When Hollywood Had a King Page 15

  Hollywood might have come under Wasserman’s dominion, but in many Easterners’ eyes it was indeed a mere “colony,” and a shady one at that. CBS, Paley’s vaunted Tiffany network, would never allow Wasserman the kind of propinquity he had in mind. And NBC, in the early fifties, was scarcely more congenial. Its president was Pat Weaver—the most original, innovative executive in the broadcast business, and the one who had decided that networks had to wrest control of their programming from their advertisers. Weaver had been in broadcasting for roughly twenty years, in jobs ranging from radio scriptwriter, to advertising director for the American Tobacco Company, to a vice president at the Young & Rubicam advertising agency, where he produced numerous radio shows. He, too, knew MCA; he had done shows with many band leaders, including Isham Jones, and he had crossed paths with Wasserman early on—at the American Tobacco Company, he had worked on Kay Kyser and His Kollege of Musical Knowledge. And it was true that both men were ardent believers, early, in the new medium of television. But there the commonality ended.

  Weaver had come up differently from Wasserman. His father was one of the founding members of the Jonathan Club, an elite social club in Los Angeles. A graduate of Dartmouth who majored in philosophy and made Phi Beta Kappa in his junior year, Weaver continued as president of NBC to have a lively curiosity about the arts, sciences, industry, the latest discoveries in astrophysics, the state of the Cold War, the cybernetics theories of Norbert Wiener, the technological forecasts of Arthur C. Clarke, the complete works of Albert Schweitzer—as well as the Nielsen ratings for a rival CBS program schedule. And Weaver was positively messianic about the potential of television for bettering mankind. “Television is a miracle,” he wrote in an article in Television Magazine. “The grand design of television . . . is to create an aristocracy of the people, the proletariat of privilege, the Athenian masses—to make the average man the uncommon man. . . . Television makes diversity the natural law, not conformity.” In a profile in The New Yorker by Thomas Whiteside in 1954, Weaver referred to himself as a “communications optimist”; he routinely exhorted his employees that “NBC must do good,” and in one of the many hundreds of memos that he was continually firing off to staff, Weaver wrote, “Every writer, every director, every producer is having an influence upon upwards of ten million people when he goes on the air for NBC. It is therefore more than just his self-interest as a creative artist that is challenged in this day. It is his self-interest as a member of the human race. For he can do something personally that will increase . . . the individual’s ability to meet and decide his own future.”

  One of the shows Weaver created—which he thought would “establish NBC as it ought to be”—was Wide Wide World, the first live attempt to capture the American experience on coast-to-coast television. As usual, Weaver wrote evangelical memos to his colleagues about this new concept, his ideas tumbling over each other, uncontainable; but they seemed to fall on fallow ground. The General had made his son, Robert Sarnoff, the executive vice president of NBC in 1953, at the same time he had made Weaver president; Weaver’s forte was programming, Bobby Sarnoff’s was thought to be business, and the two were meant to be a team. In a meeting at NBC described in the New Yorker profile, Weaver was listing the places to be visited on Wide Wide World—Dismal Swamp, the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, Los Angeles’s Greek Theatre for classical Greek drama.

  “Suppose you went to the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles,” Sarnoff interjected. “Would most people want to go to the Greek Theatre?”

  “This show is not just about what the public wants to do but what you want them to do, Bobby,” Weaver said. “You take the American people to see the Greek drama, you take them to see King Lear at Stratford, Ontario. It would be good for them to see Shakespeare, whether they liked it or not.”

  After a further exchange, Weaver said earnestly, “I think I know what I want but I’m not sure that you all do. I want a show that will give people a chance to go out of their homes to almost every part of our wide world that is America and participate in all of our activities—a show that people will say has enabled us to become more mature, more cultured, and more urbane, and that will be the conversation piece wherever people meet. . . . Nobody would watch Wide Wide World all the time unless he was paralyzed, but he would see it occasionally and it would do him good. Fellows, don’t you see I’m trying to get something civilized?”

