Al Gore has charged that his programs are dangerously violent. A whole other slew of detractors accuse him of exploiting the actors who've helped make him a billionaire. Haim Saban, the biggest Israeli player in Hollywood, comes out of his tower to give The Report a rare interview. And he's in no mood to apologize.
Sheli Teitelbaum Los Angeles
LAST JANUARY, THE SCREEN Actors Guild (SAG) of America banned its members from auditioning or working for Saban Entertainment, the Los Angeles-based home of the "Mighty Morphin Power Rangers," "X-Men" and some 60 other money-spinning projects in the realm of what's known in the trade as "kidvid." The guild's president, actor Richard Masur, accused the company and its 52-year-old president, Egyptian-born Israeli Haim Saban, of running a film industry sweatshop, exploiting children and strong-arming critics.
The dispute was settled amicably a few months ago, but not before a lot of bitter language was directed at Saban. And the squabble, and the way it was resolved, have shed new light on the business methods and personality of the producer, who grew up in a Tel Aviv slum, became a sergeant major in the Israeli army, and in 18 years in Hollywood has become a huge player in the children's entertainment industry, a partner of mega-mogul Rupert Murdoch and a billionaire in his own right. "In an extremely cynical manner," Masur stated when the dispute was at its height, "(Saban) has made hundreds of millions of… dollars marketing his programs and ancillary merchandise to children worldwide, while exploiting the talent, material resources as well as the hopes and dreams of child actors and their parents."
Masur isn't the only one to have charged Saban with cynical exploitation. As the producer of so phenomenal a success as "Power Rangers," with its hideous villains and extravagant use of martial arts, Saban has been a lightning rod for those who see kidvid as a danger to the mental health and development of young viewers.
Vice President Al Gore singled out "Power Rangers" in 1996 for projecting "an image of violence that is simultaneously sugary and sociopathic," asserting that the link between watching such shows and the subsequent committing of violent acts "is becoming as well established as the linkage between smoking and lung cancer." Saban responded by ordering fewer karate-style "hai-ya" shouts and putting more emphasis in the series on such socially palatable values as multiculturalism, family and teamwork. At the center of the show are five bright, politically correct and ethnically diverse teens who "morph" into Spandex-clad, dinosaur-powered, karate-chopping superheroes whenever the Earth is threatened by a legion of over-the-top baddies like Lord Zed and Rita Repulsa.
According to one study cited in the journal National Review, 96 percent of pre-school teachers believe they have witnessed "Morphin-inspired acts of antisocial behavior" on the playground. Anoth-er study, out of UCLA, blasts "Power Rangers" and "X-Men." Embraced by Illinois Sen. Paul Simon, this research blames the shows for conveying the sense that "violence is not really horrible, and no one is really hurt by it. And since it's live action, the characters become role models." In 1994, outraged parents persuaded Canadian TV authorities to force local stations either to pull "Power Rangers" or tone down offending scenes. Networks in Norway, Sweden, Denmark and New Zealand pulled the show as well after a little girl in Norway was kicked and pummeled to death in 1994 by young boys whom neighbors insisted had been driven into a frenzy by the show (though subsequent investigations failed to establish any link). Yet the embattled "Power Rangers" are not without defenders, many of them adults who note that the link between TV shows and real violence has not in fact been definitively established. Given that the violence of the "Power Rangers" is so obviously ersatz, these defenders argue, parents might want to revisit the fairy tales they enjoyed as children before reaching for the pitchforks and torches. At least the Rangers, wrote critic Jeff Strickler, after seeing "Power Rangers: The Movie," have "a sexually and racially diverse cast… an environmental theme and an upbeat message." Saban himself ridicules the notion that parents might fear the effect on their children of the mutant pizzas, giant pigs, flower-spitting monsters and evil plasticene drones that are the show's staple fare. The media magnate has always done his best to avoid personal publicity. But in a rare interview, granted in the expansive office atop the 24-story Wilshire Boulevard building (he leases the top four floors) that now shouts his name in huge block letters, Saban states flatly that he is "a businessman, not a teacher." And yet, he adds, "you can be a businessman with a certain sense of responsibility. We broadcast our shows over the airwaves. These are owned by the American people, and are under license to us. We have a responsibility to the American people. We have an advisory board comprised of eight people - child psychologists, educators and social workers."
