The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer opened at the six-thousand-seat Radio City Music Hall, the largest movie theater in the world. It played there seven weeks and was the top grosser in the history of the theater. In England, it was the biggest grosser after Gone With the Wind.
The reviews delighted me:
"I beg you, please don't miss The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer . . ."
"One of the best comedies to hit this town in more than a year . . ."
"A blessed concoction of fun, whimsy and heart . . ."
"A first-rate comedy. You'll laugh out loud . . ."
"Sidney Sheldon has created the most agreeable film fare . . ."
The cast was praised, the director was praised. The reviews were unanimous. The movie won the Box Office Blue Ribbon Award and I was nominated for an Oscar. I knew that nothing could stop me now. Careers in Hollywood were like elevators constantly going up and down. The trick was not to leave the elevator when it was down.
The elevator for me was definitely up. I was on top of the world.
I had written an original treatment about a troubled marriage, called Orchids for Virginia. Eddie Dmytryk, a director at RKO, liked it.
"I'm going to ask the studio to buy it for me. I want you to do the screenplay. I'll get you thirty-five thousand dollars."
"Great." I was more than pleased because I needed the money.
One week later, Dore Schary was made the executive producer in charge of production at RKO. He called me into his office and I knew he wanted to congratulate me on Orchids for Virginia. I was going to ask him how soon I could start the screenplay.
"Eddie Dmytryk wants to direct your story," Dore said.
I smiled. "Yes. That's terrific."
"I'm not going to let the studio buy it."
It took a moment for it to sink in. "What? Why?"
"I'm not going to make a picture about a man who's unfaithful to his wife and plans to murder her."
"But Dore - "
"That's it. We're giving the story back to you."
I was devastated. "Okay."
I would have to find another project to work on.
I had no idea that Dore's rejection of my script was going to change my life.
My agent, Sammy Weisbord, called. "I just made a deal for you at MGM with a two-week guarantee. They want you to write Pride and Prejudice."
I had not read the book in years. All I remembered about it was that it was a Jane Austen, pre-Victorian, English society classic about five daughters looking for husbands.
The idea of working at MGM was exciting. It was the Tiffany of all Hollywood studios. The roster of their movies included classics like Gone With the Wind, Meet Me in St. Louis, The Wizard of Oz, The Philadelphia Story, The Great Ziegfeld, and dozens of other great films.
I was twenty-nine years old when I walked onto the MGM lot for the first time. I was awed. MGM was a city in itself. It had its own supply of electricity, food, and water. Every conceivable need was met on site.
The studio, like the other six major studios, produced an average of one film a week. There were 150 writers under contract at MGM, and they included famous novelists and playwrights.
On my first day there, I had lunch at the huge commissary. I was invited to sit at the writers' table, where a dozen writers had gathered. They were a friendly group and there was a lot of advice offered.
"Don't worry if some of your scripts aren't made. The rule of thumb here is if you get a script made every three years, you're okay . . ."
"Try to get on a picture with Arthur Freed. He's the big producer here . . ."
"When your contract is about to run out, make sure you get on an assignment so they'll pick you up . . ."
I did not explain that my contract consisted of a two-week guarantee.
I had been given a small office and a secretary.
"We're going to do Pride and Prejudice," I told her. "Can you get a copy of the book for me? I'd like to read it again."
"Certainly."
She dialed a studio number and said, "Mr. Sheldon would like a copy of Pride and Prejudice."
The book was delivered in thirty minutes.
That was my introduction to the studio system. Every studio had a library, a research department, a casting department, a set department, a cinematography department, and a business department. It was almost biblical. All you had to do was ask and it was given to you.
The following morning, Sammy Weisbord came into my office. "How are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm just getting started," I told him.
"Arthur Freed would like to see you."
I was surprised. "Why?"
"Let him tell you. He's waiting for you."
I had heard stories about Arthur Freed. He had started as an insurance salesman and had become a successful songwriter, with songs such as "The Broadway Melody," "Good Morning," "On a Sunday Afternoon," and "Singin' in the Rain."
