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UNDERSTANDING SHORTHAND
by Cy Chermak
Throughout all my years in show business, I must have been on one side or another of at least 10,000 pitches. There was that one pitch, however, more than any other,
that changed my life, my career, and my understanding of how business was done in Hollywood.
I had been writing anthologies for TV in New York during the so-called Golden Age, when my wife, may God always shine His countenance on her, announced that we should move to Hollywood. "Where the business was." So I cashed the last $500 bond from our wedding
booty and bought a one way ticket.
Our New York agent, set up a meeting with her West Coast representative, Alvin G. Manuel. When I met Al, he asked me some questions about what I had written, then pulled a book about an Apache warrior from his shelf, and asked me if I could write an outline for a
screenplay based on the book. I said, "Of course," and we looked at each other until I realized that what he meant was would I write the outline. For him. Gratis. Obviously my original scripts for Front Row Center, Kraft Theater, et al didn't provide enough incentive for him to take
me on. He wanted to see if I could do an adaptation.
I was brand new to Hollywood; I thought to myself, If this is the way they do business, okay, but I certainly don't understand it. Of course, I was also thinking I needed an agent and
hoping there might be a job involved. And that there was probably something he wasn't telling me.
So I wrote it, and I brought it back to him in a week, and he read it while I waited. Then he looked up at me and said, "Okay, I'll see what I can do for you." And indeed, there was
something he hadn't been telling me. When I asked if there was any chance of selling the outline I had just
written, he said, "Oh, that. They're already making that picture. Burt Lancaster is playing the part. But you did a good job. I'll send you the agency contracts."
I left his office thinking. This is Hollywood, and I don't understand it. But Al Manuel did all right by me. He got me some rewrites, and when the reports on my work were good, he sent me out to Warners to meet with Arthur S., who was producing a western starring a big brawny,
hulk of an actor. "I hear you're a hot New York writer and that you've got some bright new ideas," Arthur S. said, kicking off the meeting. I modestly told him three hot new ideas. He listened with his eyes closed, his feet up on the desk. When I had finished, I wasn't sure if he was
sleeping or dead, but after about a minute he looked at me and outlined all the reasons why none of my ideas would work for his hulk. "But I like you," he finished up. "I'd like to work with you." Then he looked me right in the eyes, and I swear by all that I consider sacred, said,
"Why don't we do Strangers on a Train?"
I was dumbstruck. Actually more than dumb than struck because I told him I thought that had already been done. "No, no, no," he reassured me. "That's just shorthand. The basic idea. By the time we're finished with it, it'll be way different." I recovered my speech long enough,
if I remember correctly, to ask him in a barely audible croak how he thought Strangers on a Train would work for his show. He told me, and by God it made sense. But I was young; I wanted to write originals, and I didn't understand where I was. I walked out of the office
without a word. He didn't try to stop me.
Luckily, I also had an appointment downstairs with Anthony Spinner who was producing a show called The Dakotas. I sold him all three of my ideas. One at a time, of course. Then I went on to join the staff of The Virginian, which is a story of its own. I became the writer/producer.
Then my exec moved to a show called Convoy, and he moved me with him. Between the two shows I listened to hundreds of pitches. I had writers offering to sell me
Gaslight, Northside777, Casablanca, Topper, and just about every other movie ever made between 1930 and 1961.
I didn't buy any of them.
I was still perplexed and, I guess, a bit amused by the way Hollywood was working. It was beginning to look as if I would never understand. Then Convoy was canceled; I was laid off by Universal. And then I learned the lesson that all writers should be taught the day they join the Guild.
No matter how many times your title is hyphenated -- writer/story editor, writer/producer, writer/executive producer -- sooner or later you are going to be just a plain old writer again. And you are probably going to need a job.
I needed a job desperately when Al Manuel set up a meeting at Warners with Arthur S. It was three years after our first encounter. He was producing another western. Different hulk. Different title. Same show. I have to admit I was more that a little apprehensive. Would he remember me?
Was he waiting to take his revenge? Was he going to get even with me for walking out on him? He showed not a hint of animosity when we met, so I hesitantly told him a couple of the stories that I had been unable to sell to The Virginian. And damned if he didn't still listen with his eyes closed,
his feet up on the desk.
When I finished, he looked at me and explained very patiently why my ideas wouldn't work for his new hulk. He looked in my eyes; I think he was trying to make a decision, "Why don't we do Strangers on the Train?"
Now it was my turn to hesitate. Was he making fun of me? Was this his twisted idea of comeuppance? But I could see nothing in his eyes that indicated humor, anger, or smug satisfaction. He was strictly on the level.
My rent was due, my youngest was in preschool, my wife was selling Avon door-to-door, and our meager reserves were dwindling. My heart was pounding. The silence grew. "Good," I said finally. "Should make a great episode."
Arthur stood up, shook my hand, told me we had a deal, and that he'd have the business affairs department call my agent. Then he walked me to the door. When it was closed, I stood leaning against it, tears of joy beginning to form in my eyes. Finally, I understood.
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