One Monday morning, my assistant buzzed me. "There's a Mr. Robert Smith here to see you."
I had never heard of him. "What does he want?"
"He's a writer. He wants to talk to you."
"All right. Send him in."
Robert Smith was in his thirties, small, tense, and nervous.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?"
"I have an idea," he said.
In Hollywood, everyone had ideas and most of them were terrible. I pretended to be interested. "Yes?"
"Why don't we make a movie about Buster Keaton."
I was immediately excited.
Buster Keaton, the silent screen's "Great Stone Face," was one of the top stars of silent pictures. His trademark was a porkpie hat, slap shoes, and a deadpan expression. He was a short, slender, sad-faced actor who had been instrumental in the production and direction of his movies, and who had been compared to Chaplin.
Buster Keaton had been an enormous success and then, when sound came in, his luck began to change. He made several unsuccessful movies and was finding it difficult to get work. He starred in a few unmemorable shorts and was finally reduced to creating stunts for other actors. I thought that his story would be fascinating to put on the screen.
Robert Smith said, "You and I can produce it, write the screenplay, and you should direct it."
I held up a hand. "Not so fast. Let me talk to Don Hartman."
I went in to see Hartman that afternoon.
"What's up?"
"A writer named Bob Smith came to me with an idea I like. He suggested we do The Buster Keaton Story."
There was no hesitation. "That's a great idea. I wonder why someone didn't think of it before."
"Bob and I will produce it and I'll direct it."
He nodded. "I'll start working on getting the rights. Who did you have in mind to play Buster?"
"I haven't had time to give it much thought."
Don Hartman said, "I'll tell you who should play him. Donald O'Connor."
I was excited. "Donald would be wonderful. I worked with him on Anything Goes. He's a great talent."
Don Hartman hesitated. "There's a problem. Donald is committed to another movie at the beginning of the year. If we get him, we'd have to start shooting this within the next two months."
That was a major problem. We did not even have a story line. But I wanted O'Connor.
"Do you think you can have the script ready in time?"
"Sure." I sounded more confident than I felt. Rushing a script to get a certain actor is always counterproductive. The audience does not care how long it took to write a script. They only care about what they see on the screen. I had given Bob and myself an impossible deadline.
Getting the rights to Buster Keaton's life turned out to be easy.
Bob and I started on the screenplay immediately. There was a lot of material to work with because Buster's life had been very dramatic. He had come from a dysfunctional family and he had gone through divorces and a struggle with alcoholism. I had watched him in his early classics, The General, The Navigator, and The Boat. They were filled with dangerous stunts and Buster had insisted on doing them all himself.
I called Don Hartman. "Bob and I would like to meet Buster. Will you set it up?"
"Certainly."
I was looking forward to the meeting.
When Buster Keaton walked into my office, it was as though he had stepped right off the screen. He had not changed at all. He was the same little sad-faced man who had enchanted the world with his deadpan humor.
After the introductions, I said, "We would like you to be the technical advisor on this picture, Buster. What do you say?"
He almost broke tradition by smiling. "I think I can handle it."
"Great. We're going to film a lot of your stunts. I'll get a trailer on the lot for you and I want you to be on the set all the time we're shooting."
He looked, to me, as though he was trying not to cry but perhaps it was my imagination. "I'll be there."
"Thank you."
"Bob and I are working on the screenplay. We want it to be as accurate as possible. Are there any anecdotes that you'd like to tell me about, that we can use in the picture?"
"Nope."
"Perhaps some special things that happened to you in your life that you think might be exciting?"
"Nope."
"Something about your marriages or romances?"
"Nope."
The whole meeting went like that.
When he left, I said to Bob, "I forgot to mention something. If we want Donald O'Connor, we have to start shooting in two months."
He looked at me. "You're joking."
"I've never been more serious."
He sighed. "Let's see how fast we can write a screenplay."
Bob and I ran Buster's old movies. The stunts in them were incredible. I selected the ones I wanted to use, knowing that Buster would be on the set to show me how they were done.
