Writers don’t confront actors on the set. On such encounters, whole movies are lost. : On the Trail of Lust

I have a television movie in production. It is called “Betrayal of Trust,” although I tend to mumble the title and some of my friends think it is called “Trail of Lust.”

The movie is being shot for the fall and is about lying, rotten newspaper reporters and lying, rotten cops. Right. It’s a love story.

I began toying with the idea a couple of years ago and then took on a co-writer, Philip Saltzman, who also works as a producer. Together, we sold it to CBS.

“I want you to be involved in this all the way,” Phil said to me one day in the Studio City office provided by the network. That is rare talk from a producer.

“Fine,” I said.

“When you have a suggestion, speak up.”

“I will.”

“Absolutely anything.”

“Great.”

“Everything OK so far?” he asked.

“I hate the title,” I said.

Phil has been in the business a long time. He knows the kinds of titles television buys. It has to be something that even a network vice president might understand.

They would not, for instance, buy “Dark at the Top of the Stairs.” “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” would be touch and go.

The first movie I ever sold I called “Jigsaw John.” NBC changed it to “They Only Come Out at Night.” It didn’t mean a damn thing.

“ Who only comes out at night?” I demanded to know. They ignored me.

“What title do you prefer?” Phil asked nervously.

“I don’t know,” I said, “something more dramatic. ‘Thunder in the City Room’ maybe.”

He stared at me for a moment before finding words. Then he said, “I think we ought to leave the title alone. The network likes it. Whatever the network likes is a plus.” Pause. “Anything else?”

“It seems to me,” I said, “the director is too . . . well . . . spiritual. “

“Spiritual?”

“Yeah, you know, like he dances with angels.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Phil said. “But he’s a good man and he’s already hired. He’ll do fine. That it?”

I thumbed through the script. There was a place where the female lead, having been rescued from possible rape, says, “You saved my tail . . . and God knows what else.” Somebody had changed it to read simply, “You saved my bacon.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The censors,” Phil said. “They didn’t like her tail being saved and they didn’t like the reference to whatever else might have been saved.”

“Then what’s her bacon?”

“Her bacon could be anything,” Phil said, becoming annoyed.

“The audience is not going to care about her bacon,” I insisted, “but they might care about her tail . . . and the other thing.”

“That’s not important,” Phil said, his jaw tightening. “Now then, anything else? “

I shrugged. “Nope.” Phil sighed with relief.

We met on the set a couple of days later. It is unusual that a writer is even allowed in the same city where his movie is being shot, but, since I was also technical adviser, they let me hang around.

I was watching them shoot when I noticed that one of the actors had changed a line. The way it was written, a cop-actor was supposed to ask a reporter-actor, “Why are you haunting me?” It came out, “Why are you bugging me?”

I wanted to know why it had been changed. Phil checked.

“The actor can’t say ‘haunting,’ ” Phil reported.

“Sure he can,” I said. “You just make the ‘H’ sound.” I demonstrated.

“That’s not what I mean,” Phil said. “He doesn’t feel his character would say haunting. He feels his character would say bugging.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” I said.

“No, no!”

There was shock and pain in Phil’s eyes. I felt like I had just stepped on his baby’s head.

Writers do not confront actors on the set. On such encounters, whole movies are lost. “Trail of Lust” gone to dust.

“It’s just a little change,” he said, pleading. “We’ll put haunting in the next movie.”

I shrugged in surrender.

“It’s a good thing the guy isn’t playing Shakespeare,” I said. “God knows what he’d do with Hamlet’s soliloquy.”

As the movie progressed, I began to admire the director, whose name is Richard Colla. He still seemed a little spiritual to me, but what the hell. Maybe that’s the way they’re supposed to be.

Colla had a way of soothing the actors. When star James Farentino went into a snit, Colla massaged his shoulders and calmed him in the honey-sweet tones of a preacher.

“Now, now, Jimmy, we’ll just try it your way, which is a wonderful way, and then we’ll put them all together, your way and my way, and everyone will . . . “

The man ought to be hired by the police to talk potential suicides down from the edge of tall buildings.

Colla directed with great, sweeping vision. Exactly the way I write. Phil kept on top of everything, although I noticed he did not ask me for any more suggestions.

I’m sure they don’t need my help anyhow. They’re probably out there right now saving my bacon.

And God only knows what else.