The actress Farrah Fawcett was under full- time nurse supervision at her high-rise condominium on Wilshire Boulevard's Golden Mile, floating in and out of consciousness, when NBC made its demand.
The network had bid $1.5 million for a cinema verite-style film Fawcett was making of her struggle with late-stage cancer, and with the gossip media buzzing about her imminent death, NBC was eager to get the show on television for the upcoming May sweeps rating competition.
"I do have to get this show on the air," a network executive wrote to Craig Nevius, Fawcett's production partner. "And I think you do, too."
But Fawcett was too sick to approve a final version of the documentary, and Nevius was reluctant to move forward without her.
"I must honor my duty to her intent and her vision," he wrote back.
NBC ultimately got what it wanted, but only after the actor Ryan O'Neal, Fawcett's on- again-off-again boyfriend of more than 30 years, engineered a takeover of the project from Nevius.
Received as a seminal moment in television history when it was broadcast in May 2009 - making Fawcett "the first American celebrity to film herself dying," The New York Post wrote - the film was complimented by reviewers for its candor, but was also called "sometimes almost unbearable" and "exploitative."
If the documentary was a wrenching drama, the off-camera takeover itself was operatic, with threats of violence and a death-bed transfer of legal
rights, leading to courthouse wrangling that pitted wealthy powerful Hollywood fixtures against Nevius, a prodigy screenwriter turned producer who never quite broke into the big time.
The struggle surrounding the film, pieced together through interviews, emails and warring lawsuits settled a few weeks ago, reveals a chaotic final chapter in the life of an American icon - and a particularly indelicate entertainment industry moment, even by the standards of the reality TV era.
By selling her "video diary" to NBC, Fawcett turned her illness into the ultimate real-life programming for an ever-more voyeuristic audience. She intertwined her wishes for her story with the interests of a network fighting for footing in the television ratings race.
"She chose to film this and turn it into a TV show," said Doug Vaughan, the NBC executive who oversaw the project. "It was their idea to do this."
But Fawcett had intended the film to address shortcomings she saw in American cancer treatment and to present it in art-house style. She would reference Francois Truffaut when talking about her vision.
After O'Neal and NBC gained full control of the documentary, the film took on the feel of network celebrity fodder - at once more glossy and more morbid.
"It was a contradiction of what the film was supposed to be," said Nevius, who had become Fawcett's part-agent, part-manager, part-producer - and a full-time devotee.
Over Nevius' objections, the film, originally titled "A Wing and a Prayer," was renamed "Farrah's Story," echoing the 1970 film "Love Story," in which O'Neal played a husband devoted to his terminally ill wife. ("`Love Story' was one of the most viewed movies of all time," O'Neal said in an interview. "What's his problem?")
O'Neal became the leading man in "Farrah's Story" as well, professing his love with only a hint of the tumult that marked their relationship.
Many scenes addressing the American medical system were scrapped or truncated. The new version included a more robust homage to Fawcett's career as well as fresh, raw scenes, including footage of Redmond O'Neal, the couple's son, saying goodbye to his mother. Temporarily released from jail where he was being held on drug charges, he arrived in a prison uniform and leg shackles and climbed into her bed as she lay nearly comatose. "Get real close to her," O'Neal directed his son as the camera zoomed in.
Kate Jackson, Fawcett's friend and a "Charlie's Angels" co-star, called the scene "absolutely inexcusable," adding: "Jesus no, she would not have wanted her son shot in prison garb and shackles. What purpose does that serve?"
Unanswered question
In a lawsuit, Nevius contended the film had become the maudlin retrospective Fawcett wanted to avoid. O'Neal maintained he took over the project with Fawcett's blessing, after he and the network determined it was not ready for prime time. Alana Stewart, a friend of Fawcett who shot much of the film, dismissed criticisms, saying "something must have been done right if it was viewed by 10 million people and nominated for an Emmy."
But left unanswered is the question of which version - if any - of her final image Fawcett would have wanted to project.
"I hate to tell you, my friend, nobody knows," said Mela Murphy, Fawcett's friend and hairdresser. "Maybe it shouldn't have been aired at all. How about that?"
