THE STRIKE MUST GO ON

K. L. Billingsley reports on life on the barricades with the Writers' Guild of America Los Angeles THE word 'strike' does not evoke the sunny environs of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, where the net worth of some resi- dents might exceed the GNP of a small Caribbean nation. In this region, Mercedes-Benz and Porsche automobiles are like belly-buttons: everyone has one. This is primarily a business, not an artistic, community, in which the truly creative people are studio accountants and lawyers. And as Woody Allen quipped in Annie Hall, they don't even put out the garbage in Beverly Hills; they make it into televi- sion programmes. It would surely please Arthur Scargill that Hollywood is also a strong union town. But he might wonder about some of the unions.

The group currently on the barricades is not your ordinary collective bargaining unit. The Writers' Guild of America West, Inc. (WGA) represents film, television and radio writers. The union hall is on Beverly Boulevard, smack in the middle of the 'Gucci Archipelago'. The median annual income for Guild writers is $40,000, but since only about half of the membership actually work, the true figure is much higher — perhaps $90,000 — enough, let us say, to feed your average family. But compared with the 'stars' and producers, the writers are underpaid and under- appreciated.

In terms of self-image, however, WGA members have little in common with other trade unionists. 'We don't deal in service or labour,' writes one who aspires to union office, 'we furnish product. We're an indis- pensable monopoly: a small group who're the architects of a product in demand the world over.' Look at who we are,' con- tends another. 'As a union we probably have the highest collective IQ in all of labour. We are the ones who invent the myths of the nation.' Not many coal- miners in Yorkshire or Kentucky can make those claims.

The WGA does not strike over com- pensation for writer's cramp, or safe work- ing conditions. Disputes tend to centre on money. In a series of meetings at the Hollywood Palladium during February and March, the Guild's executives reviewed the producers' terms for a new pact, with particular attention to residual payments, which the producers want to reduce. In spite of continued negotiations, support for a strike ran at nearly 100 per cent. On 7 March the Guild walked out. Negotiators for both sides accused the other of intransi- gence and bad faith. MCA/Universal presi- dent Sid Sheinberg reportedly called the strike 'a blessing' because it would keep his company from making those one-hour shows that were losing money. But what about the writers?

Imagine a busy 'scenarist' bashing out a vignette in which, say, a character to be played by Jane Fonda leads a machine-gun raid on the home of Leon Trotsky. Howev- er, as soon as the strike is called, this writer must down tools. The strike rules are delicately nuanced: 'You must immediately stop writing for any and all struck com- panies. You cannot continue or complete writing you started before the strike for a struck company. You cannot perform writ- ing services even if you work at home or at your own office rather than at the com- pany's premises.' The strike list is eight pages long and includes 650 names, among them John and Bo Derek, the late Liber- ace, and a company called Foreplay, Inc. — doubtless a producer of films for chil- dren.

Some 800 WGA members have taken to the barricades at such places as the 20th Century Fox studios on Pico Boulevard. Picket signs proclaim, 'The Writers Guild Strikes', and show a bolt of lightning tipped with a pen. Someone evidently decided that a sign bearing the words, 'Down with crediting overscale initial com- pensation against residuals and any other payment required under the Minimum Basic Agreement', would, as they say in the trade, go over the top.

There was a brief heat wave in early April, and the Guild's first aid committee mailed out an advisory warning of the 'health hazards of hot weather picketing'. The troops were advised to 'wear a hat' and drink lots of Gatorade. James L. Brooks (Terms of Endearment) and Albert Brooks (Broadcast News) braved the heat sans chapeaux.

The pickets struck fear into the heart of no one. Robert Collector, who had just finished a script for Chevy Chase, com- plained that the strikers were letting every car pass with impunity. Writer Jack Lieber- man said that 'we should be burning cars and turning over trucks', but it was only a joke. 'This is not a normal strike line,' he added, perhaps mindful of the German luxury cars parked to one side. ('We don't all drive a Mercedes,' explained another.) The strike, however, did have an effect.

Mr Johnny Carson of the Tonight Show is the nation's Comedian Emeritus, and it quickly became manifest how many of the zingers in his monologues are actually written by himself. An approximate figure would be zero. His show quickly went to re-runs. Daily soap operas were almost immediately changed; some let the actors ad-lib. But the big question concerned 11 April, Academy Awards night. The enter- tainment-starved masses began to wonder: would the WGA dare shut it down? In Hollywood, it would be an act of sacrilege, roughly equivalent to altar boys picketing the Pope's Easter address to the world.

Though it seems spontaneous, the Academy Awards show is carefully scripted, with the text including everything but ad-libs and acceptance speeches. As it happened, former Guild president Melville Shavelson and others completed the job before the strike was called. George Kirgo, the WGA's current West Coast president, said that the strikers would not picket the awards, 'because that ceremony honours the entire industry'. However, the Guild spokeswoman, Cheryl Rhoden, said that the union had not forbidden individual members from holding demonstrations.

Had any demonstrators showed up at the Shrine Auditorium on the night, they might have been trampled by the adoring throngs eager for a peek at the stars. But the Guild had other methods. They sent letters warning those who presented awards, regardless of whether they were Guild members, not to write any new material for the broadcast. During the actual live telecast, WGA bosses followed the proceedings with a 'validated copy' of the script, watchful for the slightest varia- tion. In addition, Guild members stationed themselves at strategic positions in the audience to reconnoitre the cue cards for extra-curricular material. Had they found any, their duty was clear. Strike Rule No. 9 states, 'You must inform the Guild of the name of any writer you have reason to believe is engaged in any strike-breaking activity or scab writ- ing.' There is a strong cinematic touch here; like those secret police officials in second world war movies, they want the names. Curiously, in Guild lore about the `McCarthy Era', naming names was the most heinous of sins. But apparently squealing on one's union brothers and sisters is now a fully approved tactic.

During the dark days of the 1950s, blacklisted scribes such as Dalton Trumbo foiled the moguls by serving as ghost writers or using pseudonyms. But the Guild has taken a cue from Ghostbusters and forbids both. Guilty parties may be disciplined, asked to resign, or expelled. The unspoken threat is the oldest line in Hollywood: 'You'll never work in this town again.'

J. Nicholas Counter III, chief negotiator for the producers, believes that every man has a screenplay in him. He announced that 'our companies are encouraging who- ever wants to come forward to write scripts'. George Kirgo suspects that studio phones are ringing off the hooks with thousands of calls from 'unrequited writers in Anaheim, Azusa, and Cucamonga'. But there are measures dealing with those who might be tempted to toss off a Cosby Show or LA Law script while the indispensable monopoly with superior intelligence is Pounding the pavement instead of the keyboard. Though the Guild cannot forbid this activity, the possibilities for an eager informer in the WGA are broad indeed.

Rule 14 requires Guild writers to report the names of non-members suspected of writing for struck companies. The Guild bars such writers from ever joining its ranks. They'll never work in this town.

It remains to be seen whether the WGA strike will inspire other scribes to organise. Writers of political speeches, for example, could drive a hard bargain in an election Year. (Since television plays a major role in the campaign, one could argue that speech writers are scriptwriters.) Candidates could be forced to use old material — in effect, re-runs — as in Senator Joseph Biden's faithful adaptation of a text by Neil Kin- nock.

But things could also backfire. US citizens are constitutionally required to pursue happiness. They consider television fare such as Happy Days and Family Ties as part of their inalienable rights in that fevered quest. Hence, the WGA strike is most properly a matter for a Committee on Un-American Activities.