MOVING IN : Hollywood Jackpot : They Left Everything Behind Them and Came West, Armed Only With an Idea

KATHRYN PRATT got an idea for a television show while having her nails done in Chicago. “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” was on the TV in the manicurist’s shop and, with her free hand, she had just finished leafing through an article on celebrity fitness in the National Enquirer. It was January, 1987, and for months she had studied the world of syndicated television. Her research had shown it to be an incredibly lucrative field--if you could think of a hit show. While her cuticles were being clipped, inspiration struck: If people watched a TV show about how the rich and famous lived, wouldn’t they want to watch one about how they stayed in shape?

Soon after, Kathryn called me and excitedly explained her inspiration and the mechanics of syndication. First you need an idea, then money to get it produced, and finally you need a syndicate: a group of television stations--affiliated with networks, independent or both--committed to airing your show.

At the time, Kathryn was a correspondent for CBS-TV in Chicago. She had worked for seven years in local TV news, the last three in Chicago. I was an editor of the Washington Monthly magazine, and I was eager to exchange armchair political punditry for something more hands-on. Right away the opportunities were clear. Starting our own business. Being our own bosses. The obstacles were equally obvious. We had little money and no syndicate. As for the idea, we didn’t need statistics to know that the mortality rate of television shows dreamed up in Midwestern manicurist shops is astronomical.

Even among the big Hollywood studios--each of which has a development division filled with wizards concocting the next “Wheel of Fortune”--only a fraction of the proposed ideas winds up on the air.

This year, 181 pilots for syndicated television shows were shown at the annual convention of the National Assn. of Television Programming Executives. Only 17 will debut as daily shows this fall.

But, we decided that the opportunities outweighed the obstacles. Kathryn made a trip to Los Angeles to see whether television executives were interested in a show about how celebrities stay in shape. The people she talked with loved the idea. So, we put together a business plan and gave ourselves four months to implement it. In May we left our jobs and moved to Los Angeles. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Partners and sole shareholders in Our Own Production Co. At the time, we didn’t have a production--much less anything else--we could call our own.

But, in just over 14 months the idea has become the syndicated TV show “Body By Jake,” starring Jake Steinfeld, personal trainer to the stars. It has been shaped, reshaped, shopped around and shelved. It evolved from the barest outline into a five-day-a-week show in which the Samuel Goldwyn Co. has invested more than $1 million. How this came to pass is a story of persistence, a lot of coupon-clipping and luck.

WHEN WE FLEW into LAX on May 20 we had no car, no place to live and certainly no $100,000 to produce a pilot of “Healthstyles of the Stars.” Within a week we had settled in Westwood, a company had delivered my car from Chicago, and we were headlong into our Hollywood odyssey. We quickly found that the TV executives’ enthusiasm that Kathryn had found in March had evaporated. It’s easy to love an idea that doesn’t cost any money. During the summer of ’87 we unsuccessfully pitched our idea to more than 30 agents, producers and development executives.

Nobody said it was a bad idea. That’s not how rejection works in Hollywood. No one wants to be remembered for turning down an idea that becomes a hit. Everyone “loved” our idea and cited some other reason for turning us away. There was the producer busy packaging a 50-part series on the animals of Africa. The development executive trying to persuade television stations to air 10 French film noir movies that he had dubbed. The syndicator who told us that as newcomers we ranked below even the most unsuccessful Hollywood veterans. “Producers with terrible track records are like most of the pitchers in the major leagues,” he said. “They’ve got losing records but are kept around because they’ll guarantee at least a terrible performance.”

Allen Schwartz was the most definite. A vice president of syndicated and daytime development for Fries Entertainment, Schwartz was preoccupied with looking for celebrities to appear on a television special honoring Howdy Doody. “My advice,” he told us after listening to our pitch, “is to go into real estate.”

