Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography (31 page)

“Make the deal. I have to do this show.”

I am fitted for my wardrobe by the lovely Lyn Paolo only one day before shooting. I sign my contract on the floor of her changing room. I’m over the moon. Bernie is less so.

“Political shows never work. It’s a great script but I just don’t know.”

“It’ll be great,” I promise.

“Well, look at it this way.
If
it works, then they’ll have to make you whole.”

After choosing Sam’s battery of navy and black suits, crisp white shirts, and reading glasses, I head over to stage 18 and take a peek at the newly completed set. It’s awe-inspiring. Giant, luxurious, and detailed down to the stationery
inside
the desk drawers; my old pal from
The Hotel New Hampshire
, Jon Hutman, has created a set for the ages.

Although shooting will begin the next morning on location at the Biltmore Hotel in downtown L.A., I still haven’t met the other actors. I also know that one important role has yet to be cast, that of President Josiah Bartlet.

“We’re not gonna see much of the president in the life of the series,” Aaron tells me. “The stories are going to be about his staff.” And indeed, Bartlet doesn’t make an appearance until the very end of the pilot, which is usually the dramatic template for any future storytelling.

“He’ll be like the neighbor from
Home Improvement
,” says one of the producers, referring to the character on that hit show who is constantly talked about but rarely seen. I had heard they were hoping to cast Sidney Poitier as Bartlet.

“Yeah, he’d be amazing,” Sorkin tells me when I bring it up. “Also thinking about Martin Sheen. He actually called me, he’s so excited!” says Aaron, clearly enamored.

Martin as Bartlet! Our families have been intertwined for so many years that I can’t even express to Aaron the levels of history and subtext this would bring to the Sam-Bartlet relationship. So I just say this: “Martin Fucking Sheen is the greatest.”

*   *   *

The West Wing
pilot may be the best one ever made. From the first frame to the last it is letter perfect, a freakish combination of the right actors playing the right parts, and a script with a witty, intelligent rhythm that had never been seen on television.
The Sopranos
, another Hall of Fame show that would become our good-natured blood rival, took a few episodes to find its sea legs. Not
The West Wing
. Right out of the gate, it blew your doors off.

When air-time advertising buyers are shown a ten-minute clip at the important network “up-fronts,” they greet it with a standing ovation. Sitting backstage, the cast look at one another. “What is going
on
here?!”

Scott Sassa, the president of NBC, comes over and congratulates us. “I’ve been coming to these up-fronts for a lot of years. I’ve never seen this.”

Sassa, who always believed in the script, has seen enough to give the show a prime spot on the fall schedule. “You’ll be on Wednesday nights at nine p.m., right before
Law and Order
.” Sorkin is elated. He takes me aside: “I thought you should know that you tested higher in our audience research than George Clooney in
ER
,” he confides. I could never have imagined that this type of feedback would not bode well for me in the future.

Later, at the cocktail reception, when all the local NBC affiliates go to individual areas to meet the stars of the shows,
The West Wing
section is bedlam. People are pushing and pulling for a moment with stars of a show that hasn’t aired one episode.

“Holy shit,” says my costar John Spencer, as a guy with ten stations in the Midwest pumps his hand like an old railroad sidecar. “We’re gonna get killed! We gotta get out of here!” he says with a smile.

“Nah, man!” I say. “This is what it’s really like at a presidential rally. We should all be looking at this as our research!”

I make my way over to Martin, also getting mobbed. Unlike all the other cast, both Martin and I have been in the spotlight for some time, so we have a little more perspective.

“None of this means a thing until we get the ratings,” says Martin, looking at the rest of the cast happily taking pictures and signing autographs. I know he’s right. We’re big, we’re state of the art, and we’re coming to a town near you, but unless people watch, we could very well arrive like the
Hindenburg
.

The first person I ever knew to play the then new California State Lottery was Emilio and Charlie’s dad. Martin bought enough rolls of tickets at the Mayfair Market on Point Dume to choke a donkey. He just loved the fun of it, the allure of that potential lightning strike that would cover you in massive, found money. He never did find that winning ticket when we were kids. But years later, with
The West Wing
, he finally did.

His contract to play Bartlet called for only a few episodes. But with his high-impact performance, the network wanted to see more of him. I think Aaron also discovered that being able to put words into the mouth of the president of the United States was more heady than merely writing for his staffers. But to integrate Bartlet more fully, they would have to make a new deal with Martin. And now, with millions committed to a show about to air that’s been earmarked as a potential winner, Martin holds all the cards. As a veteran of many a negotiation where the studio holds all the cards and kills you, I was happy when Martin, “the neighbor from
Home Improvement
,” got a gigantic raise, earning six figures for every episode. He’s a great actor, been around much longer than I have, and I love him like a father. And besides, if we all get lucky and the show is a monster hit, everyone will be rewarded. In the meantime, I’m glad to be part of such a great team.

A few days before we begin shooting season one of
The West Wing
, I get a call from Bernie.

“Kid, I just got the strangest call. They want to take away your first billing in the main titles.”

“But why? And, I mean, we have a deal, right?”

“Absolutely!” exclaims Bernie.

“What did you tell them?” I ask, shocked.

“What do you think I told them? I said, ‘How ’bout, go fuck yourself’!” And I know he’s not exaggerating. Bernie is one of the only people in Hollywood who is unafraid of fallout when defending a client.

“It’s completely out of line and unfair. You were the one who got that show on the air in the first place. I don’t understand it,” he says.

We never did get to the bottom of this request. This lack of support would prove to be the first in a series of events that would eventually have me questioning my place on
The West Wing
. But I had to move beyond it. Actors work with emotion and passion and I could ill afford to have anything begin to dampen my love of this project.

