My Mother, the Hollywood Strikebreaker: The Untold Story of Fame, Betrayal, and Family Drama

by

Matthew Specktor’s new memoir, titled “The Golden Hour: A Story of Family and Power in Hollywood,” provides insights into his upbringing in Los Angeles alongside his father, Fred Specktor (a powerful CAA agent), and mother, Katherine (a writer). The family was surrounded by influential figures from the entertainment industry, celebrities, and political activists. In 1981, when Matthew was 15 years old, Fred made a decision to alter their lives significantly. Before this change occurred, he uttered words that would also have a profound impact on Katherine – a seemingly offhand comment during a dinner conversation.

***

“Maybe you should write a script.”

Father thoughtfully sips his wine, casting a gaze towards mother at the dining table. His fork lies casually on one side of an almost empty plate of angel hair pasta. “Why not try it? It’ll keep you occupied as you submit your articles.

She curiously pushes her tongue to remove a speck of basil. “Am I qualified enough?” she wonders, “to compose a script?

My father questions, ‘Don’t these authors you’re referring to have their beginnings somewhere?'” or simply, “My father wonders if the authors from your agency were all already experts at the start.

Just as events don’t always unfold in movies according to a logical sequence, the same can happen in real life. Solutions can sometimes be proposed before problems arise, serving as a lifesaver for someone who is not yet in danger. For instance, six months before my father departed, he suggested a solution to an issue that hadn’t surfaced yet, offering support to a woman who was on solid ground.

“What about rewriting a script?” he says. “How would you feel about that?”

I’m confident that my father is genuinely well-meaning. My mom, being an artist, has nurtured this passion of hers for quite some time. Isn’t it natural for him to support and foster such talent?

He tells you, “You’re a writer,” expressing encouragement despite any hidden frustrations. Essentially, he believes in your abilities equivalent to those of anyone he knows. His suggestion is, “Why don’t you explore the possibility of earning some money from it?

Let’s examine her: a forty-five-year-old woman, who despite age, is youthful in spirit, exuding beauty and humor. The remnants of her once-blonde hair have turned darker, her skin has acquired a rosy tint from too much sun exposure, perhaps influenced by something more as well – yet she continues to excel at her talents and maintains an alluring charm.

She casually mentions, “I might just try it out,” hinting at a quiet self-assurance hidden within her depths. “Do you have a specific plan or approach in mind?

“You know that project we were talking about with Larry Peerce the other night?”

“The prison drama?”

Yes,” my dad replies. “I’m referring to the one involving Laddie. It seems they could benefit from a hand with that task.” He then takes another tiny sip of his wine.

Reflecting on what I’m about to discover – that after he departs, my father will be tormented by concern for her, feeling the anguish of the hurt he’s inflicting – I realize he’s preparing his exit, yet striving to do what’s right. She possesses talents. Isn’t it fitting she should employ them?

Looking it over,” my mom replies, extracting a cigarette from her pack. (Of course, who wouldn’t encourage her aspirations?) “Do we have a duplicate in the upper room?

In the scorching summer of 1981, my mother harbors an ardent dream – to become a novelist. This aspiration, deeply rooted within her, is something she intends to pass on to me. However, when dawn breaks, she’s merely a dedicated amateur. Perhaps it’s best for her to remain so. The pragmatist might question this choice, “Why not get paid?” he muses, failing to grasp the concept that financial validation may not be the only path for an artist. Each morning, she steps out of our house and heads towards the cabin by the pool, carrying her coffee along, destined for the room with damp brick floors and glass doors. It is here where she confronts her destiny. Although a screenplay isn’t a novel, it carries significant weight to be asked to pen one (and we’ll discuss the formalities later). Regardless of the medium, there’s nothing insignificant about crafting a tale through words.

“Mom?”

She’s determined to make it work. She has no desire to become a screenwriter – she views movies as mere commerce, while literature is art – but she throws her heart and soul into it. The script lacks a title at the moment. It’s inspired by a news segment on Sixty Minutes about a woman named Terry Jean Moore who was involved in an armed robbery in Florida. Deena Goldstone, a female screenwriter, has written this good script, according to my mother – however, it presents challenges as Terry ends up going to prison and having a child with a guard. Reportedly, the studio is not satisfied with it. Alan Ladd Jr., who now manages The Ladd Company, is displeased, and Larry Peerce, a director who works with my father, is also dissatisfied. As a result, she’s decided to take matters into her own hands, completely overhauling the script from start to finish. It’s surprising that such movies are still being made – movies focusing on ordinary people rather than space operas, action dramas, or thrillers with intricate plotlines. Nevertheless, they continue to be produced. This year alone, we have On Golden Pond and My Dinner with Andre.

In contrast to movies like Kramer vs. Kramer, Ordinary People, Norma Rae, and The China Syndrome – all contemporary films focused on genuine human characters rather than stereotypical villains or superheroes – this piece is no exception, making the author pleased to compose it. Here she is, in her chilly cabin during the summer of ’81, writing with the French doors ajar, surrounded by her desk, skylight, and small refrigerator.

