One of television’s most popular dramatic shows is “The Man From UNCLE.” For a week, a writer followed the production of an UNCLE episode. He reports about the crew, the cast, the stars and the whole business of putting together a serial that has sailed high into the TV orbit. This is the first of a five part series. By Joseph N. Bell.
Hollywood, Calif.—There was only a mild ripple of elation on “The
Man From UNCLE” set the October day that the Nielsen television ratings
showed UNCLE in first place for the first time.
Said Robert Vaughn, intrepid UNCLE agent: “I remember when we were 93rd.”
Said a harassed assistant director: “I’d rather be fourth. When
you’re first, you have to worry about staying there.” (He got his
wish a week later when the show dropped to fourth.)
Mostly the reaction was business as usual. It had to be, because the UNCLE crew
is turning out the equivalent of a feature length film every two weeks. And
that means work and more work—far beyond the ken of those starry eyed
citizens who still regard film making as a glamorous pastime. On the contrary,
it’s a weary, tough, demanding business.
Saw It Created
I spent a week following an UNCLE episode through the complete creative process,
from casting and script revision to final filming and editing. This show is
called “The Children’s Day Affair,” and it was seen on your
TV screens last Friday night. I saw it created at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studios
in Hollywood during the week of Oct. 11-15.
The first thing that strikes a visitor to UNCLE is the frenetic immediacy of
these shows. Only the script is prepared ahead of actual production, and even
that sometimes comes right down to the wire.
“The Children’s Day Affair” started in mid-July, when writer
Dean Hargrove—who, along with Peter Ross, does almost three-fourths of
the UNCLE scripts—told a story meeting:
“Here’s a springboard that might work. How about hanging a show
around a school for children being trained as THRUSH agents?” (As everyone
under 18 knows, THRUSH is an organization of bad guys, deadly enemies of U.N.C.L.E.)
The group liked the idea and told Hargrove to develop it. On July 23 he came
in with a 19 page outline, with occasional bits of dialog. This went to the
network (NBC) for approval of the story line. When it came back OK’d,
Hargrove met with producer Mort Abrams, made some refinements, ironed out some
details, then was told to go ahead with a finished script.
Outline Revised
Meanwhile, a revised outline was sent to the various production departments.
Specialists there checked it to catch any insoluble production problems before
they were written into the script.
In the story, for example, a sequence that involved several villains being crushed
by a falling boulder was eliminated because it couldn’t be simulated without
looking “terribly phony.”
The finished script was delivered on Sept. 29, less than two seeks before production
was to start. A director, Sherman Marks (who had done one other UNCLE episode),
was chosen, and the script distributed for “intensive production breakdown”—meaning
the actual design and assembly of costumes, props, scenery and similar accouterments.
On Thursday, Oct. 11, the heads of all of the UNCLE production departments met
around a conference table at MGM studios.
On a near-by sound stage, shooting was being completed on the previous UNCLE
episode. The next day the filming crew would be ready for the episode under
discussion. That’s how close to the chest filmed television is played
these days.
Needed Toy Train
The conversation around the table sounded almost surrealistic at times. Abrams,
a small, wiry man with cropped hair and an incredibly even disposition, presided.
The prop director was worried about a toy train needed in the show.
“The setup we’ve got just doesn’t look right,” he said.
“We’ve found one just like the prince of Monaco has. There’s
a car waiting right now to go and look at it. But it’s expensive.”
Abrams: “We’ll look at it. Let’s don’t compromise until
we have to.”
Prop director: “In scene 175, can’t we knock these two guys off
when the truck backs into them? We don’t need another fight, do we? We
already had a karate blow earlier.”
Abrams: “How are you going to do it? We can’t even run over a stunt
man?”
Prop man: “So we’ll write a scene of remorse afterward.”
Problem of Shirt
Wardrobe director: “We have an incongruous situation with David McCallum’s
wardrobe. He’s been whipped in the story, but when Bob (Vaughn) finds
him, he looks neat. If we fray a shirt too much, it will fall off him. And we
can’t show him bare chested because his frame is too slight.”
Abrams: “Why can’t we have his shirt and coat lying nearby? Bob
can get him into them.”
Wardrobe: “Okay, but he’ll have to play the rest of the show favoring
his back. Don’t forget that.”
So it went for several hours. The group agonized over such decisions as the
location of the driver’s side of a car in Switzerland, whether or not
a knife should be used to open a box containing a bomb, and the minimum number
of children that could be used to give the illusion of a full bus stopped by
the side of the road. “Let’s just say the rest of them have gone
to the bathroom.”)
Once a waiter serving Abrams a sandwich in the conference room poured coffee
on his arm and the producer didn’t appear even to notice. A tiny portable
radio with an ear attachment rested on the middle of the table; periodically
one of the conferees would pick it up and plug it in his ear to check the progress
of the world series.
At 1:30 p.m. a secretary poked her head in the door and said to Abrams: “Those
girls have been waiting to read for Anna for over an hour.”
He got up abruptly, excused himself, said “you can finish without me.
I’ve got to cast this show,” and left.