*   *   *

“On my mark. One. Two. Three,” the great composer W. G. “Snuffy” Walden counts off before a full orchestra on Warner Bros.’s giant dubbing stage.

There is a timpani rumble, a cymbal clash, and the strings explode into Snuffy’s majestic and highly emotional
The West Wing
theme. I have snuck in to listen to this first take as the main title is recorded. The French horns play their heroic counterpoint and the violins swell. My eyes begin to eject water, like a cartoon character. I look at the technician at the mixing board. His arms are covered in gooseflesh.

I had a vision once before. A simple wooden sign on an island in Fiji pointed out to me a then almost laughable, but wondrous, future. Now, lost in
The West Wing
main title theme, I’m having another. And it, too, is visceral, crystal, detailed, and unlikely enough that I almost discount it. I see us—Aaron, the cast, all of us—in a huge auditorium. We are in black tie. This song is being played by another orchestra and now we are standing and people are applauding. We leave our seats and walk to a podium and walk to another, rising and walking, and now I know this is an awards show, and so is this one and that one and the next one. We rise and walk again and again, always with music, always in black tie. And I can see Aaron, and he’s holding a statue. I see this as clearly as if watching filmed footage.

The music soars to its crescendo. John Spencer has dropped by as well and comes to me and asks, “Well, what do you think?”

“Johnny, I think this is walkin’ music,” I say.

“What do you mean?” he asks, but I don’t dare share my vision. I just look at him and smile, putting my arm around him as the music fades out.

*   *   *

Somewhere in Manhattan, someone slips JFK Jr. a copy of the pilot. He loves it and makes plans for my
George
cover. Again, there is tremendous consternation at the idea of me representing the show in this capacity. But John Jr. is unmoved by the pressure to have me taken off his magazine’s cover. “This show is exactly what I wanted
Georg
e to be,” he reportedly told his staff. And so when fate takes him just weeks later, everyone at
The West Wing
is proud to carry that vision, as long as we can. But to do so, we first have to face our own election. This vote is held every week by the A. C. Nielsen Company, and on September 22, 1999, it was our turn to face the nation. Most everyone thinks we have made what will prove to be a critically acclaimed but short-lived television show (a “six and out,” as they say in industry-speak). Watching with the cast and crew at a big party thrown by Aaron Sorkin and John Wells, we are all hoping conventional wisdom is wrong. We will know the verdict before the next sunrise.

It’s 5:00 a.m. and Scott Sassa is calling me at home. When network presidents call you, it’s good news. When they call you at home, it’s great news. When they wake you out of bed, it’s fantastic news.

“Congratulations. The ratings were great.”

America voted us into office and, as in a real administration, I would serve for a full four-year term. I couldn’t wait to make my eighty-eight-mile drive on L.A.’s notoriously nightmarish freeways to get to work each morning, often rising at 4:30 a.m. I had never been part of a better ensemble. To watch Allison Janney receive her lines for the first time, sitting in the makeup chair, then grab a coffee, walk onto the set, and deliver a vintage C. J. Cregg press briefing was a thing of beauty all actors should have a chance to witness. To watch the late John Spencer say, “Thank you, Mr. President,” was to see a man lay down a complex subtext of meaning and emotion far exceeding four simple words. I never tired of watching him work; he could do more with less than any other actor I’ve ever seen. And like the other cast members that populated
The West Wing
, John had that other rare but critical component for success on our show: He could always find the humor. My new cast mates were also pound for pound the most well-read and intelligent group of actors I’ve ever known. On
The West Wing
a typical coffee-break chat among the cast could cover the legacy of César Chávez, the history of the New York Yankees, the shortcomings of the Electoral College, and whether or not Nelson Rockefeller and JFK would be accepted by their respective parties in today’s political climate.

And as I had suspected, working with Martin was replete with an emotional history and an intimate shorthand I’m not sure anyone else noticed. But the results certainly showed on-screen; Sam and Bartlet were like father and son.

As season one drew to a close,
The West Wing
was becoming a sensation. It was wish fulfillment for a nation looking for leaders and reviewers looking for quality. It was the right show at the right time.

*   *   *

I’m walking through the set one afternoon to the area where I’m going to be shooting a scene. As I pass the Oval Office, a production assistant shoos me away nervously.

“Um. Sorry … you should go around the long way,” he says, his eyes shifting from side to side. I can see that something is making him uncomfortable, and I can’t imagine why he won’t let me pass through. Then my eye catches strobe flashes coming from under the Oval Office door. And now I can hear the voice of what is obviously a photographer from inside the room.

“Great! Oooh! Looking good! You guys look fantastic,” he exclaims.

As I pass by, I peek in. I see all my cast mates doing a photo shoot.

“What’s everybody doing in there?” I ask.

The PA hesitates. It’s clear he doesn’t want to answer at first.

“Um. It’s the cover of
Emmy
^®
Magazine
. It’s for all the Emmy Awards voters.”

I watch for a moment or two, then move on to shoot my scene.

When the Emmy nominations arrive a few weeks later, every cast member from that photo shoot gets nominated.

The West Wing
will win more Emmys than any other first-year show in history. And, during my four seasons on the show, it will win two Golden Globes, two Screen Actors Guild Awards, and four consecutive Emmys for Outstunding Dramatic Series, the only show ever to do so. The vision I had during the recording of the theme song would prove to be true on “so many levels,” as Sam would say. I would be nominated for two Golden Globes for Best Performance by an Actor in a Television Series—Drama, an Emmy, and two SAG Awards, which I would win along with my other cast mates.