32 • W G A W W r i t t e n B y N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0

The previous article [“Class of ’80”] was originally conceived out of my (admitted) anger over the spate of reimaginings that have appeared in television and films throughout the past few years—more specifically, my anger over the omission of the original writers in most of these new versions of their classic works. It is to the credit of all the men interviewed that they kept the family’s wishes and did not divulge Mr. Can-nell’s illness to us here at Written By, though in hindsight it does appear they used the opportunity to thank a man who served as their colleague, mentor, and friend.

Although I never had the opportunity to serve on a writ-ing staff with him, I’ll forever enjoy saying that I started my career sitting at the first floor reception desk on the corner of Hollywood and La Brea saying, “Good Morning! Stephen Cannell Productions. May I help you?” If the original inten-tion of the article is lost amid this sad, real-life loss, I hope it will at least serve to remind us that writing is about celebrat-ing life everyday—as Mr. Cannell did.

—Rosanne Welch

Steve Cannell had only recently gotten his first big break as Story Editor on Adam-12 at Universal when our mutual pal Steven Bochco introduced us in 1972. We became instant and forever friends, sharing the same sense of humor and philosophy of life. Both Steves were instrumental in bringing me to the studio’s attention and giving me a huge leg up in my career.

Steve Cannell hired me to write a couple of scripts for him and also set me up to direct. His buoyant spirit and enthusi-asm were contagious; his talent was extraordinary and clever. He could write faster and more interestingly than anyone I ever met. He was always thinking outside the box, injecting his work with unexpected turns, surprising characters, and his trademark wry humor. I remember him asking me to read and give him my thoughts on his first draft of The Rockford Files. I was dazzled by the wit and clarity and felt not a word should be changed. I also suggested that he might go after Jim Garner—and Steve grinned, saying that he already had.

My wife, Susie, was also very fond of Steve and was his production secretary on Baa Baa Black Sheep. When Susie and I were planning our marriage, Steve said we had to come

check out his church. It became our choice. And he was at the wedding, bringing his ever-ready smile, his friendship, and all his great energy.

We came back to that same church to say our farewell to him.Steve and I shared a great delight in our work and both of

us constantly marveled that we actually got paid for all the fun we were having. That youthful, joyous exuberance never left him. Steve always—always—had a twinkle in his eye. I loved him like a dear brother and he will forever live in my heart.

—Kenneth Johnson

Someone once said the only place you’ll ever find perfect is in the dictionary. Whoever said that never crossed paths with Steve Cannell.

Well, maybe he wasn’t perfect, but on a scale of one to 10, he was a 25. As if it were yesterday, not 38 years ago, when we first met, my boss, Roy Huggins, and I were in dire need of a one-hour script that had to be written over the weekend. Steve had a full-time job then as head writer on Adam-12, so we were somewhat dubious as to whether he was the right guy for the assignment. We met, and he assured us he could do it, so we took a chance on him. It was, without a doubt, the best decision either of us ever made. Monday morning, there was a script on Roy’s desk that we shot, word for word, without changing a comma. And yes, the rest is history.

But what actually revealed who this young fellow really was came from something he said when we offered him the job of writer-producer on the series Toma. Roy Huggins was well-known for his odd working hours. In the office at 11 a.m., leave around 8:30 p.m., then do research and write till five the next morning. Steve very much wanted to work with Roy, but he said he was sorry, that he couldn’t follow Roy’s schedule. He said, “I’m a family man, and no matter what’s going on, I need to leave the studio no later than 5:30, so I can have dinner with Marcia and the kids. That’s my prior-ity.” At that moment, I knew I was sitting in a room with someone very special.

I’ve been around writers all of my life. The first man in the room when I was born, my father, was a writer. I grew up around writers and I probably worked with a few hundred

A RemembranceStephen j. cannell: 1941–2010

Portrait by Tom Keller

N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0 W G A W W r i t t e n B y • 33

throughout my time in the trenches. There was something they all had in common. They were all like the guy who’s standing in the street, bang-ing his head against a brick wall, and when someone asks him why, he an-swers, “Because it feels so good when I stop…” That’s the prototypical writer. They hate the process. They find it painful, lonely, and frustrating. The reward comes afterward, when people say the work is good, or maybe even great, and when the producer’s check clears. Those fleeting moments of plea-sure outweigh the prior agony. “It feels so good when I stop.”

