PROLOGUE: THIRTEEN OR CALL SECURITY
It was 1989, and the future of Saved by the Bell hung in the balance. Fifty-three years old, and executive producer of the show, I walked briskly and with purpose across the blacktop at NBC Studios in Burbank, California. It was an oppressive 102 degrees out, the norm for that time of year, pretty much the norm year-round. But I wasn’t thinking about the heat. I was thinking about Bell. The show was just a baby then. It had never even aired. But we had taped seven episodes on our stage at Burbank, and at every taping, the audience went nuts.
Anyone who saw it, expert or not, could tell the reaction was rare. We would bus kids in from different local high schools each Friday to fill our bleachers. They would file in with zero knowledge of the show, no idea who Zack Morris or Kelly Kapowski were. But as early as the first scene, they’d be hooked. By the end of the taping, the teens would be hanging over the railings, screaming and laughing and starstruck, begging the cast for autographs, hugs, and kisses. Never, in my thirty-three years in the business, had I seen an audience so instantly converted to fans. Seeing the spectacle, anyone with half a pulse would know immediately: The show, if allowed to reach its potential, would be a sensation.
But I was worried. I was worried because I wasn’t sure we’d get the chance. We had an initial order for seven episodes, and now that we’d completed that order, I was afraid the show would be on and off the Saturday morning schedule in seven weeks, never to be seen or heard from again. Seven episodes simply wasn’t enough to build momentum. I had to get us more.
I was going to speak with Brandon Tartikoff, president of NBC’s entertainment division, to make him understand that we didn’t just have some ordinary show on our hands, that it was something special. I’d been working my entire life for a hit like Bell, and even though I had come to it pretty much by accident—I never intended to produce “kids’ shows”—there was no conceivable way I was going to give it up now. I’d been knocked down so many times in my career, had my heart broken as though on repeat, I refused to let this one get away. So I marched over to Brandon’s office, determined, ready for war.
Brandon Tartikoff was a wonder boy. The youngest president in the division’s history (he stepped into the job at thirty-two) Brandon put on hit after hit after hit: from The Cosby Show and Hill Street Blues to The Golden Girls and Miami Vice. Brandon was the one who brought me to NBC as an executive producer, at a time when pretty much no one else would take me. He was the one who inspired me to write and produce Saved by the Bell. The show’s first incarnation, Good Morning, Miss Bliss, had been his idea. He believed in this project. But I had to make him prove it. If not, I knew we’d sink.
When I got to Brandon’s office, I was greeted by Brandon and two of his executives: John Agoglia, Brandon’s tough, no-nonsense chief of business affairs, and Kevin Reilly, the young—he was only twenty-three, a recent college grad—but loyal network liaison assigned to the show. (We named Screech’s robot, “Kevin,” after Kevin Reilly.) We all shook hands and I jumped right in:
“I need thirteen more episodes. I need thirteen more to finish the season.”
“You want thirteen episodes?” replied Brandon, coolly. “On top of the seven you’ve already shot? Wishful thinking, Peter. It ain’t gonna happen.”
“Brandon,” I came back, “you’ve been to the tapings on show night. You’ve seen how the kids react. It’s raucous. It’s insanity. There’s nothing else we need to know. This show will be a hit. It can’t miss. I need thirteen more for this season.”
“Well, you can’t have thirteen more. I don’t have money for thirteen more. I’m sitting on a mountain of foreign entries and busted pilots, and they need a home in the schedule.”
“You’re telling me that you’re going to mix our seven eps with a bunch of outside jobs and corpses—shows you know will never make it?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“You’ll kill the show. It’ll be dead in the water. Dead. You mix losers with a winner and all you get are losers. You know that.”
Brandon said nothing. It was a bad nothing. He wasn’t thinking it over. He wasn’t reconsidering. On his view, the conversation was finished.
I drilled him: “Brandon, this was your idea. It was your idea to do live action teen programming, not mine. I didn’t even believe in it when you brought it to me. It was your vision.”
Nothing.
I continued, “Don’t go against your creative instincts because of money. That never works and it never will. You know that. You also know that this show is a hit. You can feel it.”
Nothing again.
This was it. This was the moment of truth. If I didn’t do something, Bell would disappear, and with it, my dream of ever really making it. There were only so many chances in a lifetime, and I was sure this was my last. But what could I do to get his attention? What could I do that no producer had ever done in his office, or any office? I was desperate. The clock was ticking. And then, out of nowhere, it came to me.