Donald O'Connor came in to see me. "It's a great part," he said. "Buster Keaton is one of my idols."
"Mine, too."
"The Great Stone Face. This is going to be wonderful."
There was one problem. Bob and I needed more time to work on the screenplay, and there was no more time. We had a shooting date coming up that we had to keep, so we started working day and night.
Finally, it was time to begin production.
We had stayed as faithful as we could to Buster Keaton's life, but to increase the drama, we had taken some liberties. I showed Buster the screenplay and when he finished reading it, I said, "Do you have any problems with it?"
"Nope."
That was the full extent of our conversation.
The sets were built and production began.
The shoot was going well. The cast was wonderful. Besides Donald, we had Peter Lorre, Rhonda Fleming, Ann Blyth, Jackie Coogan, and Richard Anderson. The chemistry was good.
Bob and I had written a scene in which an old-time director appears. We had not cast him yet. The assistant director came up to me. "Would you like to have the old man play the part?"
I was puzzled. "What old man?"
"Mr. DeMille."
Cecil B. DeMille was, without question, one of the most important directors in Hollywood. Among many others, his recent pictures had included Samson and Delilah, The Greatest Show on Earth, and The Ten Commandments.
He was a legend and there were dozens of stories about him floating around town. He was known to be ruthless and demanding. He terrorized actors. There was a story that while he was shooting a scene in one of his epics, standing high on a platform, looking down at the hundreds of extras, he started to explain what he wanted, and saw two young women extras talking. He stopped. "You two," he called, "step up."
The two women looked at each other in horror.
"Us?"
"Yes, you. Step forward."
Nervously, they took a few steps forward.
"Now," DeMille thundered, "since you obviously think that what you were saying was more important than what I was saying, I think everyone should hear it."
The women were embarrassed and terrified. "Mr. DeMille - we weren't saying anything."
"Yes, you were. I want everyone to hear what you were saying."
One of the girls spoke up, and said defiantly, "All right. I was saying, 'When is that son of a bitch going to call lunch?'"
There was a shocked silence throughout the set.
DeMille stared at her for a long moment and then said, "Lunch."
"You're mad," I said to my assistant director. "DeMille is not going to play this part. It's four lines."
"Do you want me to talk to him?"
"Sure." I knew there was no chance.
Late that afternoon, the assistant director came to me. "We're shooting the scene tomorrow. He'll be here."
I was stunned. "He's going to do it?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to direct Cecil B. DeMille?"
"That's right."
The following day, I was shooting a master shot with Donald and Ann Blyth. When I finished the shot, we were going to go in for a close angle. My assistant director came up to me.
"Mr. DeMille is on his way to the set. Let's move to the other side of the stage where we're going to do his scene."
"I can't do that now," I told him. "I have a close-up to get first."
He looked at me for a moment. "Mr. DeMille is on his way to the set. I suggest we move over to where he's going to do his scene."
I got the message. "We're moving," I called out.
A few minutes later, Cecil B. DeMille walked in with his entourage. He came up to me and held out his hand.
"I'm Cecil DeMille."
He was taller than I had expected, broader than I had expected, and had more charisma than I had expected.
"I'm Sidney Sheldon."
"If you'll show me what to do - "
I was going to show Cecil B. DeMille what to do? "Yes, sir. It's about - "
"I know," he said. "I've learned my lines."
"Good."
I set the scene up and said, "All right. Camera . . . Action."
The scene was finished but I felt it could be improved. How do you tell Cecil B. DeMille it wasn't good enough?
He turned to me. "Would you like me to do the scene again?"
I nodded gratefully. "That would be great."
"Why don't I take off my jacket?"
"Good idea."
"And I'll be a little more forceful."
"Good idea."
We shot it again and it was perfect. There was one thing I was unsure of, though: Had I directed Cecil B. DeMille or had Cecil B. DeMille directed me?
The stunts that Buster Keaton had created for his silent movies were incredible. One in particular seemed absolutely impossible. The scene started with Buster running along a wooden fence, being chased by the police. Standing against the fence, with her back to it, was a rather stout woman, wearing a very full skirt. Buster stopped in front of her, saw the policemen closing in on him, and dived through the woman's legs to the back of the fence. The woman instantly moved away, revealing that the fence was solid.