***

Then comes fall. My mom retreats to her cabin. Summer has passed, school has started again, and my dad is absent. Plagued by severe migraines that start in September and linger for months, I seek solace in my room. No one will bother me here. However, as my right eye pulses and I open a copy of Daily Variety, having begun to read trade publications myself, I realize that my mom is not merely rewriting a script. The scenario is more intricate than that. My mother is indeed a screenwriter, but she also serves in other capacities, as you will soon discover.

Lately, I’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with my mom. This isn’t something we planned; it just turned out that way. Most evenings, she’s the only other person in the house. Due to some informal child custody agreement between my parents as they work things out with their lawyers, my sister spends most of her time with Dad, and I stay here with mom.

“Is that what they say?” I watch her carefully. “That you crossed the picket line?”

“Yes.” She leans forward, a little unsteady on her stool. “That’s what they say.”

A piece of me will forever reside within this chamber, companioned only by my mother during the frosty dusk, situated diagonally across from each other at this table, resembling a pair of solitary tavern-goers, with two cigarettes glowing in the ashtray lying between us.

“Do you think it’s true?” she says. A bottle of vodka sits by her elbow. “Am I a scab?”

I hear what you’re saying, Mom, but I don’t believe it’s accurate.” or “I understand your concern, Mom, but I doubt it’s valid.

Unfortunately, despite what my mother maintains, claiming it’s all a joke and only my father invited her to work on the script, she was technically working as a strikebreaker. This is because on April 11, 1981, the Writers Guild of America went on strike over royalties for VHS and Betamax tapes, a new home video market. This strike lasted for three months, which coincided with the very period when my mother, a non-union writer, was rewriting her unnamed screenplay.

As a high school sophore, I may not be a labor lawyer, but from what I observe with my mother pouring vodka carelessly on the table, reminiscent of a limp garden hose, it appears to me that this is an example of replacing someone during a strike, commonly known as “scabbing.” The studio’s inability to hire a skilled writer to rewrite the script, which is currently being produced in Florida, seems to be due to the ongoing strike. This also explains why they didn’t employ Deena Goldstone for the task of rewriting the script herself.

In simpler terms, let me explain the situation. My father had a client named Larry Peerce, who was a movie director and needed revisions for his film to keep its production going in the fall. Meanwhile, my mother was an aspiring writer seeking something productive to work on. At the same time, my father was involved in an affair and was trying to find a way to end his marriage. These are the key details of the story.

“I’m not a fucking scab,” she snaps. “I’m not.”

The films will reveal your true identity, shaping who you are and who you unavoidably become. My mother, a mix of ideological activist and strike-breaker, writer and heavy drinker, whose alcohol consumption has significantly increased, is planning to take me to see Warren Beatty’s “Reds,” a movie about John Reed this fall. She will also hand me copies of John Dos Passos’s “The Big Money” and Clifford Odets’s “Waiting for Lefty” to read. Despite her political views not changing, her viewpoint has certainly evolved.

As a gamer, it’s clear to me that everyone believes they’re the protagonist, which isn’t just an issue in movies but extends to America, where celebrity culture seems to be our only defining characteristic. Lately, I’ve found myself spending more time with my mom, not because I have a choice in the matter. At fifteen, I can sense the struggles she faces, trapped between impossible choices – parent, artist, heartbroken spouse – that have her tangled in a web of contradictions she can’t untangle.

***

The movies produced by my mom, specifically “Love Child” released in 1982, failed at the box office. After debuting in cinemas, it quickly disappeared from screens just a few weeks later. By this time, however, my mother was already grappling with other issues.

“Fuck Alvin Sargent,” she snarls, drunk out of her mind once again. “This is all his fault.”

Perhaps it wasn’t wise for you to leave that wound open, Mom.” Here we find ourselves back in the kitchen, standing once more by what seems like an unmovable workstation. “I’m starting to doubt if Alvin Sargent is truly the cause of our troubles.

“Are you siding against me?”

It appears that my mother’s application for membership in the Writers Guild of America (WGA) has been rejected. This decision was reportedly instigated by a senior member, who is also the author of “Ordinary People” and acted as a mentor to the individual whom my mother assisted in rewriting. This influential figure seems to have led an effort to prevent my mother from joining the WGA.

I’m not choosing a side,” I explain. If I struck a match, it would ignite her as if for a theatrical trick. “Yet, I cannot help but think…

She slaps me, putting her shoulder into it, her arm rigid and jerky like a garden sprinkler.

“Mom — “

Overwhelmed, I find myself chuckling uncontrollably while slumping back into my chair. She covers her face with her hands and weeps heavily.

“I’m not a writer,” she wails. “I’m not a writer!”

Essentially, this boils down to her identity crisis. A phrase that troubled my mother deeply during her court proceedings was a comment made by an unidentified member of the Guild’s disciplinary committee to Daily Variety on December 17, 1981: “It’s a moral and ego thing.” The implication being, “You’re not a writer if you’re not in the Guild.” In essence, this statement has led her to question her self-definition. If she is no longer recognized as a writer, if she loses her roles as a teacher, administrator, activist, or spouse, then what exactly is her role now? What identity does she hold on the vast stage of life?