Fawcett did not set out to make a film about her death. "She thought it was to be a story of survival," O'Neal said. When a recurrence of her anal cancer was diagnosed in 2007 she began filming her doctor visits and then decided to make a documentary. She said she wanted to highlight what she saw as the slow process of drug approvals in the United States and treatment advances in countries like Germany, where she was seeking a cure.
The film was to be a series of real-time video diaries tied together by Fawcett's narration. Nevius said Fawcett wanted to minimize references to her career and rejected his suggestion to make her relationship with O'Neal a subplot, telling him "this isn't that."
Fawcett entrusted Nevius with carrying out her vision, giving him control if she became incapacitated. Eighteen years her junior, he had come to Hollywood from Illinois as a promising young screenwriter. He was only 22 when his first script became a major motion picture - "Happy Together," starring Helen Slater, Patrick Dempsey and, in a bit role, Brad Pitt.
But by the time Nevius met Fawcett 15 years later he had a modest career producing shows with stars of yore. He convinced her to do a reality show, "Chasing Farrah," and when that ended in 2005, he remained in her life. When Fawcett's mother died, he produced a tribute shown at the funeral. He helped Fawcett secure the rights to her famous red bathing suit poster. In a Christmas card, she called him "my loyal friend, my protector."
Nevius and Fawcett were an incongruous pair - she, the glamorous beauty of the '70s who regularly socialized with the likes of Tina Sinatra and Cher, and he, the long-haired, jeans-and-T-shirt-wearing producer who lived in a modest apartment in West Hollywood
The other main member of the production team, Stewart, would come to chafe under Nevius, whom she viewed as a devoted puppy dog if not an obsessed fan. A one-time model and ex-wife to two big show business names - the actor George Hamilton and the rocker Rod Stewart - she had been friends with Fawcett since the '70s.
A point of contention
O'Neal said that Fawcett also asked him to work on the film but that he would not work with Nevius. "`Get rid of him and I'll come aboard,"' O'Neal recalled saying.
"I'd worked with Kubrick for God's sake," he said, referring to Stanley Kubrick, his director on "Barry Lyndon." "With really good, talented people. I know the difference."
The documentary became a point of contention for Fawcett and O'Neal, who had reunited after a prolonged estrangement but still kept separate homes and finances.
"She just got mad at me because I was being difficult," O'Neal said. "I said, `I know I'm difficult, but I'm sorry, you don't need two geniuses, honey, one's enough."'
In fall 2008, O'Neal persuaded Fawcett to meet with a possible replacement for Nevius, the producer Robert Greenwald, who had directed her in the 1984 television movie "The Burning Bed." But Fawcett resisted cutting out Nevius. "The whole subtext was he was helping to hold her life together," Greenwald said.
Even so, O'Neal ordered Nevius to hand the project to Greenwald. When Nevius refused, he said O'Neal told him: "I'll kill you with Farrah and then I'll kill you in real life."
Asked about the exchange, O'Neal - who once fired a gun in a dispute with his son Griffin - said, "I may have said `I'll kill ya,' but I said that as a joke."
In winter 2009, Fawcett took her final trip to the German clinic where she was being treated. When she returned that spring, her condition had worsened and the film fell on her list of priorities. For others it became increasingly urgent and divisive.
In April, with NBC prodding Nevius to deliver for May sweeps, Stewart was refusing to turn over scenes she shot in Germany because of a continuing pay dispute. "I know Farrah thinks it's generous, and perhaps it is by `industry standard,' but this has not been a standard industry project," she had written to Nevius.
Nevius declined to up her pay without talking to Fawcett. Yet, Stewart, who was keeping vigil at Fawcett's condominium with O'Neal, told Nevius she was too ill for visitors. (Stewart said it was Fawcett's decision.)
Tensions were rising with NBC as well. Though Vaughn had called Nevius a "great producer" in one email, he had steadily raised concerns about the structure of the film as Nevius and Fawcett sent them rough cuts.
That spring NBC assigned a former "Dateline" producer to help with the project. When she submitted a script with new, melodramatic lines written for Fawcett, Nevius returned it covered with red ink. Where Fawcett was scripted to say, "Was it written in the stars, I wonder, that life would take this turn," Nevius wrote: "She will never say this. Nor should she."