“Okay, Brandon, you’ve left me no choice!” I announced. “I’m going to lie down on this floor, in the middle of your office, and I’m going to stay there until you order thirteen more episodes!”
“Very funny,” said Brandon.
“I mean it, Brandon! I’m not going to leave this room until you either give me thirteen episodes or call security! It’s thirteen or security! You can either give me thirteen episodes or drag me out in handcuffs!”
I shot out of my chair and onto my knees, and as I prepared to lie down on the floor, John and Kevin made for the door.
Before going, John said cautiously, “For the record, I agree with Peter.”
Kevin simply fled.
As they turned to leave, I got down below Brandon’s desk. Then I popped my head up from below.
“Thirteen or security!” I said forcefully, then I lay down on my back.
Brandon picked up his phone and called his assistant. “Barbara,” he said, and in the pause I held my breath, “get me Mike Ovitz at CAA.”
I popped up from the floor again: “Thirteen or security!”
Barbara patched him through, and for the duration of the phone call, I stayed exactly as I was, splayed out on his carpet.
He hung up the phone and I proclaimed again, “Thirteen or security!”
“Barbara,” he said, “get me Dick Wolf.”
“I mean it!” I shouted from the ground. “It’s thirteen or you drag me out! I’ll stay here all night!”
“Hi Dick, it’s Brandon…”
It carried on like this for some time. He’d make a call; I’d lie on his floor. He’d hang up the call, and I’d proclaim “Thirteen or security!” He’d say nothing.
Finally, after eight or so calls, I popped up like a gopher and shouted, “Thirteen or security! Thirteen or security! Thirteen or security!”
“Okay!” he barked. “You’ve got thirteen!”
I sprang up and pointed my finger at him, “You’d better be for real, Tartikoff! I’m not going anywhere if you’re not for real! I’ll stay here all day!”
“I’m for real. You get your thirteen. Now get out of my office.”
I made for the door quickly, to get out before he changed his mind, but his voice stopped me in my tracks, “Hey Peter…”
I sighed, and turned around, awaiting doom.
“Knock ’em dead,” said Brandon with a smile.
I smiled back, and laughed with relief.
“We will,” I said.
© 2016 Peter Engel. All Rights Reserved.
Published by Top Hat Words
an imprint of Ambassador Entertainment Inc.
It was 1989, and the future of Saved by the Bell hung in the balance. Fifty-three years old, and executive producer of the show, I walked briskly and with purpose across the blacktop at NBC Studios in Burbank, California. It was an oppressive 102 degrees out, the norm for that time of year, pretty much the norm year-round. But I wasn’t thinking about the heat. I was thinking about Bell. The show was just a baby then. It had never even aired. But we had taped seven episodes on our stage at Burbank, and at every taping, the audience went nuts.
Anyone who saw it, expert or not, could tell the reaction was rare. We would bus kids in from different local high schools each Friday to fill our bleachers. They would file in with zero knowledge of the show, no idea who Zack Morris or Kelly Kapowski were. But as early as the first scene, they’d be hooked. By the end of the taping, the teens would be hanging over the railings, screaming and laughing and starstruck, begging the cast for autographs, hugs, and kisses. Never, in my thirty-three years in the business, had I seen an audience so instantly converted to fans. Seeing the spectacle, anyone with half a pulse would know immediately: The show, if allowed to reach its potential, would be a sensation.
But I was worried. I was worried because I wasn’t sure we’d get the chance. We had an initial order for seven episodes, and now that we’d completed that order, I was afraid the show would be on and off the Saturday morning schedule in seven weeks, never to be seen or heard from again. Seven episodes simply wasn’t enough to build momentum. I had to get us more.
I was going to speak with Brandon Tartikoff, president of NBC’s entertainment division, to make him understand that we didn’t just have some ordinary show on our hands, that it was something special. I’d been working my entire life for a hit like Bell, and even though I had come to it pretty much by accident—I never intended to produce “kids’ shows”—there was no conceivable way I was going to give it up now. I’d been knocked down so many times in my career, had my heart broken as though on repeat, I refused to let this one get away. So I marched over to Brandon’s office, determined, ready for war.
Brandon Tartikoff was a wonder boy. The youngest president in the division’s history (he stepped into the job at thirty-two) Brandon put on hit after hit after hit: from The Cosby Show and Hill Street Blues to The Golden Girls and Miami Vice. Brandon was the one who brought me to NBC as an executive producer, at a time when pretty much no one else would take me. He was the one who inspired me to write and produce Saved by the Bell. The show’s first incarnation, Good Morning, Miss Bliss, had been his idea. He believed in this project. But I had to make him prove it. If not, I knew we’d sink.