A lot of people suggested that we pay for the pilot ourselves. Apparently, the only thing TV executives love more than a free idea is a free pilot. But we were in no position to underwrite our idea. At the time, we were clipping coupons, taking advantage of two-for-one Tuesday specials at Domino’s Pizza and trying in every way to pinch pennies.

For a time we looked outside Hollywood for financing. We called corporations selling health-oriented products. We spoke to dozens of hospital marketing directors and mailed 30-page proposals of our show to dozens more. We took out advertisements in papers in Los Angeles and Santa Barbara. The respondents--ranging from a yuppie who crowed of his relationship with Donny Osmond to a septuagenarian who wanted to underwrite a show about celebrity sex style--only reaffirmed our view of the strangeness of Southern California, and none did anything for our wallets.

AS OUR SEARCH continued, our idea evolved. Alternately, we thought “Healthstyles of the Stars” could work as a single hourlong show, or four shows that could air quarterly as specials, or as a weekly hourlong show. No one person set us straight on this. We cast a wide net, sized up the suggestions we caught and spent many nights trying to figure out which format made the most sense for us. Ultimately, we realized that only a “strip” show, one airing five days a week, was viable.

We altered our thinking on distribution as well. First we thought: No problem, we’d produce a single hourlong show, call a few program directors at television stations and before you could say “baby moguls,” we’d have a show on the air. Then reality set in. We needed a syndication company to sell the show for us. But who? And at what price? Some wanted 50% of the gross. Others wanted to buy us out. We worried about having our idea stolen. We obtained a copyright for the format of the show and registered the idea with the Writers Guild of America.

On one point we needed no advice: the importance of celebrity guests. An initial round of calls to publicists turned up lots of available soap-opera stars and bit players in B-movies. Even a preliminary commitment from Vanna White. During the peak of her popularity, while Ted Koppel was publicly lamenting the way America had been “Vannatized,” we were reading her autobiography and hoping she would grace our show with her presence.

We read In/Out lists. Soap Opera Digest. Article after article on what stars do to trim their tummies, firm their fannies and build their biceps. (Did you know Adrienne Barbeau keeps her chest firm by lifting ketchup bottles?) We even tried to book big names. Agents for A-list talent want to know three things: What stations is the show on in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago? What percent of the country will the show cover? And what time will it be on? Each question whizzed by us like a called strike.

The gulf between our world--a two-room apartment that doubled as an office; one desk for the two of us that doubled as a kitchen table--and the Hollywood we had set out to conquer, was best underscored by the recorded message we got when calling George Burns’ handlers: “We’re doing what all L.A. producers do: eating lunch, talking and looking good.”

INITIALLY, WE figured that in addition to getting an investor, booking guests and doing our own publicity, we’d also be the hosts. Whenever we mentioned this in a pitch session, even the most mean-spirited producers were nearly moved to prayer by our complete naivete.

While I moped about not getting my opportunity for a star turn, Kathryn hit on the idea of a fitness trainer as host. We looked for Mr. Goodbody in gyms around Los Angeles. We found lots of pecs, but not a lot of personality. Around this time, Kathryn met with Ray Solley, a CBS executive, who said he liked the fitness-trainer idea but felt that it would only be worth considering if hosted by a celebrity. Someone, he said, like Jake Steinfeld. “But he probably wouldn’t be interested,” Solley said. “If he wanted one he would already have a show on the air.”

In fact, before we moved, Kathryn had contacted Steinfeld to see whether he would appear on our show with one of the celebrities he trained. She was rejected. Steinfeld told her that he never asked his clients to make appearances with him. “I don’t need to bring a celebrity along,” he said. “I am one.”