Indeed, Saban has made clear efforts to achieve respectability, and met with some success. "Life with Louie," an understated animated program about a Midwest family seen through the eyes of its 10-year-old son, was described by the Animation and Cartoon Heaven Website as being "by far the best Saturday a.m. cartoon on TV and the only one worth getting up to watch." "The New Captain Kangaroo" has received high praise from parents' groups, and even if Bob Keeshan, the original captain, has expressed displeasure with it. The show has even won a "Humanitas" award - in recognition of its contribution to humanitarianism. And "X-Men" is widely regarded as a stylish adaptation of the successful Marvel comic book that deals rather adroitly with adolescent alienation. And the Fox Family Channel has also brought back the Emmy-winning "Pee-Wee's Playhouse," which most broadcasters dropped after creator and host Paul Reubens's (sp?) public disgrace some years back. "Every script produced in this company undergoes scrutiny by our broadcast practices and standards department," emphasizes the curly-haired, broad-shouldered and meticulously tailored Saban. "If I come across something I wouldn't feel comfortable with my own children watching, it wouldn't go on."
SABAN OWES MUCH OF HIS CURrent fortune and status to "Power Rangers" - the top-rated program for 2-to-11 year-olds in 1993, and still going strong. He has said he wants to keep it running for another five years, and keeps retooling it, changing the rangers, villains, settings - and the merchandise. This fall, for example, prepare for the "Power Rangers in Space." What's extraordinary about the show, one of roughly 60 animated and live-action series and feature films on Saban's ever-expanding production slate, is the way it's assembled - with bits of cheaply acquired, second-hand, Japanese-made film of space monsters invading Earth, spliced onto footage produced on a shoestring in the hills outside L.A. and featuring local kids.
The SAG's beef with Saban centered on multiple charges, including claims that "Power Rangers" denied its principals of reasonable wages, adequate health benefits or residual payments for rebroadcasts. For a year, the Guild tried to press its concerns quietly, but it was only when it issued its ban that it succeeded in getting Saban's personal attention, and cooperation. But as a precondition for negotiations, he demanded a public retraction of Masur's exploitation charges and an apology. As soon as these were forthcoming, he agreed to extend the Guild's employment conditions to his "Power Ranger" actors.
Masur describes the imbroglio as a turning point for Saban. "Before our agreement, Saban Entertainment had operated outside of the normal channels. Mr. Saban was an entrepreneur, and it was creative and entrepreneurial of him to do so. But now Mr. Saban has joined the mainstream."
And, nowadays, Masur speaks glowingly of his erstwhile adversary - citing his honesty and integrity. "We made him aware of a situation," says Masur. "He responded, in my estimation, very honorably."
Words like "integrity" and "honor," however, don't always crop up when Saban and his employee relations, or his contribution to culture, are being discussed. And many of his critics are actors, writers and producers who have worked with him. "When one of the kids on 'Power Rangers' started pressing for better conditions," recalls one former employee, "I remember one of the execs in charge saying, 'Well, get another kid into the suit.' When I heard that Saban was now head of the Fox Family Channel," this source goes on, "I remember saying to myself, 'There is no God.'" (In a 1996 deal, Rupert Murdoch and Saban merged the Fox Children's Network and Saban Entertainment to create Fox Kids Worldwide.) But getting the critics to detail their complaints about Saban is difficult, and seeking comments "on the record" downright impossible. People say they have nothing to gain, and plenty potentially to lose, by challenging so big a player. Some point to the case of Deborah Young, a former vice president for licensing at Saban Entertainment, who, according to a 1995 report in Variety, filed suit against Saban in L.A.'s Superior Court for $ 2 million in unpaid salary and bonuses. She contended that the company, in its efforts to avoid paying her, had resorted to hiring a private investigator to follow her, and fabricating a reason for her dismissal. (The case was eventually settled out-of-court.)
