Crystal Lee Sutton, 68, died a couple of weeks ago of brain cancer.  You might know her better by her Hollywood name: Norma Rae.  Crystal’s life story was the inspiration for the 1979 Sally Field blockbuster that grossed $22 million (in 1979 dollars), four Oscar nominations, and two Oscars including Best Actress for the aforementioned Ms. Field.  Norma Rae’s character is #15 on the American Film Institute’s list of all-time greatest screen heroes; Norma Rae is rated 16^th of their “100 Most Inspiring Movies of All Time.”  Given all this you probably think that Crystal Lee Sutton died in relative comfort, content with her life’s work and unencumbered by material concerns such as medical bills.  Well, guess again.

Crystal Lee Sutton actually did many of the things in real life that Sally Field did in Norma Rae, including writing “Union” on a piece of cardboard and holding it up for everyone to see, sparking the wildcat strike that launched her cause.  But when the producers of Norma Rae refused to give her script approval Sutton withdrew her name from the picture, thereby foregoing any participation in the profits.  While Sally Field and the producers of Norma Rae were attending the Oscars, Crystal Lee Sutton went on to a series of other low-paying jobs, including work at a chicken processing plant (afterward saying she’d “rather shovel shit” than work there again) and then put herself through school to become a nurse’s aid.  At some point Crystal received a small settlement from the movie she inspired, but it wasn’t enough to provide her with even minimal financial security.

At the time of her death Crystal had just won a dispute over coverage with–you guessed it—her medical insurance company, and her husband was working two low-paying jobs to support Crystal during her last days.  Upon hearing of Crystal’s death, Sally Field described her as “a remarkable woman whose brave struggles have left a lasting impact on this country and, without doubt, on me personally.  Portraying Crystal Lee in ‘Norma Rae,’ however loosely based, not only elevated me as an actress, but as a human being.”  To which she might have, but didn’t add, “It didn’t elevate me enough to write Crystal a generous check from the many millions I have earned as an actress, or to organize a Hollywood fundraiser on her behalf, or to assume even partial responsibility for her medical bills, which would have been well within my means, but, you know… I felt like I was pretty darn elevated, just the same.”  To paraphrase somebody you know, Ms. Field, we resent you!  We really, really resent you for this!  Oh, there’s that darn piano music telling me to wrap up… oh, thank you, everybody!

It would be unfair–exploitative, even– to blame Sally Field for the fact that Crystal Lee Sutton died broke and forgotten.  Lots of other people in Hollywood were in a position to ease Crystal’s financial burdens and couldn’t be bothered to do so.  What’s appalling is how many leading Hollywood figures enrich themselves playing, writing about, or directing movies about the poor, the down-trodden, and so on, and then forget all about the real-life subjects of their scenery-chewing once they’ve moved on to their next project.  Worse, these smug actorcrats berate us little people for not paying enough taxes, not donating enough to charity, and, lately, for resisting efforts to “reform” the health care we’ve earned by extending it to those who haven’t.

And it’s not just actors who won’t walk the activism walk.  Michael Moore has built a career out of parlaying social activism into a series of lucrative “documentaries,” if an investigative film whose findings are written before shooting starts is your idea of a documentary.  Moore has been called… OK, by me… the only filmmaker in Hollywood who shoots three different ending to his documentaries and then uses the one that tests the best.  For all of his blathering about “the little guy” and workers’ rights, Moore is notorious for not paying his crews union wages, not giving his writers the on-screen credits they deserve, and generally being a miserable person to work for.  Moore’s four most popular films alone have grossed over $300 million; if his earnings for TV, publishing and speeches are included his tales of exploited G.M. workers, exploited teens, exploited Iraqis, exploited sick people, and exploited victims of the banking crisis have generated close to half a billion dollars.  Some might say that capitalism, described by Moore in his latest offering (which I refuse to plug here) as evil, has been pretty good to him.  But if Michael Moore is re-distributing the millions he’s pocketed to the victims he and his film crews have, uh… well, exploited in order to make those millions, it’s the best-kept secret in Hollywood.

But as I’m sure you all know they don’t call it show “business” for nothing, and I’ve got my own career to think about.  So in the interest of full disclosure I hereby acknowledge that I’ve recently taken my place at the Hollywood writer/actor-vist feeding trough.  I’ve just started a script about a union organizer whose bravery in the face of corporate intimidation sparked a movement that improved the lives of millions, after which her life story was stolen from her and turned into a highly acclaimed movie that made millions for everyone involved except its subject.  The working title for my new project is Crystal Lee and I’ve gotta tell you, I’m pretty excited about it.

With the ongoing struggle within SAG between the strike faction and the anti-strike faction, and with the upcoming commercial actor’s contract negotiations looming, it is time to address the big issue behind the union’s difficulties. No, it’s not the economy, new technology, or the explosion of reality television. Those are just  messy details. The big picture reason why the Screen Actors Guild is a mess? It’s run by actors. Actors shouldn’t be running unions. Because actors are dumb. I know – I’ve been an actor all my life, I’ve been around actors all my life. Let’s face it – if life is one big SAT test, we actors are still in the hallway tying our shoes.

(Case in point: that last metaphor. What does that even mean? Just dumb.)

I’ve been through a few actors strikes over the years. I’ve been a card carrying member of SAG since 1975, having begun my show business career as an obnoxious young child actor (are their any other kind?).