But now, with a nibble from CBS, Kathryn wasn’t about to let that rejection stop her from trying again. She called Steinfeld. Solley was right: Steinfeld said he wasn’t interested. Runner-up in the 1979 Mr. Southern California contest, Steinfeld has by dint of hard work established a lucrative business as personal fitness trainer to the stars. His first acting job in Hollywood was portraying the Incredible Hulk at the Universal Studios tour. He has produced three workout videos, two of which sold more than 25,000 copies, and has written an exercise book that stayed on the best-seller list for four weeks. He is a consummate salesman and shrewd self-promoter. When a reporter for New York’s ruthless satire monthly, Spy magazine, called to say he wanted to lampoon Steinfeld in an article, Steinfeld cooperated fully, knowing that such high-profile coverage--pro or con--conveyed a certain cachet. Steinfeld has a framed copy of the article on a wall in his office. Its title: “Big, Rich and Pushy.”

In recent years, Steinfeld, who originally came to L.A. from New York to go to college, has had small roles in movies such as “Coming to America,” “Tough Guys” and “The Money Pit.” He told Kathryn that he was working on becoming an actor and that hosting a health and fitness show might tag him as the next Jack LaLanne. “I told him this was not going to be just another exercise show,” Kathryn recalls. “It would be a showcase for him to do more than count and shout.” She was looking for David Letterman in sweats, and in Steinfeld she found a Flatbush version who could perform in skits and play characters as well as interview.

Finally, after frequent meetings, Kathryn convinced Steinfeld that he would be an equal partner, sharing ownership and creative input. Accepting that it would be a project that he would have some control over, Steinfeld said he was interested.

SOON AFTER moving to Los Angeles, I realized that for all the opportunities our plan presented, there was for me a formidable obstacle: my love of writing. I missed it even before I had sat on a single producer’s couch. And when Kathryn and Steinfeld teamed up and “Healthstyles of the Stars” was set aside in favor of “Body By Jake,” I returned to the word processor.

No loss. Together Kathryn and I had been batting zero for Los Angeles.

But now, armed with a new concept and a celebrity host, she met with immediate success. Like Dorothy going back to the Wizard with the Wicked Witch’s broomstick, Kathryn met again with Solley, bringing him “Body By Jake” T-shirts as evidence of Steinfeld’s interest. As director of development for the CBS owned-and-operated television stations, Solley knew the network was looking for a show that could precede the 7 a.m. news. At that time, CBS was airing “Today’s Business,” but Solley knew that show was losing money and was going to be canceled. He pitched the idea of a health-and-exercise show starring Steinfeld to CBS brass in New York. They said no.

Enter Samuel Goldwyn Jr., white steed and all. Over the years he has made three unsuccessful attempts at producing a daily show. In May, 1987, he hired Dick Askin, a senior vice president with Fries Entertainment, to head up the Samuel Goldwyn Co.’s television division. Goldwyn gave Askin a mandate: get a daily show on the air by the fall of 1988. That gave Askin about four months to select a show and shoot a pilot. He needed to generate ideas quickly, and the person he hired to help him was Solley. Up to now, Kathryn had been persistent. Now she got lucky.

Solley pitched the “Body By Jake” show to Askin. “My first reaction was that you can’t (go later) than 5:30 a.m. with an exercise show,” Askin says. He was looking for something that could air in a more lucrative time period. Askin then met with Kathryn and Steinfeld. Kathryn, her delivery honed, went into her windup. “I told him this was a new kind of morning show,” Kathryn says, “the kind that could become a phenomenon like ‘The Richard Simmons Show’ in its heyday.” Jake added, “I want to be like the drive-time deejay, the guy who gives people a few laughs in the morning and something to talk about all day.” The pitch dangled in front of Askin like a hanging curve. He swung for the fences.

In his first three months at Goldwyn, Askin considered about 40 show ideas, ranging from game shows to celebrity bowling. The one he recommended to Samuel Goldwyn was “Body By Jake.” Like a good Hollywood executive, Goldwyn ignored our statistics-heavy presentation and made his decision primarily on instinct. “I knew people who had worked with Jake,” Goldwyn says. “They lacked self-confidence. He inspired them. Imagine if he can do that for people in living rooms across America.”