  Weaver had lofty aspirations for television, but he also had the commercial track record to be taken seriously by those who viewed it from a strictly dollars-and-cents perspective. He fathered both the Today and Tonight shows, and Matinee Theater, as well as Wide Wide World; and probably his most publicized innovation was his ninety-minute “spectacular”—a cultural or entertainment special that preempted regular prime-time series shows, and was intended to keep television (and its viewers) in a state of creative flux. Even in NBC’s mass appeal programs, Weaver insisted that some cultural ingredient be slipped in, so that the “average man” would, through his TV watching, become the “uncommon man.”

  In the aerie of corporate power, Weaver was an anomaly—cerebral, unorthodox, highly literate, obsessed with the desire to use these new technological tools for the public good. The press gravitated to him, and he became something of a star in his own right. That was to prove his downfall. For he was not meant to outshine Bobby Sarnoff, and he was certainly not meant to outshine the General. Weaver, moreover, had never been politic. He was notorious for having treated George Washington Hill, Sr., the irascible, hard-to-please head of American Tobacco, with a convivial directness that amazed his colleagues; Hill and he were bonded by mutual respect, however, and Weaver never suffered for his boldness. But with Bobby Sarnoff, it was different. Michael Dann, who was Weaver’s assistant at NBC, recalled one meeting in which the junior Sarnoff—a man who was sensitive about having inherited his job—made some insubstantial remark. “And Weaver said, in a low stage voice, ‘Down, boy!’ I could not believe it. So he rubbed the General the wrong way, because of the way he treated Bobby, among other things.” The General chose not to fire Weaver outright, because he was self-conscious about NBC’s history of executive turmoil. In 1955, he made Weaver chairman of NBC, and Bobby president—and, a year later, eased Weaver out.

  That was the opening Wasserman needed. Leonard Goldenson, the chairman of ABC—which ranked a distant third among the three networks—had recently dismissed its president, Robert Kintner. Kintner, a former journalist, was a talented executive, well respected particularly for his leadership in broadcast news; but it was rumored in the industry that the reason for his firing was a drinking problem. He was one of those people whose awkward, even forbidding physiognomy—short, bulky, slightly hunched, his homely countenance partly obscured by big, thick-lensed glasses (he was sometimes called “Quasimodo” behind his back)—seemed to reflect some inner disproportion as well. It was, in any case, at this trying moment in Kintner’s life that Sonny Werblin came to his rescue.

  Werblin had lost out in his bid for the presidency of MCA, but in the New York office he was the leading man. He was a slightly picaresque character—a great raconteur, a devoted sportsman, a man’s man in a time when that required no apology—and he held court at his table at the fabled “21,” hosting the chairmen of Coca-Cola, American Tobacco, AT&T. Younger MCA agents were awed at his social versatility, and how it translated into business. (“We would get a call about a deal he had just struck with Charles Woodruff, the chairman of Coca-Cola, while he was sitting in Woodruff’s box at the Kentucky Derby,” his young associate Al Rush recalled.) The peripatetic Werblin was so close to the advertisers that often he would make a deal with them before going to a network. One network executive recalled, “Sonny would come to me and say, ‘The Chesterfield people are very keen on this show, they love it!’ MCA knew every advertiser better, they knew the talent better, than we did.” Werblin had also cultivated a good relationship with General Sarnoff and, especially, Bobby. His old mentor, Billy Good
heart, had retired, but now Goodheart wanted to work again and Werblin got him installed as head of sales at NBC. More important, Werblin had helped to move Manie Sacks, the former MCA agent who had been at Columbia Records, to a dual post—head of RCA Records and vice president in charge of programming at NBC. And now—most important of all—he persuaded Bobby Sarnoff that Kintner would bring NBC the programming savvy that was needed; he could be brought in as a vice president, with the understanding that within the next year or so he would be named president. For Kintner, it meant that he had been thrown from ABC’s top executive floor and, miraculously, landed on his feet. But for MCA, it meant even more. As Mike Dann summed up the situation, “The three most powerful people at NBC were Bobby [Sarnoff], Manie [Sacks], and Bob Kintner. Sonny was very close to all three, and he had a role in bringing two of the three to the company.” He paused, and added, “As television grew, later you couldn’t control it in that way.”

