Avengers, Disassemble!

I’m going to tell you a story to make a point, a true story, but in the words of the late Jack Enyart, I will change the names “to protect the innocent and confound the guilty.’

. . .

Once upon a time, w-a-a-a-y back before we had word processors or the Internet or even bulletin board systems, Producer Pete got the rights to do an Avengers TV show.

All of us who worked for Producer Pete Productions kvelled at this idea:  The Avengers!  Marvel’s mightiest heroes!  We couldn’t wait to jump on it.

…and we didn’t have to wait.  Producer Pete got the rights on a Monday, called the network on Tuesday to pitch the idea to them, the network said send us an outline for the pilot and some sample art and we’ll let you know.

Send it by Thursday.

This Thursday.

In the morning.

First thing.

(Oh, did I mention Producer Pete was in Los Angeles and the network suits were in New York?  I didn’t?  Well, keep that in mind -- along with the fact we had no such thing as the Internet or emails back in the day.)

Producer Pete appraised us of this late Tuesday.  A complete detailed outline and production art in 36 hours.  A tough challenge…

…but it could be done.

First we hammered out a format for the show:
An hour in length, not a mere half hour, and thus with six segments instead of three.  Each episode would tell a big overarching story, but segments 1 through 5 would be standalone adventures focusing on just one of the Avengers while segment 6 would wrap everything up in a big bright bow.

We quickly came up with a story idea and even called in a couple of freelance writers and artists to get everything done by 6pm on Wednesday, which was the latest we could drop the material off at FedEx and hope to get it to NYC first thing Thursday.

The Avengers team assembled.  Producer Pete put me in charge of shepherding the project.  I gathered the writers and art crew around noon on Wednesday and ran them through the broad strokes quickly:

“Al, you write the Captain America segment,  That’s our opening.  Make sure Cappy does A by the end of the segment so it can tie in with Bob’s segment.

“Bob, you write Namor’s segment.  Take A and add B to it so Carol can pick up where you leave off with the Vision.

“Carol, you take A and B, add C so Dave can add D; Dave, pass A, B, C, and D to Ed; Ed, you make sure to add E and when you’re all done I’ll go over the entire thing and write the last segment where all the Avengers assemble and do A through E together.”

I then gave out similar assignments to the artists.  They didn’t have to reflect exactly what any of the writers wrote, but they needed to make sure Cappy did A, Namor did B, etc.

Six writers, six artists, six hours.  It could be done.  We were off and running…

…except for Bob.

Bob was a talented writer, wrote very funny stuff, but he was as deaf as a post and vain about his condition.

I went over the beats at least twice with everybody in the room, each time asking the assembled crew:  “Have you got that?”

And they all nodded and said they did.

Even Bob.

And I also told them that if they had any problems, come straight to me, I’d help work ‘em out ASAP.

Six writers.

Six artists.

Six short written segments.

Six pieces of art.

Six hours.

Piece o’ cake, right?

Bob did not hear me telling the crew to come straight to me if they ran into any problems.

Instead he went to Producer Pete and said, “I can’t figure out what this thing is regarding Namor and B.  Howzabout if instead of B I did 2?”

“Sure,” said Producer Pete, sealing our fates.

Four o’clock rolls around.  The preliminary art looks great, the artists are inking and coloring.  Al and Carol and Dave and Ed turn in their segments, and everything fits together perfectly.

Bob drops off his Namor segment.

The segment with 2 instead of B.

“Whoa!  Whoa!  Whoa!” says I.  “What’s this?  Bob, we need Namor to do B not 2.  Go back and fix it.”

Bob goes back, but he doesn’t fix it.  He looks up Producer Pete instead.  “Buzz doesn’t like your idea about 2, he wants to do B.”

“Tell him to do 2,” says Producer Pete.  Once he put his mark on a story, it was going to stay that way, regardless of what had been discussed and agreed upon earlier.

Bob relays this news to me.  I go see Producer Pete.  Producer Pete listens to my explanation why we need Bob to write B instead of 2, nods, and says, “Do 2 instead.”

Well, this throws a monkey wrench in the proceedings, because we can’t have the Avengers doing A, 2, C, D, and E in the last segment, can we?

The writers are ready to leave but I corral them and explain the situation.  They are not happy, but they know what needs to be done and get back to work.

I intercept the artists and explain they need to redo the art to reflect 1 through 5 instead of A through E.

