The best kind."

Jonathan Scott was next. "I have to tell you, I've been dreading this phone call," said Jonathan. "This has been a very awkward situation for all of us. We all loved your script, but once Nancy brought us Heather and we saw the synergistic possibilities of that relationship, we had to make some changes."

"But why were those changes made without me? I was the goddamn show-runner! I wrote the goddamn script!"

Jonathan took a deep breath. "I was led to believe that Nancy was the real creative force behind the concept," he said. "Frankly, Perry, you were so quiet in the meeting that we assumed you lacked real passion for the project. Nancy, on the other hand, was virtually on fire. That's what it takes to get things done."

"Why wasn't I told?" Perry demanded. "I had a right to be kept in the loop."

"Nancy said she was taking care of it," said Jonathan. "I had no reason to doubt her."

"She didn't take care of it. I read it in The Hollywood Reporter this morning."

"That must have hurt," consoled Jonathan. "But listen, you have friends here. We'd love to be in business with you. You'll have other ideas and we'll talk. I know this must be painful, but it could all work out for the best. Why don't you sit down at your computer and give me a few treatments? We'll do lunch at Le Dôme."

They hung up and Jonathan shouted out to his assistant, "Put Perry Newman on the DNA list, please." DNA was club jargon for Do Not Admit. For Perry, Jonathan Scott would be forever unavailable.

Perry called Tim and told him the story. Tim had barely gotten used to his brother's success; now he had to deal with his brother's unemployment. This would throw the family into turmoil--Ann and Syd were used to Tim being unemployed and alone, but for Perry these were uncharted waters. If Dad threw a couple of $100 bills Perry's way, it would barely cover his shampoo fetish. Sunday night's dinner was shaping up to be a maudlin affair. Having to praise Perry while pitying Tim might be standard procedure for Ann and Syd, but the Newmans had just entered bizarro world.

"Mom and Dad are going to go crazy, you know," said Tim.

"Here's the worst part," said Perry. "Mom will miss Nancy. She really will."