Then, along came the exception, and his name was Steve. With his mag-nificent, leonine mane of hair, for half of which I’d’ve gladly given up my first-

born child, wearing a belt that looked like it was custom made for Blackbeard the Pirate, and with his collar turned up resembling Dracula’s cape, he would stroll up to his antique IBM Selectric as if it were a Steinway and proceed to bang on the keys like Vladimir Horow-itz playing Rachmaninoff’s 2nd Sonata in B-flat minor. The words flew out, as if by magic, in what looked like top-se-cret, diplomatic code, to be translated later into English by his three human Enigma machines, his talented assis-tants Grace, Kathy, and Jane. He loved every minute of it, and it was pure joy to watch him play his favorite game.

Words were his currency, and he was the gold standard. He would rip those pages from his typewriter and out they would go through television sets and

books, lifting the spirits of millions of people all around the world. The im-print he left boggles the mind, yet one of his most endearing qualities was that he never took himself seriously.

Steve was a renaissance man if there ever was one. Being known as a writer was all that really mattered to him, but he was also a football star, a producer, executive producer, actor, director, yachtsman, skier, entrepre-neur, CEO, mogul, brother, husband, father, grandfather, and, best of all to me, a most extraordinarily loyal friend. I never met anyone remotely like him. One in a million? Forget it. He was one in 6.9 billion.

We’ll miss him terribly, that conta-gious laugh, those penetrating, laser-like eyes, and the comfort of knowing he was always there, no farther away than the other end of a phone, always ready to lend a hand.

Yes, we will miss him, but through his incomparable legacy and a heavenly host of fond memories, he will be with us, in our hearts, always and forever. And I, for one, will continue to try to solve problems in my own life by ask-ing myself, “How would Steve handle this…?”

Our friend, Nick Mancuso, sent me this old Tibetan proverb upon hearing the news of Steve’s passing: “When we are born, we cry and the world rejoices. When we die, we rejoice and the world cries.”

The world is crying now.—Jo Swerling Jr.

In retrospect, I should have expected the surprised expression on Steve’s face when his assistant Grace ushered me into his Universal Television Bun-galow. At age 42, I had just handed in my first teleplay. When he asked where I had been, I naïvely explained I had been waiting in the outer office for 20 minutes. Steve said, “No, no. Where have you been hiding?” And with that he slapped my teleplay on his desk and told me he was going to shoot it as is!

Before I could recover my breath, he asked me how I’d like to be his story editor on Baa Baa Black Sheep next

34 • W G A W W r i t t e n B y N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0

season if the show got picked up.I asked, “What does a story editor do?” With a grin, Steve said, “A story edi-

tor is someone I chain to a typewriter to turn out scripts.”

Naïve but no fool, I accepted. Steve immediately showed his generosity by saying, “Until the show gets a pickup, I’m going to put the word out on the lot.” And upon Steve’s word I was giv-en writing assignments on three shows that were still in production.

Black Sheep was picked up and Steve quickly became my friend and mentor. Although we only worked together for two television seasons, the friendship and mentoring went on for the next four decades.

And I wasn’t alone. The WGA ros-ter is full of writers and showrunners whose path was lit with the flame of Steve’s passion.

The last time we met for lunch, Steve knew he was facing the battle of his life but never mentioned it. He was as cheerful and energetic as always, tell-ing me how much fun it was being a novelist.

Then he pointed his finger at me and said, “You should do it!”

Steve swept aside all my protesta-tions and launched enthusiastically into Cliff Notes on how to write, sell, and promote a first novel. As he went on, I realized that once more, Steve was chaining me to a typewriter.

I shall miss him.—Donald P. Bellisario

Stephen and I were contract writ-ers at Universal. We met in the early 1970s, when he was a story editor on Adam-12 and I was a story editor on Columbo. We became fast friends and remained so until his death, late last month, almost 40 years later.

Stephen and I had different trajec-tories at Universal. He was an almost instantaneous success, deservedly so, in particular because of The Rockford Files. With his small staff consisting of Juanita Bartlett and a young writer named David Chase (whatever became of him?), Stephen set about virtually

reinventing the private eye genre. His stories were brilliantly plotted, wonder-fully characterized, and laugh-out-loud funny. Rockford became a huge hit, and so did Stephen.

I, meanwhile, went from story edit-ing on Columbo to producing my first television series, Griff, starring Lorne Greene. It was a loser, in no small part due to my subpar efforts. So, while Stephen’s career was on the express elevator to the penthouse, mine was on the freight elevator headed to the basement. It would have been under-standable if, under the circumstances, Stephen had distanced himself from me. Universal was an extremely com-petitive place. Particularly for us young writer-producers, success or failure was closely monitored, not only by the stu-dio executives, but by our peers as well. And by that measure, Stephen had be-come a star.

But, as others would come to realize over the many years to come, Stephen was unique. He was extremely em-pathic, incredibly loyal, and genuinely modest. For years we had a weekly lunch at El Torito, in Burbank. We’d eat Mexican food and drink margaritas, and Stephen would exhort me never to lose faith in myself. His belief in me never wavered, even as mine did.