Ultimately, The Report did find several sources, associated with Saban's live-action productions, who (while insisting they not be named) spoke of nightmare sojourns in a hostile work environment. "I go to a therapist who treats a number of people in the creative community," says one of these sources, "and he says Saban's name comes up from the couch at least once a week." Working for Saban, the source adds, "was the only job I've ever had where I was this badly abused, financially, and where I felt I needed a shower every time I left the building."
"He's a strange character," says another highly placed former employee. "He's got two faces. On the one hand, he can be kind, generous, loyal. He's created a lot of jobs, he's given people opportunities they might not have had… I mean, the guy's a genius."
But that positive approach, this ex-employee goes on, "only extends to Shuki (Levy, Saban's partner, whose involvement is mainly restricted to the creative end of the business) and his cadre of insiders… If you try to go up against him, he'll let you know that he's got the money and time to tie you up in knots."
Shuki Levy defends his partner by trying to explain the circumstances under which Saban entered the business: "It's probably true that many people feel they had unpleasant experiences with us," Levy told The Report in a telephone interview, "but it's not because it's the company's mentality to step on people. We came here and until now we didn't play by the rules. If we had, we would never have made it.
"When we were small, our word was our bond, deals were made on a handshake. Now, having so many executives and departments shaking hands by the hundreds every day, we can't really be in control of these things. But when Haim shakes hands, it's a deal. Haim loves money and he loves to grow, but he's not into stepping on people. That's just the wrong impression."
Support for Saban comes from at least one former employee, Brandon Gaines of Westlake Village, a 23-year-old martial arts expert who appeared on "Power Rangers" in various guises. He told The Report that working conditions at Saban were never quite as dire as the Guild implied. "It's true they worked us hard," says Gaines. "We used to put in 12-hour days. We worked up a sweat and we went home tired. But we were paid fairly, we were never endangered, and were always treated well."
IN NORTH AMERICA ALONE, THE programming and distribution of children's shows, together with the derivative product licensing, translates into nearly $ 140 billion each year, according to G. Wayne Miller, whose recent book, "Toy Wars," describes the symbiotic relationship between those who put the shows on the screen and those who market their characters in the toy stores. And as Saban himself has so ably demonstrated through savvy international licensing and marketing, and foreign joint ventures, the rest of the world - when not engaged in wholesale copyright theft - is eager to do its part to up the size of that figure.
Children's programming - at least until Saban came along - was often expensive to produce and difficult to sell. The ostensibly tender minds that determine the fortunes of any particular franchise, as Fortune magazine recently observed, comprise a market more "fickle, arbitrary and weird" than any in the adult world, and the TV archives are filled with the dusty remains of shows rejected by children over the past half-century as preachy, sugary or dull. It is truly difficult to determine who holds more sway in kidvid - kids or programmers.
To succeed in this high-risk realm, you have to be in touch with some of the kid in you. "And I really am the biggest kid there is," boasts Saban, as he surveys the bank of 10 or so TV monitors on his office wall, all but one of them (which is tuned to CNN) set to a different kiddie channel. "I've been blessed with this enormous playground, and for me, what I do for a living is the same thing I do for fun."
In "Toy Wars," Miller tells a touching story about how, growing up in Alexandria, Egypt, young Haim would each day await the return home of his father, a toy salesman. More than anything in the world, according to Miller, the boy wanted a Vespa motor scooter. He entertained a fantasy, moreover, in which his father would somehow find a way to fold the scooter into his jacket pocket and spirit it up to the family's third-floor walk-up. But, each night as he greeted his dad, Haim would hear, half-mournfully, half in shared jest, "No Vespa."