It was a fantastic effect. "How the hell did you ever do that?" I asked.
Buster almost smiled. "I'll show you."
The secret was simple when you knew it. Directly behind the woman, three of the fence panels were on hinges that enabled the panels to swing backward, away from the audience, at a forty-five-degree angle. As Buster reached the woman, two crew members in back of the fence quickly raised the panels, which were hidden from audience view by the woman's skirt, thus making an opening in the fence behind her. Buster simply dove under her skirt and scurried through the opening in the fence. Once he was through, the men hurriedly replaced the panels, thereby closing the fence behind the woman. She quickly walked away, revealing to the audience a fence that was completely intact, and Buster had disappeared. This was all accomplished in a split second and was quite fantastic when done correctly.
Donald did the stunt superbly.
A later scene in the movie was another Buster Keaton classic. It took place at the shipyards and we went to the oceanside to shoot it. It was the launching of a boat, and Donald proudly stood at the prow as the boat came off the ramp.
The front of the boat slowly slid under the water, going deeper and deeper, and Donald stood there without expression as he slowly submerged until only his hat floated.
During the shooting of the picture, I learned how shy Buster was. Jorja and I had invited Buster and his wife, Eleanor, to dinner. The guests included a studio head, some directors, and several well-known actors and actresses.
I knew Buster had arrived at the house, but I had not yet seen him. I walked into the den. He was alone, reading a newspaper.
"Are you all right, Buster?"
He looked up. "I'm fine." And he went back to reading his newspaper.
When the picture was finished, Buster said, "I want to thank you."
"What for?"
"I was able to buy a house."
Everyone at the studio was very happy. The Buster Keaton Story was my last picture under my contract at Paramount, but they were already talking to my agent about a new contract. My life had never been so serendipitous.
I had discussed with Don Hartman an idea I had for a suspense movie called Zone of Terror that would be shot in Europe.
In April 1957, an article appeared in Daily Variety:
Where to go in April? That's the problem facing Sidney Sheldon.
Buster Keaton
, which he directed, co-produced and co-scripted at Paramount, will be opening next month. On April 27, his play,
Alice in Arms
, will open in Vienna. At the same time, rehearsals start in New York on his revised version of
The Merry Widow
, with the Kiepuras, set for a mid-May opening. Sheldon is at work on his next project,
Zone of Terror
, slated to go before the cameras in Germany next year.
I knew how I was going to spend my time in April. I was going to take Jorja and Mary to Europe to celebrate.
The Buster Keaton Story opened to good reviews for Donald O'Connor, Ann Blyth, Peter Lorre, and the rest of the cast. The script did not fare so well. Most of the critics attacked it, saying there should have been more of Buster's routines and less story.
"The screenplay is a rehash of too many old Hollywood movies."
They were right. We had written it too quickly. The picture opened well because people were intrigued by Buster Keaton's name. But word of mouth quickly spread and the picture soon faded at the box office.
My agent called. "I just talked to Don Hartman. The studio is not going to renew your contract."
I knew where the reporter from Variety could find me in April. In the unemployment line.
Reluctantly, I canceled our reservations to Europe. I called my agent once a week, and tried to sound cheerful.
"What's happening on the battlefront?"
"Not much," he said. "There aren't any assignments around, Sidney."
That was a kind lie. There were always assignments around, but none for me. Just as I had been prematurely judged for Dream Wife, I was now being judged for the failure of The Buster Keaton Story. Again I was traumatized by the thought that I might never work again. During the times I was out of work, friends came and went, but Groucho was always there with a cheery word.
I waited for the call that never came, weeks went by, then months, and soon I had a major money problem.
I enjoyed living well, but I had never been interested in money per se. My philosophy about money was a combination of Natalie's thrift and Otto's spendthrift ways. I found it difficult to spend any money on myself, but I had no problem helping others. The result was that I had never been able to save any money.