SHOWTIME. THE lights are low, the stage is quiet and the pilot is about to be shot. It’s Nov. 11, 1987, almost six months after we arrived in L.A., and the show is being taped at the Production Group, on the same stage where Judge Wapner presides over “The People’s Court.”

The momentary lull contrasts sharply with the weeks of anxiety and tense negotiations that came before. The only thing more difficult than trying to sell a TV show is trying to maintain control once it is bought. After Goldwyn committed to investing $105,000 to produce a pilot, everyone wanted a piece of the action. Goldwyn wanted a big percentage of any profits. Steinfeld wanted a big percentage of any profits. The agents brought in to negotiate the deal also wanted a percentage of any profits. All Kathryn wanted was not to get cut out altogether. She’d come up with the concept and delivered the celebrity, and her role as creator was complete. But she wanted more--a continuing role in the show’s production and an equity position.

To attain this she took on the role of facilitator, talking everyone concerned through about four weeks of Hollywood deal-making. Goldwyn’s main concern was landing Steinfeld. Steinfeld’s main concern was, after putting up a struggle, being landed. Kathryn tugged at both ends of this financial fishing pole. She supplied both sides with prudent budget numbers and was a patient go-between.

Eventually the 230-pound Steinfeld was reeled in, and the potential spoils were amiably carved up. Goldwyn made a partnership agreement with Steinfeld’s Jakeman Productions. Steinfeld, in turn, made a partnership agreement with Kathryn. Steinfeld said at the start that he and Kathryn would be co-equals in any final agreement, and in the end he kept his promise. They became co-creators, co-executive producers and received the same profit-sharing package. The nettlesome agents were fired.

Arrangements made, the two executive producers, three line producers, director and executive in charge of production got on with the business of making a 22-minute pilot. First, they needed to book a star, then find a telegenic expert on health and fitness, design the set and choose the music. Someone had to plan the show’s three segments--the guest celebrity telling Steinfeld about his or her fitness regimen, health pointers from the expert, and Steinfeld leading three exercise models through his workout. When everything was tallied, the pilot cost almost $5,000 a minute.

The varied elements came together and the pilot turned out just fine. Everyone seemed giddy except Dick Askin. His job was to turn the pilot into a TV show. And he knew that in the world of syndicated television that would not be easy.

GOLDWYN DID not sell “Body By Jake” to television stations. It bartered the show--that is, it supplied the program in exchange for the money from a certain number of commercials. For a barter show to work in syndication, it needs to air on TV stations that reach at least 70% of the country. That’s the minimum required to at tract national advertisers whose commercials pay for the program. While the major markets--New York, Los Angeles and Chicago--account for about 18% of the country, a show must also get on in places such as Lubbock, Tex., and Macon, Ga., to get 70%. In syndicated TV, as in politics, the only way to succeed is to sell door-to-door.

Askin started at the top. He went to New York the Monday after Thanksgiving and met with Karen Copeland, program director at WNBC. “I walked in, gave her the pitch and she said, ‘I’ll take it,’ ” Askin recalls. The next week he made two pitches in Chicago and got two offers. “I thought I had a slam dunk,” he says.

Then the sales slowed. We heard criticisms of the pilot: The exercises were too fast; the set too dull; Steinfeld said “great” too often. KABC-TV in Los Angeles liked the show, but wouldn’t commit. By Christmas, only New York and Chicago were signed. “Now I’m getting frustrated,” Askin says. Kathryn was, too. For the first time, the fate of the show was out of her hands. All she could do was wait.

After the holidays, sales improved. ABC affiliates in Detroit and Miami signed on. By the end of February the show had been picked up by stations covering 25% of the country. Askin and his four-person sales staff were crisscrossing America. In January and February, each salesman traveled, on average, to 30 cities and pitched the show to more than 100 program directors.

