The Other Side of Me

Working at Twentieth-Century-Fox studios was radically different from working at Universal Studios. Where Universal was laid-back and casual, Fox was a no-nonsense, efficiently run studio. The prime reason for that was Darryl F. Zanuck, the head of production. Unlike most other studio heads, Zanuck was a hands-on executive. He was a brilliant showman, involved in every phase of every movie the studio made, and he knew exactly what he wanted. He also had a sense of who he was. Once, at a studio production meeting, he turned to his assistant and said, "Don't say yes until I'm finished talking."



Darryl Zanuck had a great respect for writers. He once said, "Success in movies boils down to three things: story, story, story. Just don't ever let the writers know how important they are."



There were twelve staff readers at Fox, ranging in age from thirty-five to sixty. A majority of them were relatives of studio executives, put on the payroll as a kind of sinecure.



Julian Johnson, one of the Fox studio's top executives, called me into his office one morning. Johnson was an imposing figure, tall and heavyset. He had once been married to Texas Guinan, the famous nightclub queen.



"Sidney, from now on, you'll work only on synopses for Mr. Zanuck. When he's interested in a new book or play, I want you to handle it."



"Great."



"Every synopsis will be a rush job - "



"No problem."



In fact, I was delighted. From that moment on, I got to read the best of all the new novels and plays that were submitted to the studio.



Since Zanuck was in a hurry to beat every other studio to new material, I often worked past midnight. I was enjoying my job, but I was impatient to become a writer. The studio had started a junior writer division and I told Julian Johnson I would like to be in it. He was sympathetic, but not encouraging. "You're doing work for Zanuck," he said. "That's more important."



My little office was in an old, creaky wooden building at the back of the lot. At night the lot was deserted, and sometimes I was uneasy working there alone, surrounded by darkness. One night I was doing a rush job on a book that Zanuck was excited about. It was a ghost story that was quite scary.



I was just typing the line, "He opened the closet door and as the grinning corpse inside started to fall on top of him . . ." when the closet door of my office flew open, books began flying through the air, and the room began to shake. I broke all speed records getting out of there.



It was my most memorable earthquake.



In early September, a stranger walked into my office and introduced himself.



"My name is Alan Jackson. I'm a reader at Columbia."



"Glad to meet you." We shook hands. "What can I do for you?"



"We want to form a readers guild and we need your help."



"How?"



"You can get the readers here to agree that we should have a guild, and join us. When we get the readers at all the other studios, we can form a committee and negotiate a deal with the studios. Right now we have no power. We're underpaid and overworked. Will you help us?"



I did not consider myself underpaid or overworked, but I knew that the majority of readers were. "I'll do everything I can."



"Great."



"There may be a problem," I warned him.



"What's that?"



"Almost everyone here at Fox is related to an executive at the studio. I don't think they'd be willing to get involved, but we'll see."



To my amazement, every reader at the studio agreed to join the readers guild when we formed one.



When I told Alan Jackson the news, he said, "That's great. We have all the other studio readers signed up. We're forming a negotiating committee. By the way, you're on it."



Our negotiation took place in a conference room at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios. Our committee consisted of six readers from various studios. Sitting opposite us, at the large table, were four studio executives. Six lambs and four lions.



Eddie Mannix, a tough Irishman who was one of the top executives at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, started the meeting by growling, "What's your problem?"



One of our group spoke up. "Mr. Mannix, we're not getting a living wage. I make sixteen dollars a week and I can't afford to - "



Eddie Mannix leaped to his feet and screamed, "I'm not going to listen to this shit!" and he stormed out of the room.



The six of us sat there, petrified. The meeting was over.



One of the other executives shook his head and said, "I'll see if I can get him to come back."



A few minutes later, he returned with a furious Mannix. We sat there, watching him, cowed.



"What the hell do you want?" he demanded.



We began our negotiations.



Two hours later, there was an official Readers Guild, to be recognized by all the studios. Their committee had agreed to a base pay of twenty-one dollars and fifty cents a week for staff readers and a twenty percent increase for outside readers. I was elected vice president of the guild.



It was not until years later, when I met him again, that I realized what a brilliant act Eddie Mannix had put on.