The Bel Air house had a mortgage on it and I was hard pressed to also pay the salaries of a gardener, a pool man, and Laura. Our financial situation was rapidly deteriorating.
Jorja was getting concerned. "What are we going to do?"
"We have to start economizing," I said. I took a deep breath and added, "We're going to have to let Laura go. We can't afford a maid anymore."
It was a terrible moment for both of us.
"You tell her," Jorja said. "I can't."
Laura had been wonderful. She was always cheerful and helpful. She adored Mary and Mary adored her.
"This is going to be very difficult."
I called Laura into the library. "Laura, I'm afraid I have some bad news."
She looked at me in alarm. "What is it? Is someone sick?"
"We're fine. It's just that . . . I'm going to have to let you go."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't afford you anymore, Laura."
She looked shocked. "You mean you're firing me?"
"I'm afraid so. I'm terribly sorry."
She shook her head. "You can't do that."
"You don't understand. I can't afford to pay you anymore and - "
"I'm staying."
"Laura - "
"I'm staying." And she walked out of the room.
Jorja and I had been forced to cut down on our social life, and we went out very seldom. There were plays that we wanted to see, but they were too expensive. Laura heard Jorja and me talking about it.
As we debated going out one evening, Laura said, "Take this," and she handed me twenty dollars.
"I can't take that," I said.
"You'll pay me back."
I was near tears. She was working hard, getting no salary, and she was giving me money.
The day arrived when I had no money to make the mortgage payment.
"We've lost the house," I told Jorja.
She could see my pain. "Don't worry, darling. We'll be fine. You've written hits before, you'll write them again."
She did not understand. "Not anymore," I said. "It's over."
I remembered the first house my family had ever rented, on Marion Street, in Denver. I'm going to get married here and my children will grow up here . . . By now, counting houses, apartments, and hotels, I had moved thirteen times.
The following week we gave up the house with the swimming pool and the beautiful gardens, and I rented an apartment for us. I was living Otto's life, on a roller coaster that took me from prosperity to poverty in a seemingly never-ending cycle. I was suicidal again. I had kept up payments on a life insurance policy that would take care of Jorja and Mary. They're better off without me, I decided. And I began to pursue that thought.
I knew I would never have the life I once had. There would be no more Europe, no more wonderful parties, no more successes. I would miss all that, and I wondered whether it was better to have been a success and lost it all or never to have tasted success, so it would not be missed. I was in a deep depression and suicide was the only way I could think of to escape it. You're suffering from manic depression . . . Approximately one in five people who are manic-depressive eventually commit suicide.
I was living through a nightmare that I felt would never end. Was I serious about committing suicide?
I tried to think of all the successes I had had, instead of the failures, but it was no use. The mysterious, dark chemistry in my brain would not allow it. I was unable to control my emotions.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I could not bear to leave Jorja and Mary. I have to create something, I thought. The motion picture studios obviously did not want me. What about television?
My favorite show was I Love Lucy, which was a brilliantly done comedy that Lucille Ball and her producer husband, Desi Arnaz, put on every week. It was the most popular comedy on television. Maybe I could write something that Desi would be interested in. I thought of a title and an idea, Adventures of a Model. It would be a romantic comedy with all the situations that a beautiful model would get involved in.
It took me one week to write the pilot script. I made an appointment to see Desi Arnaz.
"It's nice to meet you," he said. "I've heard about you."
"I have an idea for a pilot, Mr. Arnaz." I took out the script and handed it to him.
He looked at the title and his face lit up. "Adventures of a Model. That sounds great."
I stood up. "When you have a chance to read it, I would appreciate it if you would call me."
"No, no. Sit down," he said. "I'm going to read it now."
I watched his face as he read it. He kept smiling. That's a good sign, I thought. I was holding my breath.
He read the last page and looked up at me. "I love it," he said. "We're going to do it."
I could breathe again. It felt as though a giant weight had been lifted from my heart. "You mean it?"
"It's going to be a smash. There's been nothing like it on the air. We can still make this season," he told me. "CBS has one time slot left. Let's see if we can get it."