There was no Vespa either in Israel, where the Sabans ended up shortly after the 1956 Sinai Campaign. As for so many other Jewish refugees from Egypt and Iraq, the transition was a difficult one, and materially, clearly a step down. His parents worked hard, his father now selling door-to-door, but got few breaks. There were days, Saban once said, when they subsisted on matzah and margarine.
"It was hard to see my father struggle to bring home a living," he told an earlier interviewer. "When I would close my eyes at night, my dream was to arrive at school in a car, which everyone would see. That was my biggest criterion for success back then. I always had an appetite to go far. There are people whose appetites are filled quickly; others, rarely if at all. Me? I'm never satisfied."
At 18, six years in Israel, Saban was drafted. Those who work for him today will attest that he manifests the same characteristics that must have served him well in the army, notably a keen sense of people's strengths and foibles, faultless instincts, eyes in the back of his head, an ability to peer over the horizon, adaptability, and a flair for quick decisions.
Saban remains the quintessential rasar, sergeant major, a harsh, no-nonsense taskmaster who demands the same unflagging energy, total commitment and high performance from his underlings that he himself brings to the table every day. Those who deliver are free to eke out their own territorial niches within the corporate pecking order. Those who don't are urged to seek their fortunes at Disney, Warners and the other "soft" studios that churn out Bambis and bunnies. At Saban Entertainment, there's Haim's way and the highway. And even on that route, he's watching: Saban's moniker is visible atop Saban Towers from large stretches of the San Diego Freeway.
After completing his service, in 1968, the 22-year-old Saban began playing bass guitar for a rock band. But then, as now, he dreaded the limelight, and realized that the real money might be made behind the scenes. So he took up the life of an impresario. His fort_: bringing to Israel foreign performers like Jos_ Feliciano or Blood, Sweat & Tears.
His biggest setback came during the Yom Kippur War, which caught him and his then-partner Yehuda Talit with 45 stranded Japanese harpists. Faced with a ruinous $ 350,000 in the hole, Saban pleaded with his creditors not to block his departure for Europe, assuring them that he would recoup his losses - and theirs - abroad. He claims this was the last time he lost money on a project and, two years later, he'd made it back. Resettled in France, he and new partner Levy discovered a 12-year-old expatriate Israeli singer by the name of Noam Kaniel, who went on to sell 5 million records on the Continent.
Saban was astounded then to discover the existence of a huge market in Europe for homegrown theme music for dubbed versions of American TV shows like "Dallas," "Starsky & Hutch" and "Hart to Hart." Saban gave the music for these and domestic shows to the broadcasters at no cost, but held on to the recording rights. One Kaniel album, based on the theme music from a popular French cartoon series called "Goldorak," went through the roof, selling 3 million copies. By 1982, Saban's French operation was pulling in $ 10 million a year.
Saban opened a West Coast office in 1980, and by 1984 - a boom period in American TV animation - he was doing the music for shows fashioned around highly lucrative toy action figures like "She-Ra, Princess of Power," "He-Man and the Masters of the Universe" and "Transformers." A year later, he produced his own live-action series, "Kidd Video," which he sold to NBC.
"I had just enough money to get a house on a hill and a Rolls Royce," Saban told Broadcasting & Cable magazine in 1991, "but I still had to sit in waiting rooms and call a couple of dozen times to get my foot in the door with the networks. Culturally, though, I was acclimated after my first half-hour here." Saban was quick to grasp that, to become a serious player in kidvid, he'd need a significant library of video properties. A successful series could continue to generate huge profits from syndication, foreign marketing and video sales long after it had dropped from network TV screens. So, he circled the world buying up series at fire-sale prices. (Israelis will recall the Hebrew version of Saban's charming, long-running Austro-Japanese series "Maya the Bee," which he distributed in numerous languages.) In 1988, for instance, he bought up a virtual job lot of half-hour animations from an American producer in financial difficulty, and another thousand or so episodes from foreign sources.
