Howard Hausman, who ran features in New York, asked me to see Arthur Allan Seidelman, an East Coast stage director whose claim to fame at that moment was directing his and Arnold Schwarnegger's debut film "Hercules in New York." There were few other credits that meant anything in Los Angeles.
He pitched himself by dropping scores of names he had directed on the stage, off and on Broadway, in theater in-the-round and square, in stock and wherever he could. I asked him for a memo with a list of names he worked with who would speak in his behalf.
He returned with an extensive and impressive list. One of the names was James Broderick.
Today remembered as the macho Irish father of Matthew Broderick, Jim was a respected actor who was brilliant as the cop against Pacino in "Dog Day Afternoon." Broderick was presently the co-star of "Family" a Jay Presson Allen created series that was in the top ten on ABC, an Aaron Spelling hit.
I asked Seidelman (pictured above) if he truly believed Broderick would speak in his behalf and he quickly answered yes.
I instructed my assistant to get Broderick (at right) on the phone. Within a few minutes she had called ABC and asked for the "Family" offices, was transferred and then I heard her ask for James Broderick. Someone yelled, "Jim, it's for you."
Broderick picked up, I introduced myself and told him that Arthur Seidelman was here and would like to speak to him. It was clear that Broderick was pleased.
Broderick was happy that Seidelman was in L.A. and that he was interested in directing an episode and that he would tell the producers Carole and Nigel McKeand to call his agent, me. In 10 minutes I received a call and a script was messengered over to my office. It was the next episode, and it came with an offer for him to direct.
It was my first experience witnessing a top rated, powerful network show and the staff's reaction to a new director brought in from New York. Despite a new, original script, every movement seemed to be locked in place. Seidelman worked confidently with the actors, but the blocking was set in stone, like they really didn't need a director to guide them.
Ten pages were shot each day. I saw it as a big train that was going to move forward to its destination whether you were pretending to be the engineer or not.
But the episode caled "The Gun or Moment of Truth" was one of their best and was nominated for an Emmy. More important, Seidelman was on the train, and once on, getting his next one hour directing assignments came fast and furious.
At the same time he handed me a screenplay by Richard Alfieri entitled "Fire From Heaven." Arthur and Richard had taken an option on Mary Renault's famed historical novel of Alexander the Great and Richard adapted it into a screenplay, a spectacular panorama of the ancient warrior's brief life.
Somehow a producer named George Englund (at left) had gotten a copy and submitted it to NBC as his own. He then tracked down Alfieri and Seidelman and the path led to me. He called and set a meeting.
Distinguished, polished and radiating self-importance, he had the presence and arrogance to attempt to intimate me. I was a mere child, oh how easy.
He announced "I have the network deal and you will deal with me accordingly." I knew enough that all he really had was NBC's interest. Their interest was in the "property" not the would-be-producer. The property was actaully in my control. He had nothing and I told him that.
He then pulled his "Shah card." "The Shah has given me 20,000 troops and all of Iran to make this. That's worth millions. I just need you to write me a memo bringing me together with the rights holders." (He had attempted an end run to author Renault who said "it was under option, sorry.")
Rediscovering 'Uncle Miltie'
In the meantime, the head of west coast television, heard of NBC's interest and suggested I bring the potential four hour miniseries to new client EMI Television, headed by Roger Gimbel, a production company created by WMA.
A meeting was set up for Seidelman and Gimbel (at right) which did not go well. Seidelman simply announced that his role in the miniseries was to direct. Gimbel rejected his directing out of hand. There was no deal to be made.
George Englund calls. He will let Seidelman direct (how nice of him) and he has brought in someone I knew and liked, a young producer Michael Jaffe. Michael, who grew up in the television business as the son of a beloved producer, like so many others, had a problem with the agency packaging fee.
But he and Englund said they would "accept it" if their company could have the investment tax credit. Yes, I know, they were dictating terms for a property that wasn't theirs!
Somehow Gimbel and EMI caved in and a meeting of all interested producers (as Englund's friendship with the Shah and delivery of their army was attractive) and Seidelman agreed to listen.
Search for the Magic Typewriter
Except that the "tax credit" became a boondoggle, an argument that lasted hours until I remembered a caveat in a small meeting I attended. I raised my hand and tried to get everyone's attention.
"Isn't the entire point of the investment tax credit that you shoot entirely in the U.S.?" They actually quesioned "So?" "When last I heard Iran wasn't in the U.S." "He's right. Forget the ITC." Everybody went home to determine what to do next.
Seidelman directing became Gimbel's bone of contention. Although England and Jaffe (at left) weren't overly concerned, Gimbel could not fathom this uncredited neophyte being approved to do a massive undertaking for network television. After all, there were extraordinary and proven directors available such as Marvin Chomsky, Joseph Sargent, Glenn Jordan, Lamont Johnson, who would provide confidence to the producers and network writing the check.
No matter how passionate the arguments made, Gimbel was adamant.
What should have occurred, and I am astonished that I didn't take the bull by the horns, was removing the property from EMI and opening it up to a producer or production company who would accept the director and move forward to tens of millions worth of production.
When others have had a similar dilemma in the making of a TV movie, the concept of hiring a line producer who was also a director was employed. That way, in the event the hired director was not delivering, there was an approved director on the set available to fill in immediately.
Gimbel had made himself clear. There would be no production of "Alexander the Great" with Seidelman calling the shots. And I let this happen?
Seidelman went on to direct much episodic television of the '70s and '80s, an "After-School Special" or two and ultimately television movies.
A final irony. While we managed to field firm offers for Seidelman for many TV movies over the years, he was seldom a producer's first choice. There were star TV movie directors such as the aforementioned Glenn Jordan and Joe Sargent You and your producer client blessed with a network pickup always jumped first on one from the star director list. Seidleman, always able and under budget, was genarally a distant choice.
He did, however, go on to direct many superior movies for television including a half dozen specials for the prestigous Hallmark Hall of Fame. He is, in fact, the director of 75 titles.
Today however, while Jordan and Sargent and most of the others have slowed down, retired or died, Seidelman still works and has crept into theatrical features and pilots as well. He, unlike a lot of directors who somehow become tyrants on the set, is beloved by cast and crew alike, which is probably why, in an industry where TV movies are an endangered species, he still is one of the last remaining constantly working TV movie directors.
As for the late great Alexander, producers Zev Braun amd Philip Krupp developed their version of Alexander for TNT with a script by Oscar winner Edward Anhalt over a period of several years. This script was rewritten by Ben Fitzgerald, a writer who is famous for "Passion of the Christ." Neither version was ever made.
And, of course, we all sadly remember Oliver Stone's feature attempt to tell this tale — a dismal monstrosity which brought unintended laughs.
Perhaps the Greek warrior's tale simply was too big to tell?