My Two Rabbis

Looking back on my days as a television writer before I became a showrunner, I realize I learned the most from my first boss in the business and my last. And they couldn’t have been more different.

Michael Gleason, co-creator and showrunner of Remington Steele,  was an old school broadcast veteran. Josh Brand, co-creator and showrunner of Northern Exposure, was a “new school” broadcast innovator.

Michael began his show biz career as a stage manager in New York theater, where a young Stephen Sondheim advised him not to move to the West Coast, deeming television a lost cause. Michael ignored that and developed his writing chops on everything from Westerns (Rawhide, Laramie) to zany comedies (My Favorite Martian) to primetime soaps (Peyton Place) to procedurals (Cannon, McCloud).

His greatest achievement was Remington Steele, the light-hearted detective series starring Pierce Brosnan and Stephanie Zimbalist, which showcased Michael’s mischievous sense of humor and love of classic movies.

I joined Remington in its second season and stayed until it was cancelled——the first time (but that’s another story, one told in my book).

Josh held an M.A. in English literature from Columbia University and began his TV career with writing partner John Falsey at MTM Studios as writers on The White Shadow, a pioneering drama about a white basketball coach at an inner-city high school.

From there, the pair created the acclaimed MTM hospital drama, St. Elsewhere, before leaving for Universal Studios, where they came up with Northern Exposure, the award-winning dramedy about a New York Jewish doctor exiled to rural Alaska to pay off his med school debts.

I joined No Ex at episode 17 and stayed on through the finale, episode 110.  

Michael was a feisty Irish Catholic from Brooklyn with an explosive laugh who loved nothing more than batting about story ideas with the writing staff. On many days, Michael would take the writers out for lunch to his favorite restaurant, the late, lamented La Serre, chauffeuring us back and forth in his white Rolls Royce.

Back in his office, as the shadows lengthened, he often invited “Dr. Smirnoff” into the conversation, signaling that cocktail hour had arrived.  

As you can tell, Michael was fun, fiercely passionate about the work, but always with a twinkle.

Josh was an intellectual Jew from Queens with the aspect of a brilliant, owlish professor of literature——reserved, precise, remote. Though totally conversant in film and TV, for inspiration Josh was more likely to ask the writing staff to read a novel by Eudora Welty or Herman Melville than look at a classic movie.

Though he had a wicked wit, I don’t think I ever heard Josh laugh out loud——let me correct that: he did chuckle audibly on many occasions, but that never became a guffaw (by contrast, you could hear Michael’s laugh down the hall).

I never saw Josh drink, nor did I ever share a meal or even a late afternoon conversation with him. I think he drove a Ford, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a Volvo. Josh was all business, like a stern head of school or world-class neurosurgeon.

In fact, it’s a medical analogy that best explains the unique attributes of both showrunners. Michael ran a teaching hospital; Josh ran a private hospital.

When you begin your television writing career, you want to start in a teaching hospital, where a wise chief resident will take you on rounds, let you treat a variety of patients, but step in before you actually kill anyone.

In a private hospital, the chief resident expects all doctors to treat patients without supervision——and without mistakes. Make a mistake, you not only lose the patient, you lose your job. Rookies need not apply.

To bring this down to the operational level, on Remington, we wrote what would be considered a conventional outline, 10 to 12 pages, concisely summarizing what would become the script scene by scene. The outline not only needed Michael’s approval, but had to be vetted by the studio and network.

If the first draft of your script deviated from the outline, Michael would want to know why. If a certain line that had emerged during story discussion was missing, he’d wonder what happened to it. (Me: “It wasn’t logical; I couldn’t find a way to make it work.” Michael: “But it was funny. Make it work.” I had a lot to learn about the value of entertainment over strict logic.)

On Northern Exposure, we didn’t even submit outlines to the studio or network. Josh refused——and had the clout to get away with it. So, outlines were for internal purposes only.

Even so, Josh didn’t want to read more than 2-3 pages, the bare bones. During the story development process with Josh, I’d take copious notes and write long rambling outlines for myself; I’d then reduce that to what I called “the transparent outline” for Josh.

When you turned in your first draft, Josh didn’t care whether you’d followed the outline or not. In fact, I don’t think he referred back to the outline at all. He only cared whether the script worked.

I learned this early in my tenure when I was told to rewrite a script that had been written by a pair of outsiders. I worked off the outline and did my best.

After I turned in my pass, I walked back to my office where there was a message to see Josh. When I returned to his office, he was flipping through the script, clearly not thrilled.

Without looking up, he asked, “Does this get any better?” I knew he wasn’t challenging my competence (I’d already won my spurs with him as a writer); it was the story he was questioning.

I shrugged. “No, I said. He tossed the script into the trash. “Well, we’ve got to start over.” Here’s the kicker: Josh wrote the original outline.

There’s a lot more to be said about these divergent approaches, which I explore further in my book, but point here is that I was lucky. I started at one end of the spectrum with a great teacher and ended at the other with another great teacher.

Northern Exposure was the critical high point of my pre-showrunning career, but I would never have survived the experience if I hadn’t started with Remington Steele.

Two rabbis, two different hospitals, one long arc of learning.

If you want a comprehensive guide on becoming a showrunner, read my book Running the Show, which synthesizes the lessons I’ve learned over 40 years in television.