Kenneth McKenna assigned me to write Rich, Young and Pretty, a musical that was to star Jane Powell, Danielle Darrieux, Wendell Corey, and a young singer named Vic Damone. A very talented cast.
It was a story about a young woman who falls in love during a trip to Paris. A story that had to keep moving quickly and required a light touch.
One morning, Jules Stein called me. "Doris and I are having dinner with you tonight. Do you mind if I bring someone with us?"
"Of course not," I said.
One more person wouldn't matter because there was never enough room for everybody, anyway.
That evening, Jules and Doris arrived with a handsome young man.
"I want you to meet Fernando Lamas. He's going to be in your movie."
Fernando had a South American accent and turned out not only to be a charming man, but a very intelligent one. Once, when he appeared on The Tonight Show, Johnny Carson started to make fun of Fernando's accent and Fernando stopped him.
"When someone has an accent," he informed Carson, "it means he knows one more language than you do."
The studio audience applauded.
I was on the set of Rich, Young and Pretty the first day of shooting. I had written the script with Dorothy Cooper, a wonderful contract writer. It was Vic Damone's first movie and he was understandably nervous. The director was Norman Taurog, a tough old pro.
"All right. This is a take," Taurog called out.
Vic Damone said nervously, "Excuse me, Mr. Taurog. Could I have a drink of water first?"
Norman Taurog glared at him and said, "No. Roll 'em!"
Rich, Young and Pretty began shooting.
The movie was a modest success at the box office. That same year I also wrote a musical comedy, Nancy Goes to Rio, starring Ann Sothern, Jane Powell, and Barry Sullivan. It was the story of a mother and daughter who fall in love with the same man. When I finished the screenplay, I wrote No Questions Asked, starring Barry Sullivan, Arlene Dahl, and George Murphy.
A studio executive had been on a flight to New York when he encountered Pug Wells, a stewardess who fascinated him. She was cheerful and effervescent, and when the executive started to question her about her life, he became even more fascinated. When he returned to the studio, he suggested to Dore that we make a movie based on her character. That was my next assignment.
I was working with Ruth Brooks Flippen, one of the top writers at the studio. The producer was Armand Deutsch, whom Dore had brought in from the east. Armand, or Ardie, as he was called, had no experience making movies, but Dore was very impressed with his intellect.
When I met Ardie, I liked him immediately. Instead of having the restrained attitude of many producers, Ardie was filled with enthusiasm.
I sat down to begin writing the screenplay. I decided to complicate the life of the Pug Wells character, not with one man, but with three. That gave me my title, Three Guys Named Mike.
When I showed Ardie the beginning of my screenplay, he was literally jumping up and down with excitement. The result was that I couldn't wait to show him more. He was wonderful to work with. When I finished the screenplay, he said, "This is a great part for Jane Wyman."
"And the men?"
"Van Johnson, Howard Keel, and Barry Sullivan. That's my dream cast."
Ardie got his dream cast. We started shooting in the spring of 1950, and the picture went well.
For reasons which now escape me, I decided I wanted to act in the movie. I spoke to Ardie about it.
"Fine," he said. "What part do you want to play?"
"I haven't written it yet," I told him.
I knew how to write a part that could not be cut out of a movie. The secret was to play a character who was with the star when he or she was introduced. Since they could not cut out the entrance of the star, they could not cut out the character. I wrote myself a brief part as a gardener in the scene introducing Barry Sullivan.
The next day, at the dailies, when I saw my performance, I would have given any amount of money not to have done it. I was dreadful.
I was assigned to Just This Once, a lovely original idea by Max Trell. It was about a spendthrift who was living a high life running through his inheritance. The executor of his estate was so upset that he hired a conservator to control the man's spending. The conservator happened to be a beautiful young woman.
When I finished this script, I thought it would be perfect for Cary Grant. The studio sent the script to Cary, and he turned it down.
Peter Lawford was cast, along with Janet Leigh and Lewis Stone, who had played Judge Hardy in the famous Andy Hardy series.
