When I met Steven Bochco in 1991, he was already one of the most successful producers in television history. Having made one fortune already, he would go on to make several more. Steven’s father, Rudolph, was a violinist with the NBC orchestra, and he played under the demanding and irascible Maestro Arturo Toscanini; his mother, Mimi, was a painter. Once in a story conference when a preppy writer asked him what economic class he came from, Steven grimaced. “The artist class.”
Steven’s principal artistic expression was in his work as a producer. A TV show is a living thing, and the story is an interactive dynamic of considerable complexity that Steven conducted with absolute aplomb and authority. People who attempted to override Steven inevitably found he had anticipated their actions. When one of the studios attempted to sell one of Steven’s shows to itself, his lawsuit was already prepared and was filed the same day. I’d estimate that saved him around $100 million. The owner of the studio was so disturbed by this show of ingratitude he rearranged seating in the commissary so as not to ever again see Steven. The incident and his victory made Steven a hero to the artist class in a way conventional success does not.