Reel Suite - June 17, 2008

Happy post-Father's Day, my beta-bloggers.  As my biological dad ran off in the late 60's with a Krishna girl he met at the airport handing out quaaludes, I had no obligations on Father's Day and planned to spend the afternoon completing my 3D map of Mordor. 

But it's funny what life throws at you. 

All week I had been researching revenue generated from TV, discovering the great disparity between high-profile, syndication-ready series and struggling newcomers, often noting the enormous salaries paid to established stars after a show reaches hit status.  Networks seemingly have to use smoke and mirrors to see any kind of profit from their prestige series.  And there's no trickle down process.
 
Which brings me to my Father's Day and the ironic parallel I encountered in the form of an unexpected houseguest.
 
At 5 am Sunday morning, a frantic knock at the door jolted me from my sleep.  I opened the door to discover old family friend Ed McMahon, three suitcases, and four dogs.  You see, Ed befriended my mother during a taping of "The Barbara McNair Show" years ago, doing shots together under the stands.  They kept in touch and Ed would often come over for Groundhog Day, and he and mom would play "Six More Weeks of Winter" in mom's bedroom.  I hadn't seen him since he invited us to a taping of "Muppets Tonight", so it was a shock seeing him on my doorstep.  I asked him if Countrywide had foreclosed on his home already, and he said no, that he and his wife Pamela had had a fight over his purchase of a vintage radio microphone he just had to have.  He had no place else to go.  Jerry's in Vegas, Larry's in D.C. and the Muppets are not real.  We spent the day reminiscing about Groundhog Days past, how the muffled sound of his trademark laugh permeated mom's bedroom door and always brought a smile to my face.  We ate corned beef and laughed and cried and hugged, then laughed again.
 
That night, we did some DiSironno on the rocks and I asked him how he could possibly be on the brink of financial ruin.  He re-iterated much of what he'd already said on talk shows, like manager's fees, divorces and bad investments.  But after he loosened up, he divulged his resentment toward the lopsided pay scale and residuals from "The Tonight Show".  Johnny made off with $20 million a year, while Ed got a fraction of that, and very little ancillary participation.  The thought of this made us so angry, we went upstairs and peed off the balcony in protest, howling at the moon, cursing Johnny's name.  Since Ed's in a neck brace, he couldn't sleep on the couch, so we shared my bed with his Norwegian Elkhounds Sonny, Cher, Regis and Art Fern.  Ed snored like a long-haul trucker, but his mind was finally at rest, and he slept with a smile on his face.  Quintessential Ed.
 
The whole experience has motivated me to fight for equal pay among television artists.  Whether you're the talent who holds the entire program together, or the drunk who laughs off camera.  I will be lobbying the MBS executives to adopt a strict policy of fairness.  I will not rest until the marginally talented are adequately compensated.  In the interim, I gave a hearty donation to www.LetsHelpEd.com, so Uncle Ed won't wind up homeless on Mulholland.  I suggest you do the same.
 
Heads up on next week's blog:  Since everyone's on vacation and there's not much industry analysis to be done, my co-workers have encouraged me to be a male stripper for a week, then blog about it.  Fascinating experiment.  Consider Kurt Barnet on assignment!