DEADline

 

I am on a deadline to complete my latest memoir, which I have called A Life Without Cagney & Lacey, a title which has been met with little enthusiasm from my editor at McFarland Publishers.

That is the least of my issues. The writing is all but done…In fact, it is done; but with me, it is never done since re-writing is really something I consider a major part of the process.

Unlike most of the writers who ever worked for me, I don’t mind rewriting. First, it requires re-reading what I wrote… and since I wrote it… and it is all about me… well, need I explain further?

What is driving me a bit nuts is not the deadline for the book but the deadline for photos for the book. I don’t have that many photos in my possession… hardly any of the sort from the “good old days in Hollywood,” or even pictures at USC which everyone seems to feel is what suits this kind of life-story.

I just am not as sentimental a guy as most people think. True, I cry at movies and in the theatre, but the fact is I have a mild case of “dry eye,” and staring at a brightly lit stage or screen from a seat in a darkened theatre tends to make me a bit weepy. Add some sentimentality to what is being performed and… well, as I said, I get credit for a lot of “heart” that ain’t necessarily there.

What this means is that I didn’t save all those photos of working with Paul Newman in full make-up as a Mexican bandito on “The Outrage,” nor did I have more than one photo (and it had already been used in Cagney & Lacey… and Me) with the three leads of Charlie’s Angels.

I don’t remember being on the Christy set all that much, let alone having my picture taken with our teenage star, Kellie Martin… and when you read my account of my life in airports during the productions of John Steinbeck’s East of Eden in Savannah, American Dream in Chicago and Angel on My Shoulder in Los Angeles, you might understand why no one photographed me with Barbara Hershey, Peter Strauss, Richard Kiley, Jane Seymour, Lloyd Bridges, Ned Beatty, or even a then little-known bit player from Chicago named John Malkovich.

Going online to get a copy of the Ben-Hur advert that I worked so hard to promote in the 1950s, could cost me up to four thousand dollars… and then it isn’t clear the seller won’t sue me if I use it in my book. Same is true, although the price is somewhat less for photos of then new actor, Jean-Paul Belmondo with veteran Jean Gabin, from their early film together, A Monkey in Winter.

There was also a very young Tom Courtenay, another actor I had never heard of before, in Private Potter. I did the captions on those still photos for MGM publicity, weeks after finishing my final year at USC.

“What the hell,” some senior publicist at MGM must have said, “the kid’s a college graduate; let him do the captions. He can type.”

I never got myself photographed with “my” Lolita star, Sue Lyon. And try to find a picture of Ned Beatty before I fired his ass off my ABC pilot for American Dream? Fuhgeddaboudit.

I have already spent more dollars on having family photos scanned than I will probably ever receive in royalties. Do I want to spend even more dollars to buy celebrity photos … even if they could arrive from some on-line dealer in France before my deadline?

Oh, I have a lot of pictures with Sharon Gless and Tyne Daly but whether I change the title or not, this is still my life story WITHOUT Cagney & Lacey.

I am almost eighty-eight years of age. I can barely work the google machine to find out what percentage of those mentioned in my book have already met their maker… (a HUGE number, by the way)… there is little chance I am going to be successful in finding a way to legally acquire the photos I need to illustrate my life’s story in Hollywood, let alone figure out how to upload (or is it download?) the photos to get them sent off to McFarland within any reasonable time frame.

This is the kind of job a Stephen King would give to his $100K plus per annum assistant. Hey, I get it. I was always great at delegating shit. Now, the only folks I know who are age-appropriate for this kind of work… that I might be able to afford… are my offspring. Guess what? They are either moving, remodeling, or in the throes of hip-replacement therapy. No help there.

Assuming I get this book in on time, it then takes McFarland at least six to eight months to do their work and to get the thing out to Amazon and whatever bookstores may still be in business. That means, if I am lucky, sometime near the end of spring, 2026 my book, whatever it’s called, will debut. Did I mention I am nearly eighty-eight years of age? I want to be alive when this book comes out, so there is no way I am going to miss that deadline and have to try to make it till the fall.

Meanwhile, under the heading that there is more to life than literature: I have managed to view a couple of TV shows… a true Yin yang combo for your attention. And I do mean, ATTENTION, ATTENTION… regardless of what you have read in your Sunday New York Times, if you are over 35 years of age, you may want to do all you can to avoid TOO MUCH on Netflix. To state the obvious, it is far too much. Take the worst actor… by a lot… in Hacks, make her the star of a series, and basically tell her not to change a thing from what she does in the Jean Smart show, and you have Megan Stalter. But why would you want her? Apparently, Lena Dunham does. Want her, or not, she’s got her.

TOO MUCH is a terrible show, but here is my caveat. My publishing deadline has put me in a foul mood. Dunham has proved herself in the past to be an off-center, brilliant filmmaker. And, finally, judging a series by one episode is not a very professional… or even smart… thing to do.

Having said that, you could not pay me to watch a second one. I know I could be proved wrong in the long run… but I am prepared to put a small amount of money where my critical sense lies. This show is simply Dunham doing too much with too little.

On the flip… or yang side… is Billy Bob Thornton, whom everyone agrees is one fine actor. Landman, his new series for Paramount Plus, is a winner. I loved it and, having seen all ten episodes, could not have been more impressed. Taylor Sheridan is a very good writer, proved it to me in the first two episodes of Tulsa King and has multiple hits to his credit such as Yellowstone, 1883 and 1923, none of which I have seen… yet. The supporting cast is fun but this is Thornton’s show and he runs with it. Lest it go unsaid, Sheridan’s writing partner on this series, Christian Wallace, appears to be no slouch either.

Back to the drawing board: speaking of which, I wonder if McFarland will accept sketches of Paul Newman and the other actors. I could make some drawings in lieu of photos. Problem is, no one would be recognizable; still, with the reduced stress, I might live long enough to see the yet unnamed book in print and McFarland could get an author still on this side of the grass. It might help them sell the thing. Win-win.

 

Barney Rosenzweig