I called Otto and Natalie to tell them what had happened. They were thrilled. I later learned that after my phone call, Otto had gone around telling his friends that I had single-handedly saved all the studios in Hollywood from a ruinous strike.



One of the new boarders at Gracie's was a shy young man named Ben Roberts. He was my age, short, with a dark complexion, thin hair, and a smiling face. He had a dry, laconic sense of humor. We soon became friends.



Ben was a writer, but his only credit was on a Leon Errol short. We started talking about collaborating. Every evening, Ben and I would go to the corner drugstore and have a sandwich for dinner, or drop in at a cheap Chinese restaurant. Collaborating with Ben was easy. He was very talented, and in a few weeks, we had completed an original story. We mailed it out to all the studios and eagerly waited for the offers to pour in.



They never came.



Ben and I went to work on another story with the same result. We decided the studios obviously did not recognize talent when they came across it.



A third story went un-bought and we were becoming discouraged.



One day, I said, "I have an idea for a mystery story. We'll call it Dangerous Holiday." I told Ben the idea and he liked it. We wrote a treatment and mailed copies to the studios. Again, there was no response.



A week after we had sent out the story, I arrived at the boardinghouse, and Ben was waiting for me, filled with excitement.



"I gave our story to a producer I know, Ted Richmond. He's at PRC."



That was one of the smallest studios, Producers Releasing Corporation.



"He loved Dangerous Holiday," Ben said. "He's offered us five hundred dollars for it. That includes us writing the screenplay. I told him I would talk to you and let him know."



I was thrilled. Of course we were going to take it. The most important credit in Hollywood was always the first one. It reminded me of my experience in New York.



Have you had any songs published?



No.



Come back when you've had something published.



Now it was, "Do you have any screen credits?"



"No."



"Come back when you have a screen credit."



Well, now we had one. Dangerous Holiday.



A few months earlier, I had met Ray Crossett, who was in charge of the literary department at the Leland Hayward Agency, one of the top talent agencies in Hollywood. For some reason, Crossett had faith in me and had promised that one day he would represent me.



I telephoned Ray to tell him the good news about Ted Richmond.



"Ben and I just sold our first story," I said. "Dangerous Holiday."



"To whom?"



"PRC."



"What's a PRC?"



That set me back. Ray Crossett, one of the top agents in the business, had never even heard of PRC.



"It's a studio called Producers Releasing Corporation. A producer there named Ted Richmond offered us five hundred dollars, including the screenplay we have to write."



"Did you make a deal?"



"Well, we said we'd let him know, but - "



"I'll call you back," Ray said, and he hung up.



Two hours later, Ray was on the phone. "I just sold your story to Paramount. They'll pay you a thousand dollars and you don't have to write the screenplay."



My first reaction was shock, but I knew what had happened. Every studio had a synopsis of every story submitted to it. When Ray called Paramount and told them Dangerous Holiday was being bought by another studio, they rose to the bait.



"Ray," I said, "that's - that's great - but we can't accept it."



"What are you talking about? It's twice the money and a major studio."



"I can't do it. I feel obligated to Ted Richmond and - "



"Look. Call him and tell him what happened. I'm sure he'll understand."



"I'll try," I said.



But I was sure that Ted Richmond would not understand.



I called his office. His secretary said, "Mr. Richmond is in the cutting room. He can't be disturbed."



"Will you have him call me? It's very important."



"I'll give him the message."



One hour later I called again.



"I need to talk to Mr. Richmond. It's urgent."



"I'm sorry. He can't be disturbed. I gave him your message."



I tried three times that afternoon and finally gave up.



I called Ray Crossett. "Richmond won't return my calls. Go ahead and make the deal with Paramount."



"I made it four hours ago."



When Ben came in, I brought him up-to-date.



He was excited. "That's fantastic," he said. "Paramount is an important studio. But what do we tell Ted Richmond?"



Good question. What were we going to tell Ted Richmond?



That evening, I called Ted's home and he answered the telephone.



Because I felt guilty, I went on the offensive. "I called you a half a dozen times today. Why didn't you call me back?"