He had gotten friendly with Louis B. Mayer, who made him a producer.
It was said of Freed that he always had to be first to know things. One of the writers told me the following story:
A friend invited Freed to the opening of a play. "I've seen it," Freed said.
Another time someone asked him if he'd like to go to the premiere of a movie. "I've seen it," Freed said.
A friend asked him if he'd like to go to a baseball game that night. "I've seen it," Freed said.
Sammy and I walked down the hall and took the elevator up to the third floor, where Arthur Freed's office was. Freed sat behind his desk in a huge office. He was a stocky man in his fifties, with thin gray hair.
"Sit down, Sheldon."
I sat.
"I have a problem. I have a script here that I can't seem to cast. Everyone's turning it down. It's a musical and it's well written, but the plot is wrong. It's too heavy. It needs a light touch. Do you think you can help it?"
"Well, I'm working on Pride and Prejudice, but - "
"Not anymore," Freed said. "You're working on this."
"What's the name of it?"
"Easter Parade. You'll be working with Irving Berlin."
That was a magical moment. It was my third day at MGM and I was going to work with the legendary Irving Berlin.
"I'd love to do it," I said.
"Judy Garland and Gene Kelly are going to star in it."
I tried to look nonchalant. "Oh?"
"I want to get it into production as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
"Look over the screenplay and see what you think you can do with it. You'll have a meeting here tomorrow with Irving."
I floated out of Freed's office. Weisbord watched me and smiled.
"Come through with this," he said, "and you're fixed for life."
I was glowing. "I know."
The elevator was definitely up.
The original screenplay of Easter Parade had been written by the husband and wife team of Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich. They were brilliant writers who later wrote the smash Broadway play The Diary of Anne Frank.
But Freed was right. What the screenplay needed was humor and a light touch. The story the Hacketts had written was too serious for a musical. I sat down to create a new story line.
The following morning, I was summoned to Arthur Freed's office. With him was a short man with a cherubic face and bright, inquisitive eyes.
"This is Irving Berlin."
In the flesh. The genius who had written "Alexander's Ragtime Band," "God Bless America," "There's No Business Like Show Business," "Puttin' on the Ritz," and "Top Hat." Someone once asked Jerome Kern what he thought Irving Berlin's place would be in American music.
Kern said simply, "Irving Berlin is American music."
"I'm Sidney Sheldon," I said, pretending not to be completely awestruck.
Mr. Berlin held out his hand. "I'm happy to meet you. I understand we're going to work together." He spoke in a high-pitched voice.
"Yes, sir." I did not mention my New York experience where I had almost replaced him as the top songwriter in America because we were going to work together, and I did not want to make him nervous.
When we started to work on Easter Parade, Irving Berlin was sixty years old, with the enthusiasm of a teenager.
He had been born Israel Baline in Russia and had come to the United States when he was five. He started his career as a singing waiter at the Chinatown Cafe in New York. He had never learned to play the piano on a regular piano. He used only the black keys, and he had an instrument that changed keys at the push of a lever.
Irving Berlin had questions and comments as I talked about the possible directions the screenplay could go, but oddly enough, Arthur Freed seemed to take no interest in what we were doing. He was completely silent. It was not until later that I found out why.
I said, "Mr. Berlin, I want to tell you - "
He stopped me. "Irving."
"Thank you. I want to tell you how excited I am to be working with you."
He smiled. "We're going to have a good time."
The writing was going well. I remembered what Sam Weisbord had said. Come through with this, and you're fixed for life.
Several times a week, while I was writing the script, Irving Berlin would bounce into my office.
"Tell me what you think of this," he would say enthusiastically. And in that shrill voice of his, he would begin singing a song he had just written. The only problem was that he could not carry a tune, and I had no idea what the song sounded like. He could not play the piano, and he could not sing. All he had was his genius.
I had lunch every day at the writers' table in the commissary and one of the writers would usually invite me to visit his set after lunch. The pictures shooting on the lot were The Best Years of Our Lives, with Myrna Loy and Fredric March; Saratoga Trunk, with Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman; and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, with Danny Kaye and Virginia Mayo.