By the way, for those of you thinking of pulling your adorable moppet off the Little League field and on to the big stage (or little screen), here’s a fun drinking game: take one shot of hard liquor for every child star (aside from Ron Howard) you can name that successfully made it to adulthood without a drug problem, arrest record, or failed teenage marriage (that last one eliminates Shirley Temple). It’s the only drinking game guaranteed to leave you cold stone sober (thus differentiating you from 99.9 percent of all former, and several current, child stars….

But, I digress. The last time I was involved with an actors strike was in 2000, when SAG struck against the producers of TV commercials. For a decent chunk of my career I made a decent chunk of my living saying things like “may cause oily discharge.” Though admittedly pithy, it’s not quite Shakespeare, but it pays the bills. Actors who sell floss and dish detergent, and super absorbent magic towels that can wash, dry, and polish any surface, easily remove cola, wine and pet stains, and is guaranteed to last ten years and will have you saying “wow” every time (God help me, I love that guy) have working condition and minimal salary requirements just like any other labor pool. So, despite the fact that actors are pursuing one of the most individual, least collective, professions on Earth, every three years collective bargaining is called for. Goals are pursued, compromises are made, deals are struck, all the individual contractors shake hands and go back to their individual pursuits.

Except in the year 2000. Fiery, strike-happy (mostly non-working)  actors led the union (basically the same cats that are there today) and were determined to take the commercial actors out on strike. As part of the anti-strike faction in New York, a group of us met with the union leadership (then president William Daniels and others) to try and avert the strike. The SAG leadership listened carefully to our well-reasoned arguments, considered our point of view thoughtfully – and then took the union out on strike for half a year.

Despite the fact that I was vehemently against the strike, I felt it was the patriotic thing to do to support the strike once it began in the hopes of ending it quickly (see first paragraph re: me dumb).  I was a “strike captain,” so I have the experience and knowledge to give readers some expert analysis of what can be expected should SAG go on strike again

First of all, actors can be pretty tough. Now, you wouldn’t think commercial spokesmen would be tough strikers like pipe fitters and iron workers, but things got a little hairy. There was the day the Pillsbury Dough Boy tried to cross the picket line. The Pep Boys beat the crap out of him. There was yeast everywhere.

One day on the line we got into a shoving match with the cops. It all happened so quickly, I don’t really know how it went down, but Mrs. Butterworth got cracked over the head with a billy club. The streets flowed with syrup that day, my friend.

Of course, strikes can be romantic, even passionate, and actors are passionate people. We had our share of “strike romances.” Everyone knew the Michelin Man was going around with Aunt Jemima. Of course, in the industry the Michelin Man has always been known as a “player” – guy carries rubbers with him wherever he goes (the kind with “all weather tread” – you know, “for her pleasure”). Naturally, with Aunt Jemima all caught up in strike frenzy and running around like that, Uncle Ben was heartbroken. We all told him: you got a woman as fine as Aunt Jemima you got to keep her bottled up, or else she’ll spread her sweet stuff all over town.

As the weeks turned into months a lot of the commercial spokesmen couldn’t take the stress. The Snuggle Fabric Softener Teddy Bear started hitting the bottle. You know, the kind with the “easy pour spout.” He stopped caring, started mixing in his colors with his whites. His clothes were no longer soft and supple like a baby’s bottom. They were coarse and rough like an old man’s ass! Yes, it was sad…

Well, I hope these memories of the last big actors strike helped to give you some insight into the issues. Once the strike was finally over, most of the non-working actors who had pushed heavily for the strike went back to not working. Unfortunately, a good deal of the working actors ended up joining them on the unemployment lines. Six months is a long time. Plenty of time for producers to figure out how to make commercials with non-union actors, or in Canada, or how to make commercials without actors at all – or how to stop making commercials because all the technology changed and no one watches commercials anymore anyway.

Dumb.

My dad was an immigrant house painter (or, as he described it, “a shmearer”) with virtually no formal education. He was a tough Jew – from the streets. Once every few years the painters union would go out on strike and my dad would have to walk a picket line. He was at a strike meeting once and some big slob of a house painter took the seat my dad had saved for my mom. “My wife is sitting there,” my dad said. “Not anymore she ain’t,” the guy said. So my dad – who was five foot two and one hundred twenty five pounds – picked the slob up and decked him, cold. The president of the painter’s union witnessed this disorderly event – and promptly hired my dad to be his personal bodyguard. Years later, long after my dad had ceased being his bodyguard, the president of the painters union was gunned down in a labor dispute with some representatives of the Gambinos. Now that’s a strike authorization!

So, this time  if the Screen Actors Guild goes out on strike I  won’t be a strike captain, I won’t be out on the streets playing “Norma Rae” with the rest of the kids. I will be concentrating all my efforts towards making a buck, focusing on supporting the DKG: the Dave Konig Guild (six active members: me, the Bride of Konig, the four Spawn of Konig).  Maybe I’ll follow in my father’s footsteps and I’ll show up for a strike meeting or two at the union hall. Unlike my dad, however, I’ll be sitting in the back making wisecracks not sitting in the front throwing punches, and if any big, mean actors want to take my wife’s seat… they’re welcome to it. And no offense to the president of SAG, but the Konig family has long since retired from the personal-bodyguard-to-union-presidents game.