I may not consider myself a writer,” I weep unhappily, pressing my hands against my face, “but I’m certainly something, even if I can’t see it right now!

This movie, titled “Love Child,” isn’t poor quality. It features Amy Madigan as Terry Jean Moore, a Florida hitchhiker who serves a ten-year sentence following an incident involving her friend and a gun in a car. Beau Bridges portrays the prison guard who fathered her child, while Mackenzie Phillips plays her lesbian companion on the yard. This movie is generally well-received, neither shameful nor disappointing. Critics at “The Hollywood Reporter” even considered it deserving of awards, with Madigan receiving a Golden Globe for Most Promising Newcomer. However, the “Los Angeles Times” felt it was more suitable for television. The reviews were mostly positive, using words like “powerful,” “unsentimental,” and “sincere,” but this isn’t the essence of what the movie is about.

“Mom.”

This discussion centers around self-expression and identity, specifically about who she is permitted to be. Interestingly, being blacklisted hasn’t hindered her from working in the industry. Contrary to expectations, studios and networks typically refrain from hiring nonunion writers; however, CBS has recently employed her for a television movie titled Princess Grace. As a result, the Writers Guild is compelled to provide her with similar protections as union members, such as pension and health benefits. However, around town, at screenings and restaurants, she encounters resentful stares. This hostility seems to stem from both moral and ego-related issues.

“What is it?”

The twin influences of morality and self-interest, which shape actions both on the grand stage of Hollywood and the national platform, are currently at play. My father, a successful businessman, is flourishing in this era. Being a capitalist in America right now seems prosperous. Meanwhile, my mother, who broke strikes and is an artist, is finding it challenging to thrive during this period.

“Dad’s getting married.”

She grabs her glass and hurls it towards me, making a whizzing sound as it misses my head and shatters against the wall, spattering me with vodka and ice pieces.

“Get the fuck out,” she says.

I stare at her a moment, dripping vodka.

“Get out!”

She has created her own bed, yet it seems no moment could have been suitable for my mother. I’ve come to understand that there is no more treacherous act than self-betrayal. My parents are ordinary individuals, much like those you might see in movies, and also the kind who create them. However, after my mom has expressed her anger towards my dad for his supposed betrayal (“That unfaithful man! That deceiver!”), what’s left? Who is this woman who used to sing “Joe Hill” to me as a baby, a fervent supporter of the Weavers, whose close friend when my sister and I were children was the folk singer Judy Collins? She sang “Guantanamera,” she sang “Deportee,” she sang “Coal Tattoo,” a union song through and through. In the living room with her friends, she would sing from the depths of her soul, even as Ronald Reagan’s political career was only beginning to gain momentum.

Who, really, betrayed that person? Who? Who? Who?

***

Twenty-seven years after the fact, I find myself outside the gates of 20th Century Fox, brandishing a protest sign aloft, vocally expressing my views towards the heavens.

“Hey, Ho, pencils down/Hollywood’s a union town!”

In my heart, I’m strongly supportive of labor unions, yet I find myself grappling with feelings of hypocrisy. This is because I once worked at a production studio, and my mother was a strikebreaker, or “scab.” Looking around, I can see the building where I used to work in CAA’s mailroom, just a few blocks east of here. It brings back memories of standing on the other side of picket lines, and glimpses of the world I grew up in, places that evoke a mix of emotions within me. If I were to walk up to the white walls of the studio towering above Pico Boulevard – the main hub of my adversaries – I might as well give it a kiss.

“Hey, Chernin! How much you earnin’?”

After setting my sign, I know the exact amount earned during my shift and with that done, I head back to my car parked near the hotel where Bill Mechanic once spoke about the importance of middle-class movies years ago. Unfortunately, this strike will likely widen the gap between rich and poor even more. In the coming months, studios stand to lose billions in revenue, which they might use to activate force majeure clauses. This will hurt writers as these companies cut costs and reduce the size of the pie, leaving most of us scrambling for scraps. I get into my car and drive home, taking a detour along Avenue of the Stars to pass by CAA’s new office – a building known as the Death Star in Century City. The Young Turks, now around my age, eventually tired of paying Michael Ovitz rent. Now, it all seems so insignificant to me. Indeed, this universe I grew up in feels quite small.

“Hi, Mom. How are you feeling today?”

Once upon a time, the MCA building, which used to fill me with awe as told by my father, now houses just another private equity firm, barely catching my eye as I stroll down Santa Monica Boulevard. Soon enough, the iconic I.M. Pei building will be transformed into a WeWork space. As I slice through the city, only two blocks from my childhood home on Warnall Avenue, my mother reaches out. It’s as if she can sense my longing for the past.

It’s not too shabby, sweetheart. These days, even the screens can fit comfortably in a palm, just like this one here. Did you work outside today?

“I was.”

That’s great news indeed! It sounds like something you should have considered first.” Her chuckle was faint and husky. “Indeed, it seems that would have been the best course of action from the start.

Originally from “The Golden Hour: A Tale of Family and Power in Hollywood,” written by Matthew Specktor. This work is copyrighted © 2025 by Matthew Specktor. It has been excerpted with permission from Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

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2025-04-22 22:55