  Shortly after Kintner became president of NBC, Wasserman invited him to a party in Hollywood—a birthday party for him given by his wife, Edie, Wasserman told Kintner. When Kintner arrived, he found himself surrounded by a dazzling array of actors and actresses—an experience that had a very pleasing, tonic effect on Kintner, as he tended to be rather starstruck. And then Wasserman announced to his guests that this was in fact not his birthday party. “This happens to be a surprise party for my good and true friend, Robert Kintner, to celebrate his having taken over the throne at NBC.”

  The relationship between MCA and NBC—particularly, Werblin and Kintner—quickly became the subject of industry chatter. Most remarkable was its brazenness, which was epitomized in an NBC programming meeting called by Kintner and Bobby Sarnoff in the spring of 1957. After the programming executives were assembled, their projected season schedule on the magnetic board before them, Werblin strode into the room—which was in itself shocking, since a network’s projected scheduling is considered highly proprietary. And then, instead of banishing him, Kintner declared, “Sonny, look at the schedule for next season; here are the empty slots; you fill them.” Werblin proceeded to rearrange the magnetized show squares while the executives watched; when he was finished, he had placed in prime time fourteen series that were either produced or sold by MCA. And that became the season’s schedule.

  There was some question about the legality of what had occurred, inasmuch as networks were licensed by the Federal Communications Commission, and, as licensees, they were to exert full control over their programming, including its scheduling. But the real point was less technical. MCA was unmistakably in bed with NBC, occupying a position of such favor and dominance that no other seller of product could truly compete. In return, MCA generally treated NBC more favorably than other buyers. “Sonny brought Kintner all MCA’s top stuff,” MCA agent Al Rush said. As usual, the situation worked to MCA’s advantage in multiple ways. It provided a major, dependable outlet for MCA’s production. It gave MCA a ready buyer for its clients’ shows as well. And it won MCA even more clients, since the common perception was that the way to get a show on NBC, or to get roles in Revue’s constant flow of productions, was to be represented by MCA—much as the bands had flocked to Music Corporation in the thirties in order to get on the air in the Magic Carpet program. Once these clients signed on with MCA, moreover, they were tied to the agency, one way or another, for the long term. MCA had finally revised its early, unenforceable contract that stipulated it could not be terminated by clients until they had made $1 million; the new contracts were more sophisticated, but no less advantageous to MCA. Clients had to sign an “omnibus” contract, giving MCA the right to represent them in all facets of show business for many years.

  The MCA-NBC relationship was unique; but by the late fifties, MCA could impose its will on other networks, too. Even, surprisingly, CBS. Unlike NBC, which produced very few of its own shows, CBS prided itself on its in-house production, and its executives routinely derided MCA, whose Revue staple was formulaic Westerns, as a “sausage factory.” It was well known within CBS, moreover, that Paley had no interest in buying MCA-produced shows, and would never countenance the kind of surrender NBC had made. “We didn’t want to deal with those guys, we wanted to control our own destiny,” said Salvatore Ianucci, a lawyer in business affairs at CBS in the fifties and sixties. “Lew’s method was intimidation. But we had the power, we didn’t need their productions.” What they did need, however, was MCA talent.

  Not all radio stars had been able to make a successful transition to television, but Jack Benny certainly had—his was one of the highest-rated TV shows at CBS in the fifties. Wasserman, therefore, had enormous leverage when he went to CBS to renegotiate Benny’s deals. And, according to both Dann and Ianucci, Wasserman not only demanded a specific time slot for the Benny show but, even more remarkably, another specific time slot, for another season-long show. “He’d say, ‘Jack must have the next half hour’—it would be for some unnamed proj-ect!” Dann said. “And of course it wasn’t Jack who had to have it, it was Lew. Power leads to power.” Nor was Benny the only client for whom Wasserman could exact such a price. “It was no secret. We all knew who had the time commitment—Benny’s commitment, [Red] Skelton’s commitment. The president of the network would say, ‘Go to MCA, they have the commitment for that time,’ ” Dann continued. But it was not something that either party would have acknowledged publicly then. “If you lose control of your scheduling, that is very questionable,” Dann said. MCA’s Al Rush, asked whether MCA demanded specific time slots for their clients and, also, additional slots for other season-long shows, responded without hesitation. “It was done all the time. But it had to be a handshake. It could never be in the contract.”

