This week, we get the return of "Murphy Brown" on CBS. Almost twenty years after it went off the air. I remember the timeline well because it totally corresponds to my life moving to Los Angeles. Indeed, my very first days living in California were spent on Stage 4 at Warner Brothers. This is where the first iteration of "Murphy Brown" was done. (The new one is being shot in Astoria, Queens.) My writing partner and I were trying to get a foothold into the business and, luckily, we had a friend who was a producer there.
So, as a result, we became fixtures on the "Murphy Brown" set for the final six episodes of the show's penultimate television season. So much so that people actually said "good morning" to us, even though our jobs seemed to consist of doing nothing but sitting in the bleachers and watching the cast rehearse. We took lunch at the same time the crew did and left for the day the same time the crew did. I guess we were unpaid employees.
The memories of that special time ping pong around my head to this day.
Warner Brothers had this VIP Tour group that would amble into the soundstage from time to time. Generally, somebody on the crew would take time to answer any questions from these Iowa hayseeds. One day, folks were busy on the floor. And we were just sitting idly nearby. The tour guide turned to us.
"Can you answer some questions for my group?"
Ummm, yes.
And, since we had a few weeks under our belt here as insiders, we did. I am guessing one of these yokels is back home in Bumfuck, Oklahoma, still reeling from the experience of conversing with us "Murphy Brown" insiders.
Veteran director Peter Bonerz was there for a couple of the weeks and he's a consummate pro. One day, an old but totally recognizable face wandered onto the set. I'd seen this guy on TV before. He had a bit part that week and he was ready to rehearse. Bonerz announced his presence.
On another week, there would be a cameo appearance by former Texas Governor (and now dead) Ann Richards. She only had about three lines, but she hung dutifully around the set. In the bleachers. Asleep in the chair next to me. Sawing wood like a lumberjack.
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ."
Suddenly, a call went up for her from one of the stage managers. The Governor was needed. I looked over at the snoring politician. I'd tap her gently awake, but then paused for a moment. Can't startling somebody mid-snore give them a sudden coronary? Did I really want to be the one responsible for the death of the former Governor of Texas?
Oh, so what??? I woke her up. And nothing happened. She died in 2006 and I had nothing to do with it.
There was one episode planned that included a guest actor whose name I don't recall. He was no big star, but, for some mystical reason, the Murphy producers switched around the whole production schedule to accommodate this guy. Most notably, he was terrified of appearing in front of a live studio audience. So, they filmed the show in pieces like a movie. The whole week seemed off-kilter. And, more importantly, the regular cast didn't show the usual energy they did on other weeks. They clearly fed off the interplay with the live audience. A completely different...and mediocre episode was the end result.
The cast was very friendly with us for the most part. They saw us there every day and figured we had a damn good reason. Somebody must be paying them for this, right? One, however, was fairly snarky to us. Joe Regalbuto who played reporter Frank Fontana. We were wandering around by the craft services table and grabbing some snacks when he approached.
"Who are you?"
Excuse me. We tried not to stammer and explained who we were friends with.
"Oh."
The following week, the scene played out again. Same place. The craft services table. I was mid-chocolate-chip cookie.
"Who are you?"
Short term memory loss issues, Mr. Fontana? I explained my existence one more time.
"Oh."
I told my friend that, if I ran into him again next week, I would ask him who he was. I was told sternly not to.
That season, Lily Tomlin was part of the Murphy cast and she was perhaps the nicest person to chat up. One day, my writing partner had left me alone in the bleachers for a longer time than usual. He had a knack for wandering off and making little connections. Fifteen minutes later, he returned. I asked him where he had been.
"Eating Cheezits with Lily."
Oh.
As it turned out, he was busy getting answers to a question that had been hanging over our heads for two years. Prior to our California move, we had been flushing out some possible sitcom ideas with a New York production company shepherded by renowed journalist Linda Ellerbee. (There will be some Memory Drawers on that relationship coming soon). Somehow, Linda had made contact with Lily at some rubber chicken function and inquired about working with her. In turn, this was brought to our attention by Ellerbee and we crafted a nifty sitcom idea that was perfect for Ms. Tomlin.