"I'm sorry. I was in the cutting room and - "



"Well, you should have called. Because of you, Ben and I almost lost a deal."



"What are you talking about?"



"Paramount just bought Dangerous Holiday. They made an offer, and when we couldn't reach you, we finally sold it to them."



"But I've already put it on our schedule and we - "



"Don't worry about that," I said reassuringly. "You're in luck. Ben and I have a story for you that's much more exciting than Dangerous Holiday. It's called South of Panama. It's a drama, with a love story, suspense, and a lot of action. It's one of the best things we've ever written."



There was a moment of silence. "All right," he said. "Meet me and Alex at the Pig & Whistle at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."



Alex was the executive head of PRC.



"I'll be there," I said. I replaced the receiver and turned to Ben. "We'll skip dinner. We've got to come up with a plot that has a love story, suspense, and a lot of action. We have until seven o'clock tomorrow morning."



Ben and I worked all night, tossing ideas back and forth, finding a plot, adding and deleting characters. It was getting more and more exhausting. We finished South of Panama at five in the morning.



"We did it!" Ben said. "You show it to them this morning."



I agreed. I set my alarm for seven o'clock. I would get two hours sleep before the meeting.



When the alarm clock awakened me, I got up and groggily read our story. It was terrible. I hated the plot, the characters, and the dialogue. But I still had to go to the meeting and face Alex and Ted.



At eight o'clock I slunk into the Pig & Whistle. Ted and Alex were seated at a booth, waiting for me. I had brought two copies of the story.



"I can't wait to read it," Alex said.



Ted nodded. "Neither can I."



I sat down and handed them each a copy. They started reading. I couldn't bear to look at them. They were turning pages. No comment. More pages. Silence.



It's what we deserve, I thought. How can anyone write a story under that kind of pressure?



They both finished at the same time. Alex looked up at me. "It's brilliant."



"Wonderful," Ted chimed in. "You're right. This is better than Dangerous Holiday."



I could not believe what I was hearing.



"We'll give you five hundred dollars," Alex said, "and you and Ben will write the screenplay for that."



I took a deep, deep breath. "It's a deal."



Ben and I had performed a miracle. We had sold two stories in a period of twenty-four hours.



That night, Ben and I went to Musso & Frank's, one of Hollywood's classic restaurants, to celebrate. It was the first time we had been able to afford it. It was one day past my twenty-fourth birthday.



South of Panama was made by the Producers Releasing Corporation and starred Roger Pryor and Virginia Vale. Paramount made Dangerous Holiday and renamed it Fly-By-Night. It starred Richard Carlson and Nancy Kelly.



Ben and I were on a roll. The first thing I did was quit my reader's job at Fox. Mr. Zanuck would have to get along without me. Shortly after I left Fox, Ben and I sold another story, called Borrowed Hero, to Monogram, a small studio that made B movies, and Dangerous Lady and Gambling Daughters to PRC. For each story and screenplay we received five hundred dollars, which Ben and I shared. It would be hyperbole to suggest that these were memorable movies, but at least we were now recognized screenwriters.



Leonard Fields, a producer at Republic Studios - the top of the B studio list - bought a story of ours called Mr. District Attorney in the Carter Case. For the story and the screenplay, Ben and I received the munificent sum of six hundred dollars.



The picture proved to be successful and Leonard Fields called me in. "We'd like to put you and Ben under contract."



"Great!"



"Five hundred a week."



"For each of us?"



"For the team."



Ben and I worked on screenplays at Republic for a year, until our contract was up. At Christmas, Leonard Fields sent for us.



"You boys are doing a terrific job. We're going to re-sign you."



"That's great news, Leonard. The only thing is that Ben and I would like six hundred dollars a week."



Leonard Fields nodded. "I'll call you."



We never heard from Leonard Fields again.



I talked to Ray Crossett, and I asked him why he could not get us a job at a major studio.



"I'm afraid your credits are not very impressive. I'd have a better chance if you'd never written any of those pictures."



So Ben and I continued to write and sell B pictures. It was a living.



I went home to Chicago for Thanksgiving, and it was wonderful to see Richard and my parents. Otto insisted on having the neighbors in, so that they could meet his son, who controlled Hollywood.