  In these TV deals, too, Wasserman adapted the concept of packaging that Stein had implemented in his band-booking days. In producing, or packaging, a show for radio, Stein would put together all the talent for a given sum, out of which he would then pay them—often pocketing three times as much as he would have had he charged a straight agent’s commission of 10 percent. Wasserman now inaugurated his version of that, putting director, star, story, and supporting talent in a single deal, and demanding a 10 percent commission on the whole package. But eventually he carried this idea even further, and became, in a sense, a virtual packager. For MCA would demand its commission on the cost of the entire show—including all above-the-line (talent) costs, as well as all below-the-line (facilities, production) costs—even when the network was supplying much of the talent, and producing the show. They just demanded their 10 percent on the whole thing as if they were responsible for every element. As Rush said, grinning, “We took our commission on everything—above-the-line, below-the-line, and sideways! If the whole show cost $300,000, we got $30,000.”

  MCA could make up the rules because, as always, no one in the commercial world was strong enough to challenge them. By the 1959–60 season, MCA produced or co-produced more television series than any other company; and it got some cut from about 45 percent of all TV network evening shows. Among those it produced were Wagon Train, General Electric Theater, and Bachelor Father. It was the agent for many others made by independent producers, including Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Tales of Wells Fargo, and Ford Startime. The system Wasserman had devised produced a perpetual stream of money, flowing from multiple sources to MCA. MCA continued to be so secretive (its full client list had still never been seen by more than a few top MCA executives) that it would not say which television series it represented, or even how many series it handled. Indeed, in 1959, when the Federal Communications Commission began an inquiry into the reasons for the poor quality of American television programming and subpoenaed the lists of shows packaged by various producers, Taft Schreiber, called to testify, refused to turn over a full list of MCA’s shows unless it was kept confidential—despite the fact that he was threatened with being held in contempt. MCA’s competitors, including the William Morris Agency, turned over their lists.

  In July 19
60, Fortune magazine attempted to lift the veil—at least enough to offer a glimpse of MCA’s TV economics. Fortune calculated that MCA was likely to earn $7 million from a thirty-nine-week, half-hour TV series that it produced at its Revue Studios. The early stages of this enterprise were straightforward enough. MCA would sell first-run rights in advance to a network for a fee of $40,000 a week. MCA TV would receive a commission of 10 percent, or $4,000. Revue would then take 20 percent of the remaining $36,000 ($7,200) as “overhead,” and roughly $20,000 for other production costs such as studio rental and camera crew. The remaining $9,000 or so would be paid as salaries to performers. Therefore, MCA would get $31,000 out of the original $40,000; in a thirty-nine-week season, that would total approximately $1,200,000. Thus, the show would probably earn MCA before taxes (on an 18 percent return) roughly $220,000 the first year, although the series itself would merely make back its production costs (and the star, an MCA client, who owns half of the show, would make nothing but salary). But the key to profit was the show’s longevity. If it were successful, it would likely run for three years. And then the true bonanza would come—one that Wasserman had imagined years before when he was fighting so hard, within MCA, for a stake in filmed TV. For in its reruns, the show would likely gross as much as it did in initial showings—and at almost no cost to the producers. Now the show would plainly be making a profit, and the star would begin to cash in. But before that happened, MCA would cut itself many more slices. MCA would take 40 percent off the top of any income from network reruns; 30 to 50 percent from other earnings in domestic syndication (non-network showings); 50 percent of any income from foreign syndication; and 50 percent of any income from merchandise tie-ins. Thus, MCA would take about 40 percent of the price per episode on reruns—leaving only the remaining 60 percent to be split with the star.