This Much Is True

Chuck Lorre’s work on Roseanne had impressed the producers and Norman gave him the opportunity to make his first sitcom — Frannie’s Turn. He desperately needed it to succeed, so perhaps that’s why his attention to every aspect and detail of the production seemed overbearingly intense. Naturally, he came to every read-through, pre-shoot rehearsal, camera run-through and network run-through. The latter is a fearsome thing, a weekly rehearsal early in the production schedule, attended by all the big cheese executives. They write copious notes; anything which doesn’t get a laugh gets cut and they demand instant rewrites. Then there’s the live taping.

The series was my show: designed and built around my comedic talents and vocal versatility. I played an Irish-Italian seamstress called Frannie Escobar, a happy, gregarious woman muddling through a mid-life crisis: at work she has her arrogant couturier boss Armando to deal with; at home in Staten Island, Frannie has to contend with her cantankerous, old-school Cuban husband Joseph, his eccentric mother Rosa, a dimwit son Eddie, and a headstrong daughter Olivia, who seems destined to make the same bad choice in marriage as her mother. Frannie is a middle-aged woman finding herself, a late-blooming feminist. I felt it was a role any woman of a certain age could relate to; I knew what it was like to be plain and to be fat and to be overlooked. I lived with that all my life; in a sense, coming to America was the same transformational journey for me.

My routine during the run was unvarying. Round about 2 a.m., the new script would be pushed under my apartment door. Each version came in a different colour, and it was useless to learn the first offering, as pink, blue and yellow amendments would follow nightly — that was the worst part. Then the early morning swim followed by the long drive from Santa Monica to Burbank in traffic which was bumper-to-bumper the whole way. It was gruelling, we earned the money and I truly wouldn’t want to spend my life in that world. Stress and tension were overwhelming, the gossip was poisonous, and yet I met dear people there too.

Frannie’s Turn was taped in front of a live audience, who filed in shortly before we appeared. No deviation from the script was allowed. Each episode took about six hours to film; Chuck constantly sent in new lines to be learned, sometimes seconds before recording. If anything went wrong, or we paused, the tireless stand-up hired to maintain the energy of the studio audience would restart his stream of banter. I was worried that he was funnier than we were. Sometimes I joined in — I can’t resist a live audience.

There’s a terrible hierarchy in television, especially in America. They’re so up the bums of celebrity over there that if you’re the star, they’ll do anything to keep you happy — but they treat any underlings and extras like dirt. On Frannie’s Turn we often had extras; I would make a point of talking to every single person, laughing and joking with them, ushering them into the backstage kitchen for a sandwich or some M&Ms, and sitting with them at lunchtime. I always said, ‘Hello. You’re joining the mad scenes, are you? Where are you from? I’m from England.’ I talked with everybody, not in a deep way, but so that they felt comfortable and confident, because if you’re eaten up with nerves and fear, it prohibits the creative process. I’ve been there: I know what terror is.

Frannie’s Turn premiered on 13 September 1992 — and ended barely four weeks later, on 10 October. It was meant to be thirteen episodes, but CBS, principally Jeffrey Katzenberg, cancelled it after five! I rang Jeff to try to change his mind. He wouldn’t. The cancellation did seem somewhat random; other shows at that time were no better than ours; the show was gaining traction and we were finding a loyal audience as the series ended. Chuck Lorre was incandescent with rage. Some American TV sitcoms don’t seem to reflect real life; Frannie’s Turn did feel believable. It didn’t gloss over things, it was about good people who were having a rough time and trying to work it out, but for some reason we were axed and other shows were signed up.

There was the usual round of pre-publicity interviews for the show. The CBS publicist in charge double-booked the LA Times (the most important interview) with another much less prestigious one. When I asked him to rearrange it, he just brushed me aside. I thought ‘No mate, I’m not having that.’ So I phoned his voicemail and left this message: ‘This is Harry Margolis, Miriam’s manager, the LA Times interview WILL go ahead. You WILL alter the schedule and if you don’t, you’re fired!’ Amazingly he rushed to obey and I got the interview. He didn’t find out till much later that the gruff, rude Harry was me. Don’t mess with the Margolyes!