A publicist for NBC News alerted Nevius on April 15 that the network expected to broadcast the film in roughly three weeks. Nevius had agreed to work double time to finish the documentary, but said he would not deliver a final version without Fawcett's approval.
"I'm a bit between a rock and a hard place," Nevius wrote back. "She has been out of the hospital for less than a week and I have not seen her yet, because she is still in some pain and sleeping quite a bit."
"That's why I think it's imperative for you to see Farrah and speak to her," Vaughan replied, adding that "obviously we're not crass and certainly do not want you to focus only on this when you see her."
That same day, Nevius got a frantic call from Murphy, Fawcett's hairdresser and one of the few people allowed into the condominium.
According to Nevius' notes, Murphy said O'Neal was urgently looking for Fawcett's contract with Nevius. She also told him a nurse had called her upset, because lawyers for O'Neal were trying to persuade the bed-ridden Fawcett to sign various documents.
In an interview, Murphy confirmed the conversation with Nevius. "To me it was like, `Why are you bothering with this stuff? Let's get her to eat,"' she said.
Nothing underhanded
On April 20, after Nevius again proposed a visit, Richard B. Francis, whose family firm managed the finances of both O'Neal and Fawcett, left a message for Nevius. Francis said, "I'm telling you right now, you better not appear at Farrah's," or risk a beating from O'Neal.
That afternoon, Stewart and Murphy said, Fawcett was mentally sharp when she signed papers relinquishing creative control of the film to O'Neal. "There was nothing going on that was underhanded," Stewart said. "It was very straightforward."
Murphy said despite her earlier doubts, she realized that Fawcett "did want Ryan to take control of this."
O'Neal said that Fawcett gave him control after he showed her a rough cut of the film. "I held her in my arms when we watched his version, because she wasn't able to sit up," he said. "She wasn't saying too much of anything at this point, except that `We have a lot of work to do."'
One of the new documents effectively claimed the initial agreement between Fawcett and Nevius - giving him control if she became too sick - was null and void. Kim H. Swartz, the lawyer who helped oversee the drafting of that agreement, declined though another lawyer on the case, Howard Weitzman, to discuss the signing of the documents.
Asked whether Fawcett had resisted signing some documents, Weitzman said, "If she was too tired or not feeling well enough at any particular time to give something her best attention, she would handle it when the time was right, just like anyone else."
When Nevius expressed doubts to NBC about the validity of the signatures, which were noticeably shaky compared with her trademark perfect signature, network officials said they considered it "an internal dispute" that left them little choice but to recognize O'Neal's new role. Once in charge, O'Neal gave the network relatively free rein in producing the final version.
Asked later why the show went on even after Fawcett became too ill to see it through, Vaughan said the network "needed to get this on the air before something bad happened to Farrah, so she would be able to receive the well wishes of her legions of fans."
Speaking with reporters at a star-studded party for the documentary, O'Neal said Fawcett was "heavily medicated" at home, but would be watching the debut two nights later on NBC. "We're going to take some of these medications down so she's lucid and sharp," he said.
Stewart said that when she and O'Neal watched the program with Fawcett on her bed, she said, "It was 'very, very, very good."'
Fawcett died six weeks later at age 62.
For the next 18 months, Nevius pursued his lawsuit against O'Neal, Stewart and Francis full time, hoping to regain control of the company he and Fawcett formed and produce the film he says she wanted. Francis countersued, accusing Nevius of being a hanger-on who ingratiated himself with Fawcett and embezzled money from their company. (He and O'Neal never offered proof, and Nevius denies the allegation.)
By last fall, Nevius was regularly fielding tearful calls from his mother, urging him to move on. When his lawyer told him in December the fight could go on for two more years and cost another $250,000, he said he decided to enter into settlement talks.
"I'm fighting at least two multimillionaires," he said. "And at this point I don't know that it's honoring Farrah. I just don't think she'd want us all destroying each other, which is pretty much how it's going."
O'Neal offered his former nemesis some advice: "He should go on with his life and let her rest in peace."
For his part, O'Neal is producing a new reality show with his daughter Tatum O'Neal, a partnership made famous in the 1973 movie "Paper Moon." There are also plans to release a version on DVD of "Farrah's Story," which he now controls.
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