GOVERNMENT AND HOLLYWOOD, TOGETHER AGAIN ON ONE STAGE

Media: Hoopla Over Anti-Drug Messages In TV Series Obscures Basic Reality
That Such Interplay Is Common.

Warren Weideman was having a hard time delivering, so to speak, for the U.S.
Postal Service.

All it wanted was a few "positive portrayals" on TV and in the movies. But
try as he might to get Hollywood to show postal workers as nice guys, all
the entertainment marketing specialist saw were postmen who were mean to
kids or kicked dogs or shot people--going "postal," as they say.

Then there were those sorry bag-toters on two of the highest-rated TV series
ever, "Cheers" and "Seinfeld": smart-aleck Cliff Claven, who sat on a bar
stool, and the fat, nasty Newman, who dumped mail in a warehouse rather than
deliver it.

That's why Weideman decided to become a Hollywood producer--to make a movie
about the Postal Service. Weideman had a story to pitch, sure, but his real
asset was how the Postal Service would promote it: by paying for posters for
its 40,000 facilities, displaying life-sized cutouts of the main characters,
issuing commemorative envelopes and, if you called a post office and were
put on hold, you'd hear the star, Louis Gossett Jr., imploring you to "watch
Showtime on Sept. 20."

So it was that a movie called "The Inspectors" aired in 1998, delivering
excellent ratings and an image boost for the Postal Service.

So it was, also, that Weideman had to laugh this last week when he saw "all
the hoopla about this infiltration of government into entertainment,"
specifically that federal officials had offered TV networks financial
incentives to inject anti-drug messages into series.

With its overtones of censorship and propaganda, the revelation set off
finger-pointing and apologies, then a pledge by the White House drug czar,
retired Gen. Barry R. McCaffrey, that his office would stop reviewing
scripts to eliminate "any inference of federal intrusion in the creative
process."

But the "ah ha!" rhetoric obscures a basic reality: how this sort of
interplay is common, and always has been. Government officials have long
sought to use the mass media to get out their messages, whether about the
evils of communism, righteousness of a war or dangers of drunken driving.
Back to the first days of film, when the issues were sex and morality, they
have used the leverage of public haranguings and tangible threats--often of
new regulation--to influence what viewers see. They also learned to dangle a
carrot. Want a military base for filming? No problem--if the script has the
right spin.

And while many writers and producers abhor such cooperation, others see no
problem in it. For some, it's the practical price you pay to get something.
Others are simply with the program.

Ask "Baywatch" executive producer Greg Bonann how he's worked with the Coast
Guard, Marines, Army or Navy, the latter of which worries about public
support for a fleet of nuclear submarines now that the Cold War is over.
"How do they explain to people why we need these things?" Bonann asks. "What
better way than with the most-watched TV show in the world?"

What's in it for him? "A chance to use a billion-dollar piece of equipment
for free."

In return, he'll portray Navy personnel like those "Baywatch" lifeguards--as
rescuers. He'll also let the military review scripts, and more. "I don't
care what it is--they are welcome."

You get a similar answer from the Postal Service chronicler, Weideman. You
also will be able to see his movie posters again, soon, in 40,000 post
offices. They'll be promoting "Inspectors 2," his sequel, due to air on
Showtime in March.

When the first Oscar was awarded for best picture in 1927, military
officials should have been at the podium. They staged the crucial World War
I aerial combat scenes for the winner, "Wings."

But during the real WWI, when President Wilson faced the daunting task of
gaining support for U.S. involvement, it was the fledgling silent movie
industry that helped the government. In theaters across the country, shows
would be halted between reels so one of a cadre of "Three-Minute Men"--from
the Office of Public Information--could rise and exhort the audience to back
the war and buy Liberty Bonds.

Like any relationship, though, it was not all hugs and kisses. The new
industry came under attack after the war for its racy Roaring '20s themes.
To mollify critics, President Harding's postmaster general, Will H. Hayes,
was recruited in 1922 to head the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors
of America. Eight years later, as silent films gave way to talkies, it
adopted the Production Code under the principle, "No picture shall be
produced which will lower the moral standards of those who see it."

Its list of specific "applications" reflected concerns voiced to this day.
Murders were not to be presented in a way that would "inspire imitation."
Adultery was not to be "treated attractively." There was to be no ridiculing
of "any religious faith."

Movie-makers then ignored the code until 1934, when Congress prepared the
Federal Communications Act, annexing the airwaves for "the public interest."
That summer, the Hayes Office began enforcing the rules for real. Rick
Jewell, who teaches a censorship course at USC's film school, notes how,
from the earliest days, Hollywood used such preemptive strikes to stave off
"government intruding into their business."

Other times, it seemed a love fest, as during World War II, when actors such
as Ronald Reagan appeared in troop training films, directors such as Frank
Capra rallied the home front with patriotic documentaries ("Why We Fight")
and Walt Disney helped smooth ruffled feathers in Latin America with Donald
Duck movies that portrayed a region of colorful fiestas, with nary a
dictatorship in sight.

Some historians suggest that the studios had a self-interest in keeping the
government happy, such as making sure enough stars were free from active
duty to do commercial films. Whatever the motives, the close cooperation did
not seem to play as well after the wars.