We handed it in to Linda and never heard a word about it. We figured there was no interest on Lily's end.
Munching on cheese snacks, my partner asked Lily about the idea.
"I never saw it. I was always wondering what happened to that."
Oh, well. We probably should have pitched it right then and there. Like the true cowards we were, we didn't. Another Hollywood missed opportunity.
Before we knew it, the season was almost over. There was only one more episode to film.
The finale of any TV show's season is almost like high school graduation night. Friends, relatives, doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs crawl out of the woodwork to suddenly be part of the celebration. Most of them hadn't been on the soundstage all year. But, suddenly, Joe Regalbuto's wife has this sudden urge to see what her husband has been really doing the past six months, besides accosting us at the craft services table. The onslaught of riff raff on this night created a potential dilemma that would have infuriated the Burbank Fire Department. There were too, too, too many people on Soundstage 4. And we were at the lowest of the lowest on the totem pole. There was no reason for us to be anywhere near the place on that Friday night.
But, our producer-friend had an ingenious solution. Since the only people with justification for being there beyond the studio audience were the actors, there was an easy fix. We would be extras in the show! And, not just goofballs standing idly off to the side. Nope, since we were so freakin' experienced, we were given the opportunity to do a "cross." Essentially be part of the active atmosphere while Candice Bergen and guest star Rue McClanahan did their dialogue at a scene in Phil's Bar.
That Friday afternoon, our scene was rehearsed multiple times. Cross behind Candice and Rue, open the door, exit. Cross behind Candice and Rue, open the door, exit. Cross behind Candice and Rue, open the door, exit. We knew it cold. We ate our pre-show meal with confidence.
Enter the studio audience and, before we knew it, it was time for Scene B. Our big appearance. First take. We crossed behind Candice and Rue, opened the door, and exited. Perfect. But, in sitcom land, all scenes are shot at least three times straight through so the editors have their choice of shots. Second take. We crossed behind Candice and Rue, opened the door, and exited. There was no need for us to vary our acting approach. Solid. But, then, there was the third take...
As we began our cross, my writing partner walked right into Candice's chair and gave it a bump. He knew he did it. I saw he did it. But, hopefully, 350 other people didn't notice. We kept moving. We opened the door and exited. We waited for the end of the scene and the director's call for all of us to "move on" to the next scene. As we stood outside Phil's, we heard no such call. Instead, there was a murmuring all around.
"He bumped the chair."
"The chair got knocked."
"We got to do it again."
"Bumped the chair."
"Bumped the chair."
"BUMPED THE CHAIR."
We felt like we had botched up the one take of Janet Leigh getting slashed in the shower.
So, in a rather unprecedented move, that scene was shot a fourth time. And my writing partner walked so gingerly around the chair, you would have thought he was entering a funeral parlor. I'm not sure what take they used, but the actual screen shot is below. I'm in the center of the frame. My chair-knocking partner is on the far left.
This would be our last week ever at "Murphy Brown," and that had nothing to do with our on-camera clumsiness. Indeed, we even pitched staff writing jobs for the final season, but the show opted to bring back many of the writers from the first three years. But, still, there was nothing like being a small part of a hit series.
When "our episode" aired six weeks later (during May sweeps, thank you very much), my pals on the East Coast got to see it first. And, at about 6:11PM Pacific time, the congratulatory calls started to pour in. Well, trickle in. My good friend, the Bibster, had taped it and analyzed our five second cross as if it had been shot by Abraham Zapruder.
Several years later, when "Murphy Brown" went into syndication, I waited in anticipation to relive my moment (our original tape had been mysteriously destroyed by my writing partner who didn't like the way his hair looked). Imagine my horror to discover that it had been cut out in order to make room for more Dulcolax commercials. Luckily, when Nick At Nite picked it up, our appearance was restored.
And, now, thanks to You Tube and a very scratchy audio, it's here for you to see. That's me about two minutes and seven seconds into the clip.
A very special time of my life that will never ever be forgotten.
And the main reason I will be tuned into the reboot this coming Thursday. Heck, it's the only TV sitcom I ever appeared in.
Dinner last night: Orange chicken from Feast of the East.
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