When I got to Brandon’s office, I was greeted by Brandon and two of his executives: John Agoglia, Brandon’s tough, no-nonsense chief of business affairs, and Kevin Reilly, the young—he was only twenty-three, a recent college grad—but loyal network liaison assigned to the show. (We named Screech’s robot, “Kevin,” after Kevin Reilly.) We all shook hands and I jumped right in:
“I need thirteen more episodes. I need thirteen more to finish the season.”
“You want thirteen episodes?” replied Brandon, coolly. “On top of the seven you’ve already shot? Wishful thinking, Peter. It ain’t gonna happen.”
“Brandon,” I came back, “you’ve been to the tapings on show night. You’ve seen how the kids react. It’s raucous. It’s insanity. There’s nothing else we need to know. This show will be a hit. It can’t miss. I need thirteen more for this season.”
“Well, you can’t have thirteen more. I don’t have money for thirteen more. I’m sitting on a mountain of foreign entries and busted pilots, and they need a home in the schedule.”
“You’re telling me that you’re going to mix our seven eps with a bunch of outside jobs and corpses—shows you know will never make it?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“You’ll kill the show. It’ll be dead in the water. Dead. You mix losers with a winner and all you get are losers. You know that.”
Brandon said nothing. It was a bad nothing. He wasn’t thinking it over. He wasn’t reconsidering. On his view, the conversation was finished.
I drilled him: “Brandon, this was your idea. It was your idea to do live action teen programming, not mine. I didn’t even believe in it when you brought it to me. It was your vision.”
Nothing.
I continued, “Don’t go against your creative instincts because of money. That never works and it never will. You know that. You also know that this show is a hit. You can feel it.”
Nothing again.
This was it. This was the moment of truth. If I didn’t do something, Bell would disappear, and with it, my dream of ever really making it. There were only so many chances in a lifetime, and I was sure this was my last. But what could I do to get his attention? What could I do that no producer had ever done in his office, or any office? I was desperate. The clock was ticking. And then, out of nowhere, it came to me.
“Okay, Brandon, you’ve left me no choice!” I announced. “I’m going to lie down on this floor, in the middle of your office, and I’m going to stay there until you order thirteen more episodes!”
“Very funny,” said Brandon.
“I mean it, Brandon! I’m not going to leave this room until you either give me thirteen episodes or call security! It’s thirteen or security! You can either give me thirteen episodes or drag me out in handcuffs!”
I shot out of my chair and onto my knees, and as I prepared to lie down on the floor, John and Kevin made for the door.
Before going, John said cautiously, “For the record, I agree with Peter.”
Kevin simply fled.
As they turned to leave, I got down below Brandon’s desk. Then I popped my head up from below.
“Thirteen or security!” I said forcefully, then I lay down on my back.
Brandon picked up his phone and called his assistant. “Barbara,” he said, and in the pause I held my breath, “get me Mike Ovitz at CAA.”
I popped up from the floor again: “Thirteen or security!”
Barbara patched him through, and for the duration of the phone call, I stayed exactly as I was, splayed out on his carpet.
He hung up the phone and I proclaimed again, “Thirteen or security!”
“Barbara,” he said, “get me Dick Wolf.”
“I mean it!” I shouted from the ground. “It’s thirteen or you drag me out! I’ll stay here all night!”
“Hi Dick, it’s Brandon…”
It carried on like this for some time. He’d make a call; I’d lie on his floor. He’d hang up the call, and I’d proclaim “Thirteen or security!” He’d say nothing.
Finally, after eight or so calls, I popped up like a gopher and shouted, “Thirteen or security! Thirteen or security! Thirteen or security!”
“Okay!” he barked. “You’ve got thirteen!”
I sprang up and pointed my finger at him, “You’d better be for real, Tartikoff! I’m not going anywhere if you’re not for real! I’ll stay here all day!”
“I’m for real. You get your thirteen. Now get out of my office.”
I made for the door quickly, to get out before he changed his mind, but his voice stopped me in my tracks, “Hey Peter…”
I sighed, and turned around, awaiting doom.
“Knock ’em dead,” said Brandon with a smile.
I smiled back, and laughed with relief.
“We will,” I said.
© 2016 Peter Engel. All Rights Reserved.
Published by Top Hat Words
an imprint of Ambassador Entertainment Inc.