THE "POWER RANGER" SAGA HAD begun four years earlier, while Saban was in Japan. Channel-surfing in his hotel room, he stumbled on a bizarre live-action show, "Ju Renja" ("Ju Rangers"), about a group of kids in skintight costumes who turned into powerful warriors to fight off cheesy monsters mutated from animals, plants, fruit and, in one memorable case, a pizza.
Watching the show, Saban foresaw possibilities for future mutations: By interspersing the karate-laden action with scenes featuring American kids, the show just might find a home in the U.S., which was then in the throes of a craze for the series "Transformers" and its gold mine of figures that could be converted from robots into cars or spaceships. He traced the series to a production company called Toei and bought its American rights for $ 10,000 and future royalties.
But toy manufacturers and networks for whom Saban showcased the series responded as if a dog's breakfast had been dumped on their good china. Holding their noses, they showed him the door. Saban shelved the project. Only in the summer of 1992, having failed to interest Margaret Loesch, the founding president of Rupert Murdoch's Fox Children's Network, in anything then on his slate, did he dust off his "Ju Renja" tape. "Please don't get mad at me," he is quoted imploring Loesch in "Toy Wars." "Don't tell me it's a piece of crap. You want something different - this is different. But don't get mad at me."
"Why would I get mad at you?"
"'Cause nobody likes it. I'm the only one that likes it. I can't sell it."
Loesch, it turns out, had also seen the series in Japan, and believed it had potential. Despite misgivings among her peers, she bought 40 half-hour episodes for a relatively cheap $ 50,000 each. But Saban retained all merchandising rights, and in its second season wrangled 50 percent more for each new episode.
In 1994, after "Power Rangers" had become a huge hit, Saban was approached by McDonald's, which was in the market for tie-ins. Asked how much he wanted for the rights to use "Power Rangers" in their marketing campaign, Saban, who reputedly hadn't yet assessed their worth, took a chance and improvised, saying he anticipated a $ 20-million offer from Burger King. A source close to Saban says a $ 20-million check was made out on the spot.
Japanese toy manufacturer Bandai Co. quickly followed suit, with Saban demanding, and receiving, licensing fees that were without precedent. Before Saban entered the game, typical license percentages ran at about 4 percent. He upped them to 8, 13, even 14. Writing in Brandweek magazine in 1997, licensing agency president Seth M. Siegel, whose clients include Harley-Davidson and Tomagotchi, observed that "'Power Rangers' will be remembered by the licensing industry… What Haim Saban did was to demand - and get - radically higher royalty rates… and as an unintended consequence, see radically higher royalty rates follow throughout the entire industry.
"Haim Saban didn't care to play by anyone's rules but his own. But his rules are now the norm of the very licensing industry which, only a few years ago, clucked its collective tongue at this outsider with his strange-sounding name for his then-outrageous way of doing business."
and Loesch relegated to the somewhat nebulous position of vice chairman in charge of "global strategies." Loesch, who declined requests from The Report for an interview, soon left the company, taking up a position at the Jim Henson Company.
FIVE YEARS AGO, SABAN ANnounced his ambition to build up "the biggest children's entertainment company in the world." The target may have sounded outrageous, but, today, he's almost there. One new outlet for the ever-growing Saban library comes via Fox Kids Worldwide, the holding company he created with Rupert Murdoch in 1996. The market for Power Rangers merchandise in the U.S. alone in 1995 was estimated at $ 1 billion, with the global figure twice that. And Mediaweek estimated in 1997 that the series had earned Saban $ 100 million to date. Responsible now for 21 percent of all children's TV programming, Saban Entertainment has overtaken Disney (18 percent) and has the leader, Warner Brothers (26 percent), in its sights.
The man who fathered the empire shows no sign of slowing, or of wilting before his critics. Asked about relations with his workers, Saban shoots back, straightfaced, that he's a "huggable lamb." Asked about the quality of his programs, he gives a more considered response. "Am I, personally, proud of my products?" he muses. "I am proud of some, less proud of others, and ashamed of none."