After a period of uncomfortable silence, I collected myself and mustered a response. “I think you both know that I didn’t leave film school to be in someone else’s show.”
“Well, your billing wouldn’t change,” Tom said. “And by the way, if you agree to this, I know that the network would be open to improving your episode fee.”
Money wasn’t really the issue, though. My concerns were （a） that this was a transparent and cheesy exploitation of what Henry and the writers had organically developed; and （b） the title change would represent a very public demotion for me.
“Look, I love what Henry is doing, and I don’t want to limit the way Garry and the writers are developing the episodes. But if you’re changing the title, then I would prefer to leave the show and go back to USC.”
Tom tried another tack. “If you had a choice between being the next Paul Newman or the next Francis Coppola, which would you choose?”
“Coppola,” I said.
“Well, we could arrange for you to direct an episode every year, Ron,” Tom said. “That could be a great jumping-off place for you.”
This didn’t interest me. “Thanks, but the whole point is that Jerry Paris is so good at his job,” I said. “His episodes are head and shoulders above the ones where we have guest directors. I feel the difference when it’s someone else directing, and I wouldn’t want to put the other actors through that.” What I didn’t say was that even Jerry had the occasional clunker—it happens in the unforgiving grind of series television—and what if my one episode totally sucked? Then Hollywood’s view of me would be, Why hire that loser? He can’t even direct HIS OWN SHOW!
“Will you at least think about it, Ron?” Tom said. “Talk to your agent. Talk to your folks. And let us know by tomorrow.”
I got up and politely said goodbye to Tom and Ed. As I exited their offices, Garry surprised me. He had been hovering outside the whole time. He asked me what I thought of ABC’s idea and their offer. I told him, bluntly. He paused for a moment and then said that if I didn’t support the title change, he, as the creator of the program, would never allow it. End of story.
So the title of the show remained Happy Days. Richie Cunningham returned for the third season. The issue never came up again.
In a way, this incident served me well, in that I was reminded, as I had been after The Andy Griffith Show, that the entertainment industry had no investment in my well-being. It’s a cold business, and no one in Hollywood felt sentimentally obligated to advance my career and keep me happy. I also came to grips with the idea that, even if Happy Days ran for years, I needed an exit plan. Sitcom stardom was a gilded cage for most actors, rarely a springboard to better things. In a couple of years, Welcome Back, Kotter’s John Travolta would defy this trend and become a major movie star, and Robin Williams, whose show Mork & Mindy began its life as a Happy Days spinoff, would follow suit a few years after that. But they were still outliers, exceptions to the rule.
When we started the third season, Garry approached me. “You know, Ron, I go to a shrink sometimes,” he said. “I talked to him about what you’re going through. He said something smart and I’m going to pass it along to you. It’s what Nietzsche wrote: ‘What does not kill me makes me stronger.’ You’ll come out of this a stronger person.” Garry, and Nietzsche, were absolutely right. I still regard Garry as the most remarkable leader and manager of talent that I have ever known. He was a natural teacher and a man of many adages, his favorite being, “Life is more important than show business.” Time and again, he gave us all lessons in how to abide by that motto.
FOR A FEW weeks, my mind was clouded by revenge scenarios—how would I ever get back at ABC and Fred Silverman? But as my nerves settled, I decided upon a more constructive strategy: undeniable achievement. I started to take concrete steps to determine how I might make my first full-length feature film: who would finance it, who would give me the green light to make it. With some of my Happy Days money, I splurged on a yellow Volkswagen Pop-Top Camper, a version of the famous VW Bus whose retractable roof came with a tent attachment and a cot, creating a nice little loft space. This was going to be the vehicle that I would use when Cheryl and I took to the road to make independent films, sleeping “upstairs.”