They are even less happy than the writers, but they start redoing the almost completed art.

I alert the office manager and tell her she needs to keep a couple of typists on duty (remember, this is before word processing; we writers handed in rough drafts, frequently corrected with red pens or literally cut and pasted together, and a secretary or typists would need to retype the material in presentable form).

They’re even less happy than the artists (who at least have the benefit of chemical enhancements).

But there’s more bad news:
Because the art needs to be redone, we’re gonna miss the 6pm deadline for regular FedEx service.

Fortunately, the office manager has a replacement -- more expensive, but available.  If we can get the work done by 7pm, we can take advantage of a special courier service used by banks and big businesses.

Well, ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right?

And Bob?

I told him he’d done a great job
and that he could go home.

Wasn’t gonna keep him around
to screw things up again.

(Don’t think I bore any grudge against Bob; I realized the fault lay with me not making sure, not him failing to understand.  I worked with him a couple of times after that, but never on any projects with crucial deadlines.)

We plunge ahead.  Now we’re getting desperate (well, not the typists; they’re merely getting cranky).

Producer Pete needed to attend some function that evening so around 6:30pm he starts heading out the door.  The office manager and I intercept him with a vital question:  If the artists haven’t finished all six pieces of art by 7pm, can we got with what we’ve got?

“No.  I promised ‘em six pieces of art, they’re gonna get six pieces of art.”

So off he went, and back I went to do what I could to speed the artists along.

You can only lay down inks and colors so fast, and this was not merely a case of new art but old art to be retouched in order for the new to go over it.

And that didn’t include mounting said art on large boards for a professional looking presentation.

7pm starts breathing down our necks.  We’ve got four pieces done.  We contact Producer Pete at his function and ask if we can go with four instead of six.

Long pause.  “Is the final segment among the four?”

=groan= No.

“Don’t send it unless you can include the big climax.”

7pm zooms past.  We do not notice the lovely sound Douglas Adams claims it makes.

Now we’re really at wit’s end.  Contact Producer Pete at his function again.  He is not happy.  Explain the situation.

Fortunately the office manager found an even more expensive solution:  
A special service that will send a personal courier across the country via red eye flight to deliver the presentation first thing in the morning.

Not only does it cost a huge hunka cash to hire this service, but said courier must fly first-class round trip.

I tell Producer Pete he can buy me an economy round trip ticket and I would personally deliver the presentation.

Producer Pete asks me to put office manager on the line.

Tells office manager if necessary, she is to shoot me to prevent my having any face-to-face encounter with the network.

Fortunately the last two artists finish their pieces just minutes shy of the super-expensive super-exclusive courier’s 8pm deadline.

He shows up at the front door, we thrust the presentation into his arms, spin him around, and shove him into the cab.

He makes it to the airport, catches the flight, delivers the presentation the next day as contracted.

The art crew and I and a couple of writers who wanted to see if we’d make it or not decide we need to blow off some steam.

Problem:
Producer Pete’s studio is w-a-a-a-y out in the boonies; there are no nearby places to get a meal or a drink.

Solution:
We commandeer Producer Pete’s liquor cabinet and drain it dry.

P.S.: The network rejects the show.

P.P.S.: Producer Pete buys a liquor cabinet with a lock on it.

. . .

So why tell you all this?

I get criticized a lot for being extremely specific and precise in my details.

Now let me state, this isn’t true 100% of the time.

I don’t need to micromanage everything.

But if I know what I want, then I want that, not something close to it, not something approximating it. 

If the final product doesn’t need to fit a precise need, I’m typically fine with letting people do what they feel best.

But when I give explicit instructions, I’ve got a reason.

And sometimes why I want it is so involved and complex that’s it’s just easier for me to say “Do it at 700dpi” than explain we’re anticipating the artwork being repurposed at some point in the future.

Just.

Do.

It.

…or refuse…

But please don’t say you will then ignore what I tell you I need.

. . .

Ironically, the exact opposite of this scenario also plagues me.

If you include a detail in your instructions, I assume that detail is important.

If you tell me to contact Jane in the accounting department, I’m gonna contact Jane even if there’s a half dozen other people who can help me just as easily.

Don’t distract me with superfluous details.

“Contact the accounting department”
not “Contact Jane”, comprende?

(I’m not the least bit surprised
I need to explain this to many of you…)

© Buzz Dixon