I went on the soundstages and watched the stars going through their scenes just a few feet away from me. These were the stars I had watched from the back aisle of the RKO Jefferson Theatre, when I was an usher. Now, every week I saw the biggest stars in Hollywood making their movies, and it was a wondrous time for me.
I was finishing the script of Easter Parade when Sammy Weisbord came into my office.
"I have good news, Sidney. I got a call from MGM. They want to negotiate a long-term contract with you."
"That's wonderful," I exclaimed. That was the dream of every Hollywood writer.
"We haven't worked out all the details yet. There are still a lot of things we're discussing." He smiled. "But don't worry. It will happen."
I was elated. I turned in my screenplay to Arthur Freed and waited to hear his reaction. Silence. He hates it, I decided.
Another day went by. I reread the script. The New York critic is right about my lack of talent. The dialogue is so wooden it could splinter.
No wonder Arthur Freed doesn't want to talk to me.
One week after I had given the script to Arthur Freed, his secretary finally called.
"Mr. Freed would like you to be in his office tomorrow morning at ten o'clock to meet Judy Garland and Gene Kelly."
I felt a sudden sense of panic. I simply could not meet them. They would find out what a fraud I was, just as Arthur Freed had. They would all hate my screenplay. I knew I could not go to that meeting. It was deja vu. Max Rich saying, Meet me at my office, ten o'clock tomorrow morning, and we'll go to work, and Irving Reis saying, "Camera . . . Action," and my running away from the screen test with Cary Grant. I knew I had to run away again.
I got little sleep that night. I had vivid dreams of Arthur Freed screaming at me about the terrible script I had written.
In the morning, I made a decision. I would go to the meeting, but I would not say anything. I would listen to their derogatory criticisms and when they were through, I would quit. I spent the hour prior to the meeting packing up my office, getting ready to leave the studio.
At ten o'clock, I walked into Arthur Freed's office. Freed was seated behind his desk.
He nodded. "Interesting screenplay."
Whatever that meant. Was that a euphemism for "You're fired"? Why did he not come out and say what he really thought?
At that moment, Judy Garland walked in and my spirits lifted. It was like seeing an old friend. She was Betsy Booth, the girlfriend of Mickey Rooney's character in the Andy Hardy series. She was Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. She was Esther Smith in Meet Me in St. Louis. When I was an usher, I had seen her movies over and over.
Judy Garland, nee Frances Gumm, had been with MGM since she was in her teens. The Wizard of Oz had made her a star when she was just fifteen. She had become so popular that the studio put her in movie after movie, giving her no chance to rest. She made nineteen movies in nine years.
To keep up her energy, she began taking barbiturates and became addicted, taking uppers in the daytime and sleeping pills at night. She had tried to commit suicide and, unbeknownst to me, had just come from the Menninger Clinic when I met her.
Her first words were, "Hello, Sidney. I loved your screenplay."
For a moment, I was stunned. Then I began to grin like an idiot. "Thank you."
"It was good, wasn't it?" Arthur Freed said. It was the first comment I had heard him make about my screenplay.
The door opened and Gene Kelly came in. By now I began to relax. Gene Kelly was another familiar face. I had seen him in Thousands Cheer, Cover Girl, and Anchors Aweigh. He felt like an old friend.
He greeted Judy and Arthur, and then turned to me. "Author author," he said, "you did a damn fine job."
"He did, didn't he?" Arthur Freed said.
I was filled with a sudden sense of euphoria. All that worrying for nothing.
"Any suggestions you have - " I began.
"It's just right for me," Judy said.
Gene Kelly added, "Me, too. It's perfect."
Arthur Freed smiled. "It looks like it's going to be a short meeting. We're all set to go. We start shooting Monday."
After the meeting, I went back to my office and started unpacking.
My secretary was watching, puzzled. "May I ask what's going on?"
"I changed my mind."
