First of all, there is a lot of good stuff on, and second, yes, it is that hard. In just over half a century of network television, there has never been a time when there have been so many terrific episodic dramas–from my own 11-year-old “Law & Order” to “The West Wing,” from “The Sopranos” to “The Practice” to first-year hits “CSI” and “Gilmore Girls.” Not to mention “Oz” and “NYPD Blue.”
What do most of these shows have in common? Executive producers born when Eisenhower or, in some cases, Truman was president. How come all these old guys keep getting shows on the air? Because in television, there are no new ideas, there is only execution. In the spring writers start coming up with ideas for new shows. As soon as the fall schedule is announced in May, long before anyone knows which new shows will make it, the development process for the following year starts all over again. In early September the networks open for pitches. An executive producer (i.e., a waiter with a track record) goes to the studio where he has a “term deal,” which means it guarantees him a certain amount of money to own his projects.
And the games begin. A pitch is presented to a network–“I want to do ‘ER’ in a firehouse.” The network says, “Great idea.” Depending on how successful the producer has been in the past, he may get various levels of commitment from a network. In descending order, they are: a huge commitment (13 episodes on the air), a major commitment (a “put pilot,” meaning the network will make the pilot with 12 fees to the producer even if it doesn’t make additional episodes), a big commitment (a put pilot with no penalty fees) or a development deal (“write a pilot script, we’ll see how we like it”).
In the fall the pilot script comes in and everybody loves it. It’s perfect. It’s the network’s favorite script. It gets greenlighted–make the pilot as long as you can get a star the network wants. And here’s the first hurdle. An actor whom the executive producer has loved since he saw him in an episode of “Miami Vice” reads it. His agent says that he’s interested, but the network says he’s too old or his last series got canceled after five airings or its research says women don’t trust him. Next. Eventually, a star is found.
Now you need a director. Since at any given time there are only a handful of “hot” directors, the competition is fierce. But mirabile dictu, one of the anointed ones reads the script and loves it. But he wants a guarantee that if it sells, he “stays with the show,” which means he wants to be an executive producer, too. The studio says, “No way.” He went over budget on his last pilot and the head of the studio doesn’t think he does action very well, anyway. Next.
Two weeks later you finally get a director who, by the way, the actor doesn’t really like because the last time they worked together he “wasn’t very collaborative.” By this time all the really good cameramen are booked, so the choice is an old pro who’s just had LASIK surgery or a kid with tattoos who’s done some astounding Smash Mouth music videos. You also have to find everybody else, including a costume designer who has to hide the fact that the star has gained 15 pounds or a composer who’s willing to rewrite the theme four times.
Finally, one day over schedule and $300,000 over budget, the pilot is finished. The star says it’s his best work (in spite of the s.o.b. director). The studio loves it. And, thank God, the network loves it. “Hook and Ladder” starts getting buzz in the trades (Variety and The Hollywood Reporter). It’s on the shortlist at the network.
And then the call. It’s the weekend before the “upfront” presentation of the fall schedule to advertisers in New York. You’re on. You don’t know whether to shout, laugh or cry. Where? What’s the time slot? The head of the network says that they really think “Hook and Ladder” is the most powerful new show around. Suddenly you have that sinking feeling that you’re about to become the TV equivalent of cannon fodder. After all, someone has to be scheduled against the No. 1 show on the air. You listen as the death sentence continues with cheery bonhomie. “We’re putting you on Thursday at 10. You’re going to be the show that will knock the legs out from under ‘ER’.” Your life flashes before your eyes–“poison gas or lethal injection, sir!”
Now, of course, for a show to actually make money, to get into profit after running up huge deficits, you have to run for five years. So, if the pilot makes even a small splash, you have to do all this only 109 more times to make any money. Nope, it’s not too hard.
