What Writers and Actors Want: “A Piece of the Action”

As the son of a long-deceased Hollywood screenwriter, I have to comment on the joint labor strike of writers and actors now making headlines.

To me, the mainstream reporters covering the strike seem ignorant of the basic economics of “show business.” Perhaps their ignorance arises from deliberate obfuscation by the B-school grads who, as executives, control the “industry.” But whatever the reason, I have yet to see in the mainstream press a single glimmer of understanding of the business’ uniqueness or how it has rewarded its participants for ages. So, if interested, read on.

Show business is a boom-and-bust business like no other. The best analogy in “real” industry might be drilling “wildcat” oil wells. You might strike a “gusher” on your first hole. Or you might drill a mighty field all summer and come up “dry.”

The same is true of shows. Everyone knows what the words “hit” and “flop” mean. But few think of the consequences to the people who work on them. A “hit” means a better reputation, more future work, more pride in self, a higher future salary, and—if our profit-grubbing business world were just and fair—more money. A “flop” means none of the above. This simple picture applies to writers and actors, and to the studios and (now) software firms that make the shows.

It’s hard for workers in other industries to appreciate how fickle and random the public’s favor can seem. Reviewers may laud a new show as a modern marvel, a “must see,” even better than Shakespeare, but the public may shun it. The eighteenth sequel of “Spiderman,” a previously reliable franchise, may flop because: (1) the public has tired of the franchise, (2) the latest sequel is not up to par, (3) a rival blockbuster captures the public’s imagination, or (4) changes in the public mood, or even in the news, tarnish the franchise or make it redundant or unpopular.

At the end of the day, the only reliable measure of the value of a show is how many people actually watch it. In the old days, that meant sales of physical tickets, books or magazines. Today, it may mean sales of streaming or copies sent over the air or over the Internet.

But the essence is always the same: how many individuals in the possible “audience” actually enjoy the show? The more do, the more the show’s actual human and economic value, and the bigger the pot of money (in theory) that writers and actors might share.

Despite the increasingly rapid twists and turns of technology, none of this is new. The first copyright law was the old English Statute of Anne, enacted in 1710. By giving writers the exclusive right to publish their works, it enabled them to charge for the enjoyment and enlightenment their works brought, the more for each patron. The custom of booksellers paying authors “royalties,” i.e., a portion of the price of each book sold, arose quickly thereafter.

So the fundamental economic concept in the creative industries is sharing in the value that a show brings to its audience. That’s what writers, actors and producers mean when they talk of “a piece of the action.” They mean a piece of the economic pie created by a new work of human imagination and creativity that never existed before. If the work is a hit, the pie can be rich. If it’s a flop, it can be shriveled or non-existent. And no one can tell in advance which is which; the reliability of predictions is worse in show business than in election polling.

The workers whose labor most contributes to a show’s success are its writers and actors, and, in the case of animated movies, its animators. The writers’ imagination brings the work to life out of nothing. The actors (or animators) make the imaginary characters and plots real. Without either, there is no show. Yet in the three centuries since authors first started earning royalties on books, securing a “piece of the action” has been a hard slog for both.

The modern struggle began as early as movies. In the early days, a studio would hire my Dad to write a screenplay, sometimes from another author’s novel or story. He’d worked for a flat fee, like a laborer, and get no “piece of the action,” no matter how popular the movie turned out to be. As for actors, they seldom earned a piece of the action; the more famous ones just got paid higher salaries, sometimes even exorbitant ones.

If memory serves, this was my Dad’s situation after working on the screenplay for the noted film noir “Laura.” It was a big hit, and I believe it’s still running on streaming services today, after nearly eighty years. Yet, as far as I’m aware, neither my Dad nor his family collected a share of the ongoing revenue from this classic film. Fortunately, his best friend was a lawyer. After my Dad’s reputation grew, he was able to negotiate a “piece of the action” from some of his later films. And his Guild helped him later secure residuals (essentially, royalties for later TV showings) for some of the TV shows he wrote.

And so it has gone with every new generation of technology after movies. The engineers find new ways for audiences to enjoy creative products, and the studio executives grab for exclusive rights to the revenue that comes from the new technologies.

The money pot is ever up for grabs. The executives, who run the show, have the first grab. They want the writers and actors, like all their employees, to be hired hands, content with wages and not much else. (Writers and actors work mostly on projects, aka “shows”—sometimes on a seasonal basis—so they don’t usually get vacations, sick days, and other benefits like the rest of us.)

So what’s wrong with treating writers and actors as hired hands? I can think of three things. First, in these professions there’s not just a right way and a wrong way to do the job, but an infinite number of different ways. Along that vast continuation lies the difference between a flop, a hit, and a smash hit. When a writer or an actor helps make a smash hit, she or he should be rewarded appropriately, the more so because it doesn’t happen very often.

Second, writing and acting are not just matters of basic skill. They’re matters of imagination and finesse, in which details make all the difference. In contrast, in wildcat drilling, the management and petroleum geologists decide where to drill. And if the previous several wells were “gushers,” the next one nearby is likely to be, too. There’s no analogue in oil drilling to an audience’s discernment or fickleness.

Third, a noted writer or actor—a “star”—can draw an audience all on his or her own, just on a name. What wildcat driller can draw oil out of the ground simply with his or her reputation?

Three centuries ago, English society and Parliament decided that creative people deserve to have a “piece of the action” for their creative work, and not just be treated like hired hands. It started with royalties for books. And for each new generation of creative minds and each new kind of technology, creative people had to fight this battle anew.

This is what the writers’ and actors’ strike is all about. This is why the writers and actors are striking together: their complaints are similar, and they are age old.

Of course there are lines to be drawn. Not every jump-in writer who repairs a single awkward scene deserves a screen credit or a piece of the action. Not every bit actor does, who flits across the screen for a minute or two. That’s what guild negotiations are for.

As for risk taking, it’s true that writers and actors don’t give their salaries back if the show flops. But shouldn’t the balance between risk-taking and certainty, i.e., the balance of risk, be up to them? Some may want the security of a fixed salary, while others may prefer to reach for the upside. No one is demanding that the writers and actors collectively grab all of the upside; what they want is just a fair “piece” of the action.

Today writers and actors provide the same ineffable creativity that they did three centuries ago. The give audiences the same thrills and food for thought and introspection. For centuries the business world has found ways to compensate them proportionately to the joy, insight and value they give their audiences. Their just compensation is proportional to the audiences they serve.

And for much of those three centuries, the business people who arrange their opportunities have sought to keep the big pie, and the unlimited upside, entirely to themselves. Technology doesn’t change the picture, except perhaps for the possibility of AI taking an actor’s image, voice and likeness and propagating them electonically in new ways. Then, pray tell, who is the “creator”: the actor, the writer, or the computer programmer who makes it happen?

This, to me, is the sole “new” question that current technology poses. The rest is just the age-old effort of people who control the money to more completely exploit those without. You don’t have to be the son of a screenwriter—or an inveterate union man or woman—to know which side to be on.


For brief descriptions of and links to recent posts, click here. For an inverse-chronological list with links to all posts after January 23, 2017, click here. For a subject-matter index to posts before that date, click here.

Permalink to this post