The post-WWII years gave us the McCarthy anti-Communist crusades and
blacklists that still divide Hollywood. This also was the period of such
alarm-ringing films as "I Married a Communist." And just as Los Angeles
police worked with Jack Webb in the creation of "Dragnet" in 1952, federal
law enforcement officials such as J. Edgar Hoover saw the value of programs
on radio--then TV--that took gloating material from their files for "Your
FBI in Peace and War" or "Your T-Men in Action."

Director Robert Wise ("The Sound of Music" and "West Side Story") recalls
wanting Army tanks for his 1951 sci-fi classic "The Day the Earth Stood
Still" and how "you had to go to Washington and show them your script." His
told of a space alien, Klaatu, who is killed by a fearful government agency,
and an ending with Wise's plea for peace. The verdict? "They refused to
cooperate. I wasn't going to change the script," said Wise, 85.

Wise's philosophy of filmmaking underscores one reason political efforts to
"send a message" often fail: Wise believed a message was best imparted
"between the lines."

That subtle approach was rarely embraced by government or religious
campaigns to scare young people away from drugs, as with the 1935 film that
became a camp classic when re-released in the 1970s as "Reefer Madness."

A decade after audiences howled at "Reefer," the "Just Say No" drive was
launched by First Lady Nancy Reagan, who, not surprisingly, enlisted the
help of Hollywood. In 1986, actor John Travolta gave her a list of 300
celebrities endorsing the campaign. The next year, the pledge was embraced
by the adorable 12-year-old star of "E.T.," Drew Barrymore.

By 16, Barrymore had written an autobiography, "Little Girl Lost," confiding
her own drug problems. Travolta went on to revive his flagging career by
playing a heroin-addicted hit man in "Pulp Fiction."

Last year, the group carrying on Mrs. Reagan's campaign was retitled "Youth
Power," acknowledging: "The 'Just Say No' concept has taken on a number of
negative connotations in popular culture."

Though Republicans have often been the loudest critics of Hollywood's
influence on culture, Democrats have seemed more willing to pass legislation
to affect programming.

In 1988, President Reagan vetoed a bill limiting commercials during
children's programs and requiring stations to serve the needs of children as
a condition of renewing their FCC licenses. Congress passed a similar
measure two years later, but the perception was that broadcasters didn't
take the commitment seriously, claiming that reruns of "The Jetsons" met the
requirements.

The Clinton administration then held summits with Hollywood officials and
introduced a series of measures to underscore its concern about effects on
children. These included support for the V-chip, a device allowing parents
to block out programs; further limits on tobacco advertising; and an
agreement in 1996 for broadcasters to air at least three hours of
educational children's programming weekly, rather than action shows such as
"Mighty Morphin Power Rangers" or other toy-driven half-hours.

The next year, Congress authorized the program to buy $1 billion in air time
for anti-drug announcements--provided the networks donated equal time for
such spots. And after TV executives complained that that was too costly, the
White House Office of National Drug Control Policy decided they could earn
credits for some of that time--and thus sell it for profitable ads--by
instead injecting anti-drug story lines into shows.

Though the drug fight is popular, the undisclosed arrangement outraged media
historians like Carlos Cortes, a professor emeritus at UC Riverside. "This
is the most blatant economic kind of leverage that I can recall being used
by government," he said.

Warren Weideman doesn't mind if he's seen as a booster--that's what he was
before he became a producer.

He was a "product placement" man, cutting deals to get Michelin tires or
Polaroid cameras on TV and in movies.

He saw himself playing no different a role with another client, the
quasi-governmental Postal Service. But "as years went by," he grew
frustrated by his failure to produce positive images. Then a brainstorming
session shifted his focus to the service's federal law enforcement wing,
which once hunted down Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and more recently
made the cases against evangelist Jim Bakker and financier Michael Milken.

Armed with rights to develop a TV movie on "The Inspectors" and the Postal
Service offer to provide marketing, he formed Park Avenue Productions in Los
Angeles. He and his writers then worked with a high-ranking postal inspector
to find a juicy story in the files.

His understanding was clear: "I'm going to portray them in a positive light"
and they'd "make sure we didn't embellish." But that did not mean some "Buy
Stamps" infomercial, which no network would buy--and no one would watch.

The movie sold to Showtime starred Gossett and Jonathan Silverman as one of
those "Odd Couple" crime-fighting teams. It may not be a "Lethal Weapon"
franchise, but they're back in "Inspectors 2," which will premier March 6 at
Washington's Kennedy Center before an audience including the postmaster
general. This time, the duo is after a credit card scammer played by Michael
Madsen. The script injects reminders to tear up unwanted credit card
applications, but it has romance too, Weideman says.

Postal officials won't be alone in promoting the sequel. Bank of America,
which figures in the plot, will tout it at thousands of branches and on bank
statements.

The task now? "We're looking for a story for 'Inspectors 3.'

" * * *Times staff writers Richard Cooper in Washington and Brian Lowry,
Paul Brownfield and Susan King in Los Angeles contributed to this story.