Finally, in 1978, realizing after 12 years that my future at Universal was pretty much dead-ended, I left and went over to MTM. The follow-ing year, Stephen also left Universal to start his own studio—a venture that would be incredibly successful. And still he didn’t change. He never bragged. With all of his success—and it seemed, in those days, that every show he created turned to gold—he remained the same supportive, funny, self-deprecating guy. And when I fi-nally struck a little gold of my own—Hill Street Blues debuted in January 1981—no one was happier for my newly found success than Stephen.

I have often said that the most im-portant lessons I learned in my forma-tive years at Universal were not how to behave professionally, but how not

to behave. The exception that proves the rule is Stephen J. Cannell. Unfail-ingly kind, unfailingly sensitive to oth-ers, always there if you needed him for anything, he was the epitome of grace. I could not have had a closer or more caring friend than Stephen, and as long

as I’m alive, he will remain so as well, in spirit, and in my heart.

—Steven Bochco

Tawnia Cannell and I met in 1991, and I vividly remember meeting her father for the first time. He was a tall man, even taller in his cowboy boots. It was intimidating. I knew who he was, long before the days of Google. I stood before him, nervously said something generic, like, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cannell.” He immediately broke into his trademark grin, stuck out his hand, and said, “Steve, call me Steve.”

I’m sure many of you who knew Steve had the same kind of experience. Not necessarily of dating his daughter, but rather the experience of knowing Steve Cannell.

The guy is granite. As rock solid as any human can be. He was loyal, kind, honest, hardworking, dedicated. He overcame dyslexia and chose the toughest profession possible for a kid that couldn’t spell. Through it all, he kept his head down and moved for-ward until he accomplished his goal. If he was a football player, he’d be Earl Campbell. He’d hit the hole and run until he scored, knocking down walls, bad editors, and critics as he went. And through it all, he’d smile.

I was lucky to work on a few proj-ects with him during the last year, prior

N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0 W G A W W r i t t e n B y • 35

to his diagnosis. He was developing TV pilot scripts with some very talent-ed writers. I wasn’t there in the glory days, but I still got to see my father-in-law in action. I remember our first meeting, after two hours in the writ-ers’ room, Steve came up to me in the hallway with that amazing energy and smile, and said, “Wasn’t that cool,” like an 18-year-old kid from Des Moines, instead of a mogul.

Yes, it was.I write this in past and present tense,

mostly because I have a hard time be-lieving he isn’t here. His voice and words live in me, as they do in Tawnia, Chelsea, Cody, Marcia, my kids, and all his pals. Steve Cannell is my father-in-law and a great guy.

It is a privilege to know him.—Tim McKiernan

Stephen was from Pasadena. One time we in the Rockford office were going for lunch at Art’s Kosher Deli. We asked Stephen if he wanted us to bring him back anything. He made a face, then said, “Yeah, okay, a tuna sandwich or turkey. Nothing with any provolone on it.”

Once, at his house, he presented Juanita Bartlett and myself with what he considered a special gourmet hors d’ouevre, a secret recipe of his own—a block of Philadelphia Brand cream

cheese drenched in A-1 Steak Sauce, to be spread on Ritz crackers.

He was the white-breadest guy you would ever meet, except, possi-bly, for Jan and Dean. Yet he could write characters of any ethnicity, class, particularity, or complex-ity; characters possessed of bizarre dark obses-sions, crazed ambitions, or sweet humble desires, and they all came out to-tally human, totally true.

He never looked down on any of them, as he never looked down on any real liv-ing person; not at the studio, not anywhere in the world at large.

And the writing was done with such exu-berance! The rest of us would mope our way into the offices at 10:15 a.m. to begin the “long” self-pitying day of “the terror of the blank page,” and Steve would come into your office,

forcing you to quickly hide the re-volver pointed at your head in the desk drawer. He would have been in his of-fice since 6 a.m., sometimes 5:30. And he would have in his hand one-fourth to one-half of an hour episodic script. That’s how fast he was. He’d start to read you scenes and he sincerely want-ed feedback, but he was so tickled, so happy with what he’d written, actually so happy that he could write. It’s well-known that he fought with dyslexia but this, of course, he downplayed. He was just so elated to be in the ring with Ross MacDonald.

There was no ego, no narcissism in this reading his work to you. Just joy.

And when he left, you’d want to em-ulate him, you’d want to write. You’d want to write half as well as he did, and you’d want to write something he would like.