The weekend of Feb. 28, “Body By Jake” and 180 other syndicated television pilots went on display in Houston at the annual National Assn. of Television Programmers and Executives convention. To attract attention, Goldwyn booked Steinfeld on a TV talk show, arranged exercise sessions for conventioneers who wanted to work out with the trainer to the stars, and was host for a party for program directors at a skybox in the Astrodome. The strategy was a hit. “Body By Jake” left the convention with clearances in 35% of the country, including KABC here.

Slowly but steadily, television stations all over the country were signing up for 52 weeks’ worth of shows. From Minneapolis to Mobile. From Portland, Ore., to Portland, Me. Every one of the top 10 markets and 29 of the top 30. Steinfeld was frequently called upon to woo reluctant suitors. He had said from the start that he was willing to go anywhere--without compensation--to sell the show. If a program director needed a little arm-twisting, Steinfeld figured, who better to do it than Body By Jake? His technique was straightforward and it always worked. “If I stink, take me off the air,” he’d say. “But I’m gonna be terrific.”

Kathryn and I watched with wonder as the show took root. It was amazing to see the fruits of our entrepreneurship. From a single idea there emerged work for many: salesmen, publicists, producers, cameramen and more. It was a much larger undertaking than we had ever imagined. The thought that a sales force was combing the country selling “Body By Jake” and that an advertising team had been hired to come up with slogans such as “The Shape of Things to Come” was both fascinating and dumbfounding. As hard as it is to get someone in Hollywood to pen a check, it is equally hard to appreciate the machinery that kicks in once one has been written. With Goldwyn in high gear, the three elements had finally come together: the idea, the money and the syndicate.

In May, a year after we hit town and shortly after the show had surpassed the 60% barrier, Goldwyn announced that it was going ahead with “Body By Jake.” The “go” announcement had a bandwagon effect, and by the beginning of August the show had been sold in 81 markets covering more than 75% of the country.

We had succeeded where some of Hollywood’s biggest studios had failed. Paramount, for instance, unsuccessfully peddled “The Daytime Show,” a talk show hosted by Joan Luden of “Good Morning America.” And a number of companies that turned down Kathryn and me also produced pilots that bombed. Their shows were designed to air at more competitive--and rewarding--time periods, and perhaps they remain convinced that they made the correct decision.

For his part, Askin says that although most of the stations will air “Body By Jake” at 5:30 a.m., he’s convinced that it will eventually move to a later time period-- if Steinfeld’s a smash; if the show develops a following; if stations are patient.

If everything goes right, Askin, now a little giddy himself, says annual profits could be between $5 million and $8 million.

SIXTY-FIVE episodes of “Body By Jake” were planned and taped in June, July and August. Twelve shows a weekend at $11,000 a show. The shows are mass-produced, and the staff works constantly to maintain the balance between a creative environment and an assembly line. There is a keen sense of accomplishment, and Kathryn and Steinfeld are deservedly proud. So is the staff who, with admirable equanimity, put in three months’ worth of six-day, 70-hour weeks.

The show will debut Oct. 3, and already Goldwyn is preparing another series, on another topic, that it hopes will debut in syndication in the fall of 1989. Next month, Askin will once again be on the salesman’s circuit. There is no waiting for “Body By Jake” to hit or miss. On the Hollywood treadmill, you either move forward or back.

In the end, I suppose, this is good. Los Angeles is filled with people like Kathryn. Aspirants. People trying to get into the Business. People filled with a precious Hollywood commodity: ideas. Fame and fortune are obvious lures, but Hollywood also attracts people because it is accessible. Forget plant and equipment. The only inventory the entertainment entrepreneur needs is imagination.

Most of America looks on Hollywood as a closed shop. Nothing could be further from the truth. Certainly there is an old boy network, with plenty of jobs being parceled out to friends and among people who have worked together before. At the same time, however, Hollywood has an insatiable appetite for outsiders. Why? Insecurity. Today you get a star on the Walk of Fame, tomorrow you get walked on. It’s well-known but true that everyone is looking for the next big hit--and no one knows where it’s coming from. You got an idea, you get an audience.

Sometimes you even get a show.