One year later, when the picture was released, Cary called me. "Sidney, I just want to tell you that you were right. I should have played that part."
To this day, Just This Once remains one of my favorite movies.
In February of 1952, Kenneth McKenna sent for me.
"We just bought a Broadway play, Remains to Be Seen."
I had read the reviews. It was a big Broadway hit written by the talented team of Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse. It was about a female band singer in New York City who moves into an apartment house where the murder of her wealthy uncle took place. When the girl grows suspicious of the murderer, he decides to kill her.
"I'm assigning you to it," McKenna said.
I nodded. "Fine, Kenneth."
He was definitely not a Ken.
"We'll fly you to New York to see the show and meet Leland Hayward, the producer."
Leland Hayward. My mind was spinning. I could still visualize the client list of the Leland Hayward Agency when I was there. Ben Hecht, Charles MacArthur, Nunnally Johnson.
Hayward would go on to produce some prestigious movies, The Old Man and the Sea, The Spirit of St. Louis, and Mister Roberts.
I flew to New York the following day. On the plane, I read the stage play of Remains to Be Seen and it was delightful.
The day after I arrived, I had lunch with Leland Hayward at the Plaza Hotel. He had the reputation of being a bon vivant. He had been married to Pamela Churchill, Margaret Sullavan, and Nancy Hawks, all beauties. He was a charismatic man, with gray hair that was carefully styled, and he was always elegantly dressed.
Leland rose from the table to greet me and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you." I saw no point in reminding him that I had been a seventeen-dollar-a-week client with his agency, twelve years earlier. We started lunch and he turned out to be an interesting and witty conversationalist.
We talked about the play.
"I read it. I think it's wonderful."
"Good. I'm glad you're doing the screenplay."
He had arranged for me to see the play that evening. It was an excellent cast, headlined by Jackie Cooper, Harry Shaw Lowe, Madeleine Morka, and Janis Paige. Also in that cast were two relative unknowns, both of whom later went on to have huge careers - Frank Campanella and Ossie Davis. The evening was as delightful as I had expected it to be.
I went back to Hollywood to write the screenplay. Three months later, I had finished it. I turned it in to the producer, Arthur Hornblow. "It's very good," he said. "We'll put it into production right away."
"Do you have a cast in mind?"
"The studio is signing June Allyson and Van Johnson."
"Great."
A few days later, Dore called me into his office. "The part of Benjamin Goodman would be perfect for Louis Calhern."
"I agree," I said. "He's a gifted actor."
"There's one problem."
"What's that?"
"He turned it down. He said it's too small a part."
He's right, I thought.
Dore went on. "You're a good friend of Louis's, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I'd like you to talk him into doing this. He'd be a big asset to the movie." And that's when I made up my mind. Dore was right.
The next night, I invited Calhern to dinner at a restaurant. He looked around the room and said, "I hope no one sees us together. It would spoil my reputation. I should have worn a mask."
"I understand you turned down the part of Benjamin Goodman."
"You call that a part?" he snorted. "By the way, I liked your script."
I began my pitch. "Louie, it's going to be a big picture and I want you to be part of it. Your character is essential to the plot. Your performance would make the picture. It's going to vault your career to the top. And it would be very good for you - "
I went on for the next half hour being Otto, and when I was through, Calhern said, "You're right. I'll do it."
The reviews and the box office were only fair and it did not vault Calhern's career to the top.
Once a year, the international distributors and exhibitors of MGM movies were invited to Culver City, to learn about the upcoming projects. It was an exciting time for the studio. The representatives of more than a dozen countries around the world were brought to a huge soundstage to hear about the new films.
Dore addressed the assembly. "This is going to be one of the best years we've ever had," he promised them.
After a short speech, he began to read the list of the upcoming movies, naming the stars, directors, and writers of each one. I was told later that after he had named a few pictures, he came across one of mine.
"Rich, Young and Pretty, written by Sidney Sheldon." He named a few more pictures.
Then "Nancy Goes to Rio, written by Sidney Sheldon."
"No Questions Asked, written by Sidney Sheldon."
"Three Guys Named Mike, written by Sidney Sheldon."
The men in the audience began to laugh.
Schary looked up and said, "Sheldon seems to be writing most of our pictures this year."
That afternoon, Dore called me into his office. "How would you like to be a producer?" he asked.
I was surprised. "I've never thought about it."
"Well, think about it, because as of today, you're a producer."
"I don't know what to say, Dore."
"You've earned it," he said. "Good luck."
"Thanks."
I went back to my office and thought, I'm thirty-four years old, I have an Oscar, and I'm a producer at the biggest motion picture studio in the world.
It was a moment when I should have felt a sense of jubilation. Instead, I was overcome with a feeling of dread. I did not know anything about producing. Dore had made a mistake. There was no way I could do this. I would call Dore and tell him that I could not accept it. He would probably fire me and I would soon be looking for a job.
I tried to sleep that night but it was no use. At midnight I got dressed and went for a walk, thinking about all the things that were happening to me. I remembered the night that Otto had asked me to go for a walk with him. Every day is a different page, Sidney, and they can be full of surprises. You'll never know what's next until you turn the page. I would hate to see you close the book too soon and miss all the excitement that could happen to you on the next page.
When I woke up in the morning, I decided to at least attempt to produce a picture. If I failed, I could always go back to being a writer.
That morning, when I went to the studio, I found out I had been moved into a larger office. I also learned that being a producer at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer was very simple. The story department, which had access to all the publishers, sent every producer synopses of the books that were coming out, along with the plays and original stories that were submitted to the studio. All the producer had to do was choose the one he wanted.
Producers were then given a list of writers available to work on their projects. When the scripts were completed, the casting department got into action. They gave the producers a list of stars, and directors. "Who would you like?"
The last step was Benny Thau, who would make the deals with the agents for the writers, stars, and directors. The producers at Metro literally sat in their offices and pushed buttons. Being a producer was going to be easy.
I still enjoyed giving dinner parties in my home. Friends and actors and directors I had worked with filled my humble abode, and there was never a dull moment.
One night, I decided to make it a musical evening and I invited a group of some of the most talented musicians and composers in Hollywood - all of whom were already successful and went on to have huge careers. Among my guests were:
Alfred Newman, whom we all called "Pappy." He was short in stature but long on talent. He was nominated for more Oscars than any other composer in motion pictures and had won nine times. He scored more than two hundred films, including Alexander's Ragtime Band, Call Me Madam, and The King and I.
Victor Young, who was nominated for twenty-two Oscars. He wrote the scores for The Wizard of Oz, The Quiet Man, Around the World in Eighty Days, and Shane.
Dimitri Tiomkin, who scored Lost Horizon, It's a Wonderful Life, High Noon, and many other pictures.
Johnny Green, who wrote more than a dozen hit songs, including "I Cover the Waterfront," "Out of Nowhere," "You're Mine You." He scored films for all the major studios.
Bronislau Kaper, who wrote the score for Three Guys Named Mike. He went on to score Green Mansions, Butterfield 8, and Auntie Mame.
Andre Previn, who found fame as the conductor or musical director of films that included Silk Stockings, Kiss Me Kate, My Fair Lady, Porgy and Bess, and Gigi.
It was an impressive group. My date that evening was a young actress who was staying at a motel across the street. After dinner, we all gathered in the living room. I decided to entertain them. I sat down at the little spinet piano and I announced to the group, "I'm taking piano lessons by mail. It's a new system - learning to play by the numbers."
I began to play, and behind me I sensed a respectful silence.
In the middle of my playing, my date whispered, "Sidney, I hate to interrupt, but I have an early call tomorrow."
I rose. "I'll take you across to the motel, Janet." Turning to my guests, I said, "I'll be right back."
I took my date back to her motel and was gone no more than five minutes. When I returned, I started to sit down at the piano to finish the song. There was no piano. My guests had moved it into the den.
I looked around at their grinning faces and I felt sorry for them.
Jealousy is a terrible thing.