This is how I learned.I thanked him many times but it

could never be enough. I miss him.—David Chase

I was 21 years old when I first arrived as a young writer at Universal Studios. My dream had always been to be a writer and I was just glad to be working on any shows I could at the time. But the gold standard at Universal Studios, and pretty much in the industry, was Ste-phen J. Cannell. It was Stephen’s writ-ing and that of the people who worked with him, such as Juanita Bartlett, Da-

In development since the ’90s, the a-team finally made its way to theaters in 2010, with Cannell as producer and Liam Neeson as Hannibal Smith.

Stephen’s 1940 Ford, originally owned by his grandmother. She volun-teered with the Red Cross during WWII and often took Stephen and his sister to the beach in this “Woody.” Two original wood and canvas stretchers remain inside the wagon. Stephen’s car collection included a 1932 Ford “Vicky” coupe hotrod, a 1955 T-Bird, and a 1970 280SE 3.5 Mercedes convertible.

36 • W G A W W r i t t e n B y N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0

vid Chase, and Stephen Bochco, that every young writer I knew aspired to.

One morning at the studio while I was making coffee, a man approached me and asked who I was. He intro-duced himself as Steve. He told me he’d noticed I was there every morning working in my office when he arrived and I was the only writer that he had ever seen arrive at the studio to work before him. From then on we had our coffee together pretty much every morning, and Stephen would talk to me about what he was working on that day and ask what I was working on. He would read my material and read his material to me. We would discuss it—or pretty much he would discuss it and I would listen. That was the begin-ning of Stephen being my teacher and mentor and, of course, one of my best friends.

Stephen loved writing. He loved the process, he loved people who wrote, and he loved to impart his knowledge, which was vast. I became a student sit-ting at the feet of this iconic figure I had grown up wanting to write like and work for. The more you wanted to know, the more Steve would give you. I had worked with other talented people, but none had taken the time and put in the effort that Stephen would dur-ing each of these mornings over coffee. This was truly the Master’s degree of my writing education.

The things I learned from Stephen that day forward infused my writing and my life for the next 30 years. He never allowed his ego to get in the way of assisting another writer. He was en-couraging and helpful and very often facilitated me and other writers in their careers, receiving nothing in return ex-cept our appreciation.

No one has had more impact on my professional life than Steve. I would need another 3,000 words to begin to explain how he enhanced my personal life by being the great close personal friend that he was. But if I did, he would only give me another lesson in editing my writing.

—Frank Lupo

When I first met him, I was dazzled. With my then-partner, Tom Szol-

losi, I was a 19-year-old writer under contract at Universal, and Steve was the studio’s Pica Lancelot: brilliantly talented, movie-star handsome . . . as if Raymond Chandler and Ian Fleming had produced a regal son.

Steve hired us to write for his show, Stone, and as we worked together, I marveled at his clairvoy-ant gift for creating char-acters right up from their soul. Then, there was his dialogue: offhand abraca-dabra, gun-powder fast, wickedly funny. The lines defied gravity, somer-saulted at will; part graffi-ti, part Wimbledon. And you could never see the exposition. That was old school, connect-the-dot crap; Steve was speed-of-light.

Bad guys never had it so good as in his dizzy, three-hole punch anarchies. Wrapped in his hip, wounded poetry, the hapless became heroic, the low-down became philosophers. Steve had come along and done for TV writing what Picasso did for unusual angles.

He was, over the 38 years I knew him, a writing hero, superb company, X-ray astute, and the guy we produced

and wrote for, from ’83-’87, when he started Stephen J. Cannell Produc-tions—a pirate ship amid corporate seas and an asylum for offbeat shows. In his mirrored galleon, on Hollywood Boulevard, Selectrics clattered 24/7 and Steve shared mystic secrets: how

to cast spells in scenes, bring stiff dialogue back from the dead, make cli-chés vanish.

The longer I knew him, the more dazzled I was; in a business fueled by self-occupation, he was also kind and generous. As years raced by and we all went in differ-ent directions, Steve and I became close friends. He wrote an introduction for

my first novel and, to my shock, in-cluded me in his debut novel’s dedica-tion. Overwhelmed didn’t cover it. Still doesn’t.

One of the first things I noticed about Steve was that he called you “pal.” Not like some noir term of cool but simply a fast way to let you know he saw the good in you and wanted to be friends. He made a lot of those. The real kind.

At Steve’s service, over a thousand mourners honored him and I saw not only his family and friends, but also the countless characters he’d created who had all come to say goodbye to their father. The heroes, the cons, even the brokenhearted, minor characters the world forgot but Steve never did. He was their voice and advocate. In truth, he was everyone’s.

I miss Steve more than I could have imagined and will love him forever. The world spins differently without him. And though I could never quite convince him that he’d profoundly changed my life, he did. Blessed jour-ney, my friend.

—Richard Christian Matheson

N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0 W G A W W r i t t e n B y • 37