On Friday, Arthur Freed called me into his office.
"We have a problem," he said.
I stopped breathing. "Something wrong with the script?"
"No, it's Gene Kelly. He broke his ankle playing volleyball over the weekend."
I swallowed. "So, we're going to postpone the picture?"
"I sent your script to Fred Astaire. He retired last year but if he likes your script, he'll do it."
I shook my head. "Fred Astaire is forty-eight years old. Judy is twenty-five. The audience is going to be rooting for them not to get together. That will never work."
He said, tolerantly, "Let's see what Fred has to say."
Fred Astaire said yes. I met him in Arthur Freed's office the next day and he said, "Thank you for a wonderful script. It's going to be exciting to make."
Looking at him, my misgivings about the casting disappeared. He looked young and alert and energetic. He had the reputation of being a perfectionist. On a picture he did with Ginger Rogers, he kept rehearsing a new routine with her until her feet were bleeding.
I was on the soundstage on Monday, the first day of shooting Easter Parade. Fred Astaire was at the far end of the stage where they were setting up the first shot. I was at the other end of the stage, telling a story to Judy. In the middle of it, the assistant director hurried over. "We're ready for you, Miss Garland."
I started to get up.
"No," Judy said, "finish the story."
"All right." I started talking faster because I knew how expensive it was to keep a shooting company waiting. I looked over at the other end of the stage where they were set up and waiting, and I said, "Judy, I'll finish the story later. It's really not important - "
"No," she insisted. "Finish it now." She seemed upset.
"Judy, don't you want to do this scene?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Why not?"
She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, "I have to kiss Mr. Astaire in this scene, and I've never met him."
Everyone had just assumed that these two superstars knew each other. I felt then a deep sense of how vulnerable Judy Garland was.
"Come on," I said. I took her hand and led her over to the other end of the stage where they were all impatient to get started.
"Fred," I said, "this is Judy Garland."
He smiled. "It certainly is. I'm a big fan of yours."
"And I'm a fan of yours." Judy smiled.
Chuck Walters, the director, said, "Take your places."
Easter Parade began shooting.
One day, I dropped in at the rehearsal hall, where Fred was working alone on a new dance number. Tapping and turning his way around the stage, he did not see me. I crept up on him and when he stopped for a moment, I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.
I said patiently, "No, Fred. Like this." And I did a little bad soft shoe.
He grinned. "Very good. I used to dance that way."
Not likely.
Shortly before shooting began, Arthur Freed had hired Jules Munshin, a New York actor, for comedy relief. I had written a small part for him as a maitre d'. The day before Munshin was to shoot his scene, my disc slipped out again. I was at home, in bed, suffering in agony.
The phone rang. It was Jules Munshin.
"Sidney, I have to see you."
"Not now. I'll be out of bed in three days and - "
"No. I have to see you today. Right away."
The pain was so bad, I could hardly speak. "Jules, this is not a good time. I really don't feel well. I - "
"Your secretary gave me your address. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
I took another pain pill and gritted my teeth.
Fifteen minutes later, Jules Munshin arrived at my bedside. "You look great," he said, cheerfully.
I was glaring at him.
"The studio brought me out from New York, and I have only one little scene that I could have phoned in. I need you to do something with that scene."
There was a small problem. I was in such pain that I could barely remember his name.
"I shoot my scene tomorrow," he reminded me.
I closed my eyes and thought about the scene I had written for him. In it, he was an arrogant maitre d' who prided himself on the way he mixed a salad, with the exaggerated gestures of a snobbish gourmet.
"The scene is nothing," Munshin said.
I suddenly knew how to make it something. "Jules, the answer is very simple."
"What?"
"There is no salad. You're going to do it in pantomime."
It turned out to be one of the funniest scenes in the picture.
Easter Parade won the Box Office Blue Ribbon Award and the WGA Screen Award for Best Written American Musical of 1948, an award I shared with Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett.
Easter Parade also turned out to be one of the most successful musicals MGM ever made. It has played on television every Easter for the last fifty-seven years.
