From: pwjarman@cc.utah.edu (PARRY W. JARMAN)
Subject: "Northern Exposed" Text of TV Guide Article
News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.4-b1  
Organization: University of Utah Computer Center
Date: 25 Jan 1993 22:18 MST  

My husband and children being asleep and NEXP not being over yet,
I thought I would contribute the text of the TV GUIDE article.

_________
Northern Exposed by Deborah Starr Seibel

The sound stage might as well be Alaska. The heat has been shut off;
too noisy for the mikes. The crew is decked out in a variety of
layers. Parkas, shearling-lined sweatshirts, fingerless gloves.
Janine Turner, gorgous even in lumberjack-like woolens, begs for--
then insists upon--a space heater.  A stage hand runs over with 
a parka and drapes it over her shoulders.  "She's demanding," he
says, "but she appreciates it."
	Turner shrugs off the jacket, freeing up her arm to punch
Rob Morrow in the nose.  A stunt-woman jabs her fist out first.
Turner follows, hesitantly.  "Like this?" she says. Morrow flinches
ducking his head as the knuckles fly by his face. "Some people"
says an extra, "have been wanting to do that for a very long
time."
	It's Monday morning on the set of Northern Exposure:
faked Alaska in a wharehouse in Redmond, Washington, 45 minutes
east of Seattle.  For nearly three years now, this has been the
manufacturing headquarters for a series that continues to burn
up the Nielsens and attract massive boquets from the critics.
	Given CBS' unusual move last March to renew the show
for two seasons--along with a 10 month shooting schedule; rigorous
hard to reach locations; and 12 hour days--we wondered how the stars
had acclimated to the area. And each other.  By all accounts, it
hasn't been easy.
	Today, the acting action takes place in the local tavern,
The Brick, where an unfriendly game of Risk will soon escalate out
of control.  But this is the episode legions of Northern fans have been
waiting for: when it aris on Feb. 15, that punch in the nose will
lead to a roll in the hay--literally--and the consumation of Maggie
and Joel's seemingly endless will-they-won't-they mating dance.
	In the moments leading up to the punch, Morrow stands off-
camera, running lines for Turner. His delivery is much too lackluster
for Turner's taste.  "Can we cut, please?" Turner asks the director.
She turns to Morrow, skillfully cajoaling him "Could you give me 
a little more on that line? Could you try to make me madder? Could
you feed me? Will you _please_?" Morrow nods, more than willing to
play along.  When the cameras roll, his new delivery would send
anyone into a fury. Now she's ready to break his nose.
	For the next 10 hours, this quiet spirit of cooperation
will be in evidence everywhere.  Despite the fact that extras,
make-up artists, crew members and visitors jam the set, there is
a doctor's office hush of intense concentration.
	Arriving on the set, John Corbett wlks by with a hangdog
expression.  he is greeted by a crew member with words of concern:
"How ya hangin' in there John?"  There will be no Seattle club
hopping tonight with his fellow music buff, Darren Burrows. The
set's potent flu has found yet another victim
	Morrow walks by, on a quick break. He smiles, then apologizes
for refusing to be interviewed. "I'm just feeling...."
He struggles for the right word. Overexposed? "Yeah. I just can't
keep doing all this publicity." This publicity--much of it 
negative--began last summer, when Morrow refused to come back to work
unless his salary demands were met.  But his strategy backfired, a
lawsuit was threatened, and Morrow returned to the set amid stories
of his tempremental tendencies.
	Over lunch at Redmond's  Family Pancake House, Northwest native
Peg Phillips shakes her head.  She will not criticize other
actors but speaks in pointed generalities.  "I think its a bunch of
bull for any actor to say they don't want to be bothered with
the public.  What are actors for? We're hams, showoffs.  We should
be grateful people are interested in us at all."
	After lunch, we head back to the sound stage, windshield
wipers swishing furiously.  Catching up with these actors--given
the area's notorious weather and the cast's lack of free time--
is going to be tough.  John Cullum invites us to see his nearby,
rented home, the furniture handpicked from the Salvation Army.
"You just take a left, then another left," he directs. But as we
follow, his van disappears into the blinding rain--and we are left
behind.  "We'll do it again Wednesday," he promises later. "It was
my fault. It was a right."
	Tuesday morning and the rain has changed to snow. It doesn't
look dangerous, but a local weatherman is issuing almost nonstop
travel advisories.  The cast and crew have already left for
location shooting in the mountains.  Eighteen wheelers line up
like frozen sausages along the roadside, their shivering drivers
struggling to put on chains.  We have to go on.  The actors,
who normally shoot exteriors at least once a week, will be up in the
mountains for the next two days.  Our destination, Roslyn,
population 875, is off the main drag.  The charming coal-mining
turned lumber town is instantly recognizable as the real-life
substitute for the show's fictional setting of Cicely, Alaska.
	Texas native, Barry Corbin, joins us on Pennsylvania
Avenue, strolling comfortably in his custom Mercer cowboy boots.
A serious rodeo contender, he has a shelf full of ribbons and
trophies to prove his prowess.  "I had one horse up here," he
drawls, spinning out the finer points of cuttin and rounding up
cattle with Maurice like expansiveness. "Now I've got four."
	Turner has a horse up here, too. But
four legged animals haven't been the only investments. Turner,
Corbett, Burrows, and Cynthia Geary have all sunk roots into local
real estate.  "In the beginning, we all lived right by each other,"
says Geary. "A lot of us were in the same apartment complex and
we would hang out."  And now? "Now, everyone is finding their
own way."
	It's Tuesday night, well past sundown and the crew has
lit up a weathered Roslyn barn. Bales of hay are stacked floor to
ceiling to accomodate the love scene.  Halfway to the rafters, the
stars stand quietly, mindful of the danger, watching the stunt
people choreograph the particulars of another argument that turns
physical. Like longtime friends, Turner and Morrow pass little
conversation.  In fact, nobody's talking; the snow, falling
steadily all day, is heavier now, thick, wet, a real blizzard.
No problem, we'll stay in Roslyn. Except that there are no
hotel rooms in Roslyn.  Or in the next town.  "No Vacancy"
signs there flash at five different places.  Forty-five miles
later, a sign for a Super 8 motel flashes weakly through the
storm.
	All is clear on Wednesday morning.  Turner sits down to
breakfast.  The accessible half of TV's hottest couple has been
capitvated by her new life and the challenges of keeping relationships
with the other actors--especially Morrow--on an even keel.  "I think
the reason there is such a strong bond between us is that we came
over on the same plane together when the show started. We were
strangers together, arrived together, and we knew we had to
make it or break it together."
	Later Cullum echoes that sentiment, comparing the cast's
experience to being in the Foreign Legion.  "In the beginning
we were pretty much at sea.  And we're all eccentrics. But what
happens in a small community is that the eccentrics and weirdos
learn to conform enough to live together--that's what we've
got here."

Copyright nineteen-